A Thousand And One Arabian Nights
The Story of the Barber's Sixth Brother
There now remains for me to relate to you the story of my sixth brother,
whose name was Schacabac. Like the rest of us, he inherited
a hundred silver drachmas from our father, which he thought
was a large fortune, but through ill-luck, he soon lost it all,
and was driven to beg. As he had a smooth tongue and good manners,
he really did very well in his new profession, and he devoted
himself specially to making friends with the servants in big houses,
so as to gain access to their masters.
One day he was passing a splendid mansion, with a crowd of servants
lounging in the courtyard. He thought that from the appearance
of the house it might yield him a rich harvest, so he entered
and inquired to whom it belonged.
"My good man, where do you come from?" replied the servant. "Can't you
see for yourself that it can belong to nobody but a Barmecide?"
for the Barmecides were famed for their liberality and generosity.
My brother, hearing this, asked the porters, of whom there were several,
if they would give him alms. They did not refuse, but told him
politely to go in, and speak to the master himself.
My brother thanked them for their courtesy and entered the building,
which was so large that it took him some time to reach the apartments
of the Barmecide. At last, in a room richly decorated with paintings,
he saw an old man with a long white beard, sitting on a sofa,
who received him with such kindness that my brother was emboldened
to make his petition.
"My lord," he said, "you behold in me a poor man who only lives
by the help of persons as rich and as generous as you."
Before he could proceed further, he was stopped by the astonishment
shown by the Barmecide. "Is it possible," he cried, "that while I
am in Bagdad, a man like you should be starving? That is a state
of things that must at once be put an end to! Never shall it be said
that I have abandoned you, and I am sure that you, on your part,
will never abandon me."
"My lord," answered my brother, "I swear that I have not broken
my fast this whole day."
"What, you are dying of hunger?" exclaimed the Barmecide.
"Here, slave; bring water, that we may wash our hands before meat!"
No slave appeared, but my brother remarked that the Barmecide did
not fail to rub his hands as if the water had been poured over them.
Then he said to my brother, "Why don't you wash your hands too?"
and Schacabac, supposing that it was a joke on the part of the
Barmecide (though he could see none himself), drew near, and imitated
When the Barmecide had done rubbing his hands, he raised his voice,
and cried, "Set food before us at once, we are very hungry."
No food was brought, but the Barmecide pretended to help himself
from a dish, and carry a morsel to his mouth, saying as he did so,
"Eat, my friend, eat, I entreat. Help yourself as freely as if
you were at home! For a starving man, you seem to have a very
"Excuse me, my lord," replied Schacabac, imitating his gestures
as before, "I really am not losing time, and I do full justice
to the repast."
"How do you like this bread?" asked the Barmecide. "I find it
particularly good myself."
"Oh, my lord," answered my brother, who beheld neither meat nor bread,
"never have I tasted anything so delicious."
"Eat as much as you want," said the Barmecide. "I bought
the woman who makes it for five hundred pieces of gold,
so that I might never be without it."
After ordering a variety of dishes (which never came) to be placed on
the table, and discussing the merits of each one, the Barmecide declared
that having dined so well, they would now proceed to take their wine.
To this my brother at first objected, declaring that it was forbidden;
but on the Barmecide insisting that it was out of the question
that he should drink by himself, he consented to take a little.
The Barmecide, however, pretended to fill their glasses so often,
that my brother feigned that the wine had gone into his head,
and struck the Barmecide such a blow on the head, that he fell to
the ground. Indeed, he raised his hand to strike him a second time,
when the Barmecide cried out that he was mad, upon which my brother
controlled himself, and apologised and protested that it was
all the fault of the wine he had drunk. At this the Barmecide,
instead of being angry, began to laugh, and embraced him heartily.
"I have long been seeking," he exclaimed, "a man of your description,
and henceforth my house shall be yours. You have had the good
grace to fall in with my humour, and to pretend to eat and to drink
when nothing was there. Now you shall be rewarded by a really
Then he clapped his hands, and all the dishes were brought that
they had tasted in imagination before and during the repast,
slaves sang and played on various instruments. All the while
Schacabac was treated by the Barmecide as a familiar friend,
and dressed in a garment out of his own wardrobe.
Twenty years passed by, and my brother was still living with
the Barmecide, looking after his house, and managing his affairs.
At the end of that time his generous benefactor died without heirs,
so all his possessions went to the prince. They even despoiled
my brother of those that rightly belonged to him, and he,
now as poor as he had ever been in his life, decided to cast
in his lot with a caravan of pilgrims who were on their way
to Mecca. Unluckily, the caravan was attacked and pillaged by
the Bedouins, and the pilgrims were taken prisoners. My brother
became the slave of a man who beat him daily, hoping to drive him
to offer a ransom, although, as Schacabac pointed out, it was
quite useless trouble, as his relations were as poor as himself.
At length the Bedouin grew tired of tormenting, and sent him on
a camel to the top of a high barren mountain, where he left him
to take his chance. A passing caravan, on its way to Bagdad,
told me where he was to be found, and I hurried to his rescue,
and brought him in a deplorable condition back to the town.
"This,"--continued the barber,--"is the tale I related
to the Caliph, who, when I had finished, burst into fits of laughter."
"Well were you called `the Silent,'" said he; "no name was ever
better deserved. But for reasons of my own, which it is not necessary
to mention, I desire you to leave the town, and never to come back."
"I had of course no choice but to obey, and travelled about for several
years until I heard of the death of the Caliph, when I hastily
returned to Bagdad, only to find that all my brothers were dead.
It was at this time that I rendered to the young cripple the important
service of which you have heard, and for which, as you know,
he showed such profound ingratitude, that he preferred rather
to leave Bagdad than to run the risk of seeing me. I sought him
long from place to place, but it was only to-day, when I expected
it least, that I came across him, as much irritated with me as ever"--
So saying the tailor went on to relate the story of the lame man
and the barber, which has already been told.
"When the barber," he continued, "had finished his tale, we came
to the conclusion that the young man had been right, when he
had accused him of being a great chatter-box. However, we wished
to keep him with us, and share our feast, and we remained at table
till the hour of afternoon prayer. Then the company broke up,
and I went back to work in my shop."
"It was during this interval that the little hunchback, half drunk
already, presented himself before me, singing and playing on his drum.
I took him home, to amuse my wife, and she invited him to supper.
While eating some fish, a bone got into his throat, and in spite
of all we could do, he died shortly. It was all so sudden that we
lost our heads, and in order to divert suspicion from ourselves,
we carried the body to the house of a Jewish physician. He placed
it in the chamber of the purveyor, and the purveyor propped it up in
the street, where it was thought to have been killed by the merchant."
"This, Sire, is the story which I was obliged to tell to satisfy
your highness. It is now for you to say if we deserve mercy
or punishment; life or death?"
The Sultan of Kashgar listened with an air of pleasure which filled
the tailor and his friends with hope. "I must confess," he exclaimed,
"that I am much more interested in the stories of the barber and
his brothers, and of the lame man, than in that of my own jester.
But before I allow you all four to return to your own homes, and have
the corpse of the hunchback properly buried, I should like to see
this barber who has earned your pardon. And as he is in this town,
let an usher go with you at once in search of him."
The usher and the tailor soon returned, bringing with them an old man
who must have been at least ninety years of age. "O Silent One,"
said the Sultan, "I am told that you know many strange stories.
Will you tell some of them to me?"
"Never mind my stories for the present," replied the barber,
"but will your Highness graciously be pleased to explain why this Jew,
this Christian, and this Mussulman, as well as this dead body,
are all here?"
"What business is that of yours?" asked the Sultan with a smile;
but seeing that the barber had some reasons for his question,
he commanded that the tale of the hunch-back should be told him.
"It is certainly most surprising," cried he, when he had heard it all,
"but I should like to examine the body." He then knelt down, and took
the head on his knees, looking at it attentively. Suddenly he burst
into such loud laughter that he fell right backwards, and when he
had recovered himself enough to speak, he turned to the Sultan.
"The man is no more dead than I am," he said; "watch me." As he
spoke he drew a small case of medicines from his pocket and rubbed
the neck of the hunchback with some ointment made of balsam. Next he
opened the dead man's mouth, and by the help of a pair of pincers
drew the bone from his throat. At this the hunch-back sneezed,
stretched himself and opened his eyes.
The Sultan and all those who saw this operation did not know which
to admire most, the constitution of the hunchback who had apparently
been dead for a whole night and most of one day, or the skill of
the barber, whom everyone now began to look upon as a great man.
His Highness desired that the history of the hunchback should be
written down, and placed in the archives beside that of the barber,
so that they might be associated in people's minds to the end of time.
And he did not stop there; for in order to wipe out the memory of
what they had undergone, he commanded that the tailor, the doctor,
the purveyor and the merchant, should each be clothed in his presence
with a robe from his own wardrobe before they returned home.
As for the barber, he bestowed on him a large pension, and kept him
near his own person.
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