This etext was produced by Pat Castevans <Patcat@ctnet.net>
and David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>
By George Meredith
1898/1909
It was ordained that Shibli Bagarag, nephew to the renowned BabaMustapha, chief barber to the Court of Persia, should shave Shagpat, theson of Shimpoor, the son of Shoolpi, the son of Shullum; and they hadbeen clothiers for generations, even to the time of Shagpat, theillustrious.
Now, the story of Shibli Bagarag, and of the ball he followed, and of thesubterranean kingdom he came to, and of the enchanted palace he entered,and of the sleeping king he shaved, and of the two princesses hereleased, and of the Afrite held in subjection by the arts of one andbottled by her, is it not known as 'twere written on the finger-nails ofmen and traced in their corner-robes? As the poet says:
Ripe with oft telling and old is the tale,
But 'tis of the sort that can never grow stale.
Now, things were in that condition with Shibli Bagarag, that on a certainday he was hungry and abject, and the city of Shagpat the clothier wasbefore him; so he made toward it, deliberating as to how he shouldprocure a meal, for he had not a dirhem in his girdle, and theremembrance of great dishes and savoury ingredients were to him as theillusion of rivers sheening on the sands to travellers gasping withthirst.
And he considered his case, crying, 'Surely this comes of wandering, and'tis the curse of the inquiring spirit! for in Shiraz, where my craft isin favour, I should be sitting now with my uncle, Baba Mustapha, theloquacious one, cross-legged, partaking of seasoned sweet dishes, dippingmy fingers in them, rejoicing my soul with scandal of the Court!'
Now, he came to a knoll of sand under a palm, from which the yellow domesand mosques of the city of Shagpat, and its black cypresses, and marblepalace fronts, and shining pillars, and lofty carven arches that spannedhalf-circles of the hot grey sky, were plainly visible. Then gazed heawhile despondingly on the city of Shagpat, and groaned in contemplationof his evil plight, as is said by the poet:
The curse of sorrow is comparison!
As the sun casteth shade, night showeth star,
We, measuring what we were by what we are,
Behold the depth to which we are undone.
Wherefore he counselleth:
Look neither too much up, nor down at all,
But, forward stepping, strive no more to fall.
And the advice is