Set Your Lamp in the Window

The palace was proud of its beautiful princess, Jinan, glorying in her beauty and loveliness. Whenever she swept through the halls of the palace in her lovely gowns, eyes followed her, captivated by her charm and the radiance of her countenance.

The princess was tall of stature, slender of figure, with a dark complexion, a luminous brow, and black eyes adorned with long lashes. On her right cheek was a beauty mark of deepest black, which lent her charm and allure whenever she laughed or spoke. But the princess hardly ever laughed or spoke; she was sunk, rather, in a gloom and silence whose cause no one knew, and often she would leave her bed at night and sit at her window, contemplating the trees as they swayed with dignity in the silver rays of the moon.

Her father wished to marry her to Prince Wa'il, and she had heard much of his courage, his forbearance, and his generosity. It would have been reasonable for her to count herself happy if Prince Wa'il asked for her hand — had not that lovelorn poet reached her heart before him, bewitching it with his poetry, his graceful talk, and his sad songs. As for how she heard him the first time, it was on a moonlit night, when she heard a soft melody and the words of this song:

"How wretched are they whose hearts are bound to the love of princesses.

For the doors of palaces are hard; every pride is shattered upon their thresholds.

So look out at me from your window, O beautiful princess, that I may see your face a single time.

God knows I want no more than this reward. Would I were one of the flowers your delicate hand reaches, or the mirror that reflects your enchanting face.

In my childhood the old women told me of the jinn who change human beings into things.

And I have searched long for the dwelling of these jinn, that they might take pity on me and make of me a flower or a mirror."

The princess looked out from her window and saw a young man, slim of figure, his face masked; and no sooner did he see her than a deep silence took hold of him.

The princess said: Who is this who steals into the palaces of kings to disturb them with his poetry and his passions?

The young man answered: How hard are the hearts of beautiful princesses!

Woe to you! How dare you say such a thing, when I could summon my servants to cut you to pieces?

A life that ends at your hands is better than a life that continues without you.

But who are you, you who would trouble us with your killing?

A poet who saw you and loved you.

What boldness! How do you allow yourself to fasten your heart upon those above your station?

Love, my lady, wrests from our lips every kind of confession; it knows neither class nor clan.

Listen — I shall pardon you if you tell me who you are.

A poet, a stranger, who saw you and loved you.

What evasion! And where is your birthplace?

A land where people worship love, and die as martyrs for its sake.

I know of no place where the rites of worship are held for love.

I should like to remind the princess of the desert — if she will permit me.

A Bedouin, then, are you?

Though I fall short of the Bedouin in zeal and daring.

How so?

Because the Bedouin are not frightened by the doors of palaces, nor by their guards. They rush upon death, if death will join them to their dreams.

And who told you that your Layla dwells here?

Your enchanting voice, your radiant countenance, and this thing that blazes in my heart whenever I see you or remember you!

Young man, take care — I am the princess of this palace!

A truth that tears my heart. Were it not for this heavy crown of yours, and were it not for the hard doors that keep freedom from you, things would be otherwise than they now are.

But — farewell, O princess. Treasures of memory I have won tonight, and they will be my provision on my hard road.

Wait... wait. I love this that you say.

But he leapt from the wall, and vanished like a beautiful dream.

* * *

On the second night it displeased the princess to find herself listening for the sounds of the garden, and she rose from her bed to await the unknown poet. A week passed, and no trace of the strange young man appeared.

At the beginning of the second week the princess heard the melody of a lyre that made her imagine outspread meadows, many-colored flowers, and the vast, great open spaces; and when she looked out of the window she heard the poet say:

"Do not drive me away, O cruel princess, for my presence will not harm you.

But if it troubles your temper, dismiss me gently,

and say to me: I shall remember you, O stranger, once every year.

Then you shall see how my bones stir within the grave

and say to you that my love for you is stronger than death."

The princess answered: Woe to you, poet! You grieve me with this that you say. I do not wish you death — rather I should be sorely grieved if I were the cause of your parting from life.

What a gracious angel you are!

And now, will you not tell me who you are?

A poet, a stranger, destitute, who saw you and loved you.

Can he be destitute who has a heart like yours?

Those with big hearts have thin pockets.

A big heart is more precious than a fat pocket.

In those words of yours is consolation.

I want to see you from close by.

How is it to be done?

Wait — I shall slip quietly down to the garden, for I fear they might see you if you climbed up here.

What a grace the princess would bestow upon me! Am I awake, or in a dream? But, my lady, may a slave such as I set a condition?

What do you want?

That you not ask me to lift the mask from my face!

Mercy — you frighten me with this request of yours. You might be a thief, or an enemy. No, I shall not come down. What a reckless creature I am, trying to draw near an unknown man in the pitch-black night! Go, man, and do not come back here, for I fear the consequence.

It grieves me that the princess does not trust me. Farewell.

Remember me once every year.

O poet — and if I should want you to return, how is it to be done?

Set your lamp in the window when the Pleiades appear in the sky.

On the morning of the following day the royal court decreed the betrothal of Princess Jinan to Prince Wa'il. The princess withdrew to her chamber, weeping and sobbing, having lost all desire for anything, and she kept murmuring to herself: Ah, poet! You have left me no heart to love and be happy. All I want is your sweet voice, your beautiful poetry, and your big heart.

The princess had no device to resort to, for she knew better than anyone her father's resolve, and his fixedness upon his own opinion.

When the Pleiades appeared in the sky, the princess's lamp was shining, and she saw him leap over the wall with his lithe figure.

The poet said: Your bright lamp will always guide me — a sacred flame I shall take refuge in whenever the road grows rough.

O poet, calamity has struck. Do not sing me any of your poetry tonight.

Your words, princess, stir grief and sorrow in my heart. What is the matter with the princess?

They want to marry me to Prince Wa'il.

And did the beautiful gazelle hope to stay far from the hunter's eye?

How marvelous this simile of yours! You understand, then, that I am a victim. For I know only two persons whom the gazelles have charmed: the cruel hunter, and the tender poet.

You wrong Prince Wa'il by saying that.

I wrong him? And what do you know of him?

I know nothing — and therefore it is not just to pass a harsh judgment against him.

But, poet, let us leave off speaking of him. Do you know what I have resolved upon this night?

I shall count myself greatly honored if the princess tells me what she has resolved.

I have resolved to come to you.

Are you not afraid of me?

I no longer care about anything.

I hope to prove worthy of your good opinion of me.

Moments later the princess reached the foot of the stairs, slipped quietly into the garden, and then stopped suddenly.

What does the princess command — shall I advance, or withdraw?

Advance.

Then the poet advanced, and the princess gave him her hand; he took it gently, lifted his mask, and kissed it.

I shall always remember your beautiful poems in my new prison.

My poems are an inspiration from you, which I raise up to you.

It grieves me that you should regard Prince Wa'il as a jailer.

Enough of defending Prince Wa'il. Will you not tell me your name?

I have no name, now that I have known you. I wish to be known only through you: your servant, your poet, your friend, or whatever titles you please.

Your tenderness frightens me.

How so?

It is the tenderness of rock turned into a beautiful statue — say, the statue of a wretched beauty, or of an unhappy young man.

It is your love that fashions of me all that you see.

O poet, your kingdom is wider and more spacious, more majestic and loftier than mine. What horizons does your beautiful imagination not reach, what treasures does your tender heart not embrace! But will you not take off this mask of yours?

No.

And why?

A vow I took upon myself, and I do not yet see myself released from it.

What is this on your finger?

A ring. I shall count myself happy if you would condescend to take it.

Yes. And here is my handkerchief for you.

I shall count it a banner for which I shall strive unto the very end.

Do you know that I shall tell Prince Wa'il the truth of the matter immediately after the wedding feast? They say he is gallant and generous. He may take pity on my state and loose my bonds. Then I shall come to you, and you will take me to the desert you used to tell me of.

No, princess — I will not consent for you to poverty and wandering, after the glory of palaces.

You are a coward, then.

If it pleases you to call me such, I am content, so long as this preserves the good name of a pure lily from being soiled by tongues.

I must go now. I wish you every happiness and contentment with Prince Wa'il. Forget me, princess, if my memory brings you misery and pain; but if it stirs joy and gladness in you, then remember me when the Pleiades climb into the sky, when the gardens are perfumed with the fragrance of blossoms, and when the lyres play melodies full of remembrance and of calling.

You treat me ill. I shall set my lamp in the window after the wedding feast. Farewell.

Farewell. I shall count myself happy indeed if you remember me even at the wedding feast.

* * *

After the wedding feast, Prince Wa'il drew near to Princess Jinan and said to her, "I hope you will be happy, my dear." Her eyes brimmed with tears — how fiercely she remembered her graceful poet.

What makes the princess weep?

The princess's happiness depends upon the prince's forbearance.

I am ready to ransom the princess with my soul, if that would secure her happiness.

The princess wishes to be set free.

Is the princess a prisoner, that she should make such a request? I hold the princess mistress of her own affairs; I give her a free hand in all my palaces and gardens, and all who are in the palace, from its master and lord down to the least among them, are slaves and bondmaids to her.

All this is fetters and chains that wound the princess.

Am I to understand from this that the princess's marriage came by compulsion, against her will?

Yes. Her father is harsh; he has no pity for her state, and he would never forgive her if he knew that the princess's heart was occupied with love for a strange, destitute poet. And so she relies upon the prince's forbearance, and the nobility of his nature, to set her free.

The prince bowed his head for a long while, his face gone pale, then murmured: The prince's forbearance and the nobility of his nature will make of him chaff scattered by the wind. But listen — what do you say to my giving you a space of three days to think it over? I shall go hunting, and upon my return I shall bow to your will, if you are still averse to me then; and something unforeseen may happen, and this plan of ours be changed. Farewell, princess. I wish you a happy time.

When night came, the princess could not bring herself to light her lamp in the window, so great was her confusion; she sat in the dark near the window, recalling in her imagination the poet's sayings, his wit, and his tenderness. But when she took to her bed she began to think of Prince Wa'il, and how he had hastened to grant her request; and she did not know whether the motive for granting it was indifference to her, or generosity of character. Perhaps he had not liked her; perhaps he knew another better and more beautiful than she.

The princess passed the second day secluded in her room. When night came she sat near the window, feeling sorrow and perplexity, and she heard a sad moan in the garden.

Who is there?

A man who saw a light in the window, and thought it a lamp keeping the Pleiades company at their rising.

Ah. But I did not send for you, and no lamp gleamed in my window.

— The light of your face lights the paths of the desert.

— Your coming does me wrong, and causes me anxiety.

— I found myself too weak to bear the separation.

— Do you still think of me?

— When did I ever think of anyone but you?

— Prince Wa'il has given me a space of three days to think it over.

— Why do you not answer?

— A generous husband was quicker to win the beauty than a destitute, unknown poet.

— You are jealous of Prince Wa'il.

— Rather I grieve for my own soul, for its adversary is great of soul, and so it is overborne.

Ah... my God... Wait. I shall come to you, that you may know I would choose you over Prince Wa'il.

I beg you not to do this.

After all this coldness, do you turn away from me?

Yes. Because I know that what prompts your coming is pity, and not love. And I hate to be the object of your pity.

— What a stubborn, haughty man you are!

Woe to those in whom love and pride meet.

Farewell — I hear voices, and we are in a strange palace.

* * *

On the third night it displeased the princess to find herself awaiting the return of Prince Wa'il. The hour of his return came and he did not come; her waiting grew long, and her heart filled with every color of doubt.

A week passed, during which the princess suffered every color of doubt and perplexity. One night, while the princess sat on a seat in her room, sunk in a sea of gloom and despair, the door suddenly opened and the masked poet entered. Hurry, princess! Everyone in the palace is asleep, and I slipped in by the back door. Hurry — I have prepared for us a beautiful little house overlooking the desert. Oh, your face — how beautiful it is! But hurry.

To where? And Prince Wa'il? He has not returned even now.

And are you waiting for him?

Yes.

What a naive creature you are! Prince Wa'il is sunk in a world of slave girls and beauties, while you are here, a rose withering in a dreadful prison.

Is what you say true? I shall not believe such talk!

The princess's naivety stirs pity. But who would leave a beautiful bride like you, unless he were infatuated with another?

And where does the prince keep himself?

In one of his palaces overlooking the river.

O poet, my love for you has reached a fierce degree. You and I are like a flower and its fragrance, like a lyre and its melody — yet I cannot come with you. If the prince has treated me ill, and will not free me of his own free will, then I shall remain here, until the snows of loneliness and perplexity vanish. But as the sun's rays shine upon the snows and melt them into shimmering water, so shall your memory do to my loneliness and my perplexity. Go, poet, and do not return — even should my lamp be a flame of fire rising to the sky. Go, poet. I shall not ask you who you are, nor ask you to take the mask from your face; for when souls have come to know and grown intimate with one another, they have no need of names and features. Go, poet; and if the fire of love blazes up in your heart, make of it poetry — it may reach my ears, and in it I shall find comfort and solace.

Farewell, Jinan.

Farewell, O poet of the big heart.

The poet went down, and the princess stood watching him from the window, feeling a great pain tear her heart, as though he were a flame of light drawing away from her.

She thought of Prince Wa'il's treatment of her, and his conduct grieved her, and it displeased her that his absence should grow so long. Just then the door opened and Prince Wa'il entered. But the princess did not receive him with joy and eagerness, for she felt she had become the object of his mockery and his sport. He noticed the coldness of her heart and said: It appears the princess has not changed her mind.

She answered: No — I still hold to my first request.

It grieves me to hear this reply from you.

There are women enough to make you forget Princess Jinan.

You would be mistaken if you believed that. But let your will be done: we have ordered a palace for you, where you may live as you please.

I have lost all taste for the life of palaces.

Then let the princess ask for whatever she desires.

The princess desires to know the reason for your delay.

Does my return matter to you so much?... Ah... But it had escaped me that you await my return so that you may be set free.

That was not, in fact, the reason. It is you who wrong me; I have never yet heard of a man who leaves his bride alone for seven days.

I believe my going was in deference to the wish of Princess Jinan.

You make a mockery of the princess's will in order to get what you want.

And what is it that I want?

The princess answered sharply, in anger: I do not know. You know better than I about a palace teeming with slave girls and beauties.

I understand from this that the princess is anxious that I should be near her.

No, no — that is not the truth of it.

But you have not yet put me to the test. What have you resolved upon?

I have resolved upon nothing.

Very well — take all the time you wish. As for me, I shall go to look into an important matter; and if my company pleases you, I shall return.

No sooner had Prince Wa'il gone out than the princess summoned her maid-in-waiting Marjana, opened her heart to her, and told her of her suspicions of Prince Wa'il. Among the things she said to her: Ah, Marjana, truly men are locked boxes. This prince, whose forbearance and courage and nobility of character we used to hear of — we see nothing from him but rebuff and desertion. It has come to my hearing that he has a palace teeming with comely slave girls and bewitching beauties. And the suspicion steals over me, Marjana, that his heart has fastened upon the love of one of them, so that when I came to him I found him indifferent to me, longing for his heart's beloved carrying him away. I do not blame him, Marjana, for his first love — in love there is no reproach and no blame — but I blame him for betrothing himself to me and marrying me while he knew his heart would never be mine.

Marjana shook her head and said sadly: Ah, my lady. You do not deserve such a recompense, for you are a rose in which eyes delight, a star toward which hearts yearn. But what is to be done, when one's lot in life is not according to one's desert? And I say all this, my lady, only because I have seen from him a sign that leads me to believe these suspicions of yours.

And what have you seen from him, Marjana?

Ah, my mistress. He carries a handkerchief, and he guards it as he would guard the most precious of things; I have seen him spread it out when he is alone and kiss it, then fold it gently and hide it in the pocket of his jacket.

Here the princess seized her maid Marjana, saying in a trembling voice: Marjana, Marjana, what is this you are saying? What color is the handkerchief?

Blue, my lady, and on one of its corners is the figure of a golden crescent facing a star. But why this agitation?

Are you certain of this, Marjana?

Yes.

Marjana, go out now. I want to remain alone. What a simple fool I am!

Hardly had Marjana gone out when the princess heard a faint, soft melody in the garden, accompanied by these words: How wretched are they whose hearts are bound to the love of princesses. For the doors of palaces are hard; every pride is shattered upon their thresholds.

But the princess did not pause to look out of the window; she began descending the stairs in haste. Yet no sooner had she reached the garden than shyness and confusion took hold of her. But the poet-prince drew near her without asking leave, saying: I knew you would come back to me in the end.

Ah, my God — how you must despise me now!

On the contrary, I admire you greatly. And I shall charge Prince Wa'il to treat you gently.

My God, do not mock me in this way. You do not realize the awkwardness of my position now. What a heedless fool I am!

Then come, let us go back to the palace to remedy this confusion of yours.

No — I am afraid to see you in the light.

Then come with me, and let us walk a little, and breathe the fragrance of the desert.

Yes, that is better. But what will you be — a poet, or a prince?

I do not know, by God. But may not the hunters of gazelles also be their poets??