The Sultan's Verses

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In a land so far to the east that it is very warm when the sun rises, and quite chilly

at sunset, a great Sultan died.

His successor happened to be a nephew who lived at some distance, so far away, even from

that distant land, that he wasn't at all intimate with the late Sultan.

In fact, they had only met half a dozen times at Thanksgiving dinners or similar occasions,

and consequently the new Sultan shed no tears to quench his joy upon coming to the throne.

He decided to rule wisely and justly, and therefore was eager to choose the most trustworthy

advisors.

When he arrived at his capital, he was conducted at once to the palace and spent the first

day or two in resting from his journey, and making the acquaintance of his courteers and

buying becoming close.

Among these courteers was the vizier of the late Sultan, a very gentlemanly old fellow,

whose turbulent beard were never more impressive than on first meeting.

When the Sultan arose late on the third day, he had decided to begin his reign.

So he sent for the old vizier to have a private conversation with him in the throne room.

He sat down cross-legged in an attitude that would give American citizens the cramps,

and the Sultan opened the little powwow thus.

Selé bin Rifraf, I think it is high time that I, that is that we begin our reign.

Wisdom is heard.

Rifraf, with the ease and indifference of an old courtier, and it strikes me, us,

the Sultan went on, that it is an excellent opportunity for me to have our own way about

several little matters that have long been in my mind.

Your will is the people's law.

Was Rifraf safe answer as he bowed like a China image?

So I understand, the Sultan ascended.

Of course we shall for a while carry on business upon the usual lines, so far as public affairs

are concerned, but it is not to public business that we are referring just now.

Why, indeed, remarked Rifraf a little vaguely as the Sultan paused, for he was thinking

of something else, but so was the young Sultan.

So I say, the Sultan replied.

Now so far as my own private affairs are concerned, I mean to have my own way about them.

Yes?

Yes.

For instance I have long desired to be a poet.

Said the Sultan looking aimlessly at the ceiling.

The visitor started so abruptly that his turban fell off and then he too looked at the ceiling,

until the Sultan should choose to go on.

There was a very embarrassing situation in all the visitor's experience nothing like

this had ever presented itself.

The old Sultan had been a very sensible man, according to the visitor's opinion, and

had considered poetry, well, he hadn't considered it at all.

There was a silence that lasted until the bubble in the blue room had finished a long

bitty.

Then the busier saw it was his move, so to speak, and he took refuge in a proverb, the

first that occurred to him.

Chairfulness is perfectly consistent with piety.

He said shaking his head thoughtfully.

So we think, said the Sultan, and we shall therefore allow you to conduct the realm about

as usual for a short time, while we devote ourselves to poetry.

Agh, exclaim the busier for he couldn't help it.

"'Excuse me,' said the Sultan inquiringly.

"'Every condition sits well, upon a wise man,' remarked Riff Raff, who was fond of

proverbs, especially when he didn't care to commit himself.

But, though that is all plain sailing, Sultan went on again, after trying a moment in vain

to see what the proverb had to do with the subject, there is yet some difficulty, that is,

to find a competent critic who will show me my faults and point out any little errors

that may creep into my hasty lines.

Now, if you yourself, Ben Riff Raff, should prefer to undertake this responsible post,

you can do so."

"'My sovereign master,' said Riff Raff hastily.

"'I am an old man, let me care for the realm, for that trade I have long studied.

I would prefer that another should become your critic and poetical adviser, a younger

man.'

"'So be it,' answered the young Sultan, but let me at least read to you one set of verses,

which I happened to find in my Kaftan.

I would like your judgment upon these lines before you butake yourself to your properties.

Shall it be so?'

The visier saw by the look in the Sultan's eye, that the request was a command, and he

replied in Oriental phrase, that he was most honored by the Sultan's condescension.

So the young Sultan drew out a role of manuscript in red as follows.

Youth is the season for hope.

Hope befitted the young youth has the vigor to cope with the woes that the singers have

sung.

Youth has the sparkle of mirth laughter delighted the soul.

Spring is the youth of the earth.

Careily let Carol's role.

The Sultan rolled up his manuscript and looked expectantly at Ben-Riffrath.

"'What do you think of that?' asked the Sultan.

Give me your candid opinion, as one private gentleman might to another.

Now the visier thought the lines were very poor indeed, but he had often heard that poets

were sensitive, and he therefore believed he was doing a very wise thing when he replied.

"'Oh, your highness, what thought, what music, how exquisite your rhymes, soul and role,

why it's a perfect rhyme, I think you have chosen wisely indeed, if I may be permitted

to praise without the suspicion of flattery.'

Then you really liked the little lines, said the Sultan with a smile, a peculiar smile.

Like them, why, they should be embroidered with gold thread on silken scarves.

Your highness is right, you are a poet.

Let me attend to the petty business of governing, and you can give yourself entirely to the sublime

art of composition.'

"'So be it,' said the Sultan, "'until I notify you to the contrary, I will leave the

reins in your hands.

Now as you will have plenty to attend to, will you kindly summon the chief treasurer as

you go out.

Thank you, good morning.'

The busier salam and vanished through the curtain doorway, and the page on duty outside

noticed that the old busier wore a broad grin as he walked down the arched corridor.

In a few minutes the Sultan heard the jingling of the golden curtain rings, and he beheld

the face of the chief treasurer, a sedate and dignified man of middle age.

"'Enter Adam L. Shekels,' said the Sultan kindly, and be seated, I will confer with you.

My Lord, the treasurer is well supplied and the accounts straight.

No doubt interrupted the Sultan, but I have more important matters.

More important,' the treasurer began, so amazed that if for God has manners, verily said

the Sultan, overlooking the little breach of etiquette.

As the busier has no doubt and formed you, I intend to devote my own time for the present

to poetry.

He told you so, did he not?

"'Something of the salt, your highness,' replied El Shekels uneasily, hoping that the

Sultan wouldn't ask him to repeat the busier's joking remarks.

In fact, the busier had hinted that the young Sultan thought himself a genius.

I suspected as much, and you were surprised, perhaps?

Your highness is the ruler,' responded the treasurer politely, but I was surprised, I admit,

and to tell the truth, if you all pardon me for saying so, I must say that, as a rule,

there isn't much money to be made in poetry.

I speak simply as a treasurer, your highness, not as a critic, but I wish your opinion as

a critic,' the Sultan answered.

The question of providing funds I shall leave to you for the present, unless I should appoint

you to a new office, I mean to create.

That of chief critic and poetical adviser, the face of El Shekels had brightened when

the new office was mentioned, but the brightness faded as the sentence ended.

Your highness is most gracious, but if it be your will, I prefer to remain treasurer.

As you please, the Sultan replied, but meanwhile, I have been to have in my captain a copy

of verses that I have just completed.

If you can spare the time, we shall be glad to have your opinion of them.

Your certainly gracious sovereign was the answer of El Shekels, while his face assumed

a weary expression, and he began to do sums in mental arithmetic.

So drawing forth the precious manuscript the Sultan began, youth is the season for hope.

And Arnie went reading in a fine, declaratory voice, as if trying to bring out the best

points to the verses, when he concluded he looked at the chief treasurer, your highness,

the lines are above praise, said the treasurer, I hardly know which part to praise most.

And that was true, for he hadn't paid very close attention, but I am sure your wisdom

has led you a right, your talents are far beyond my poor criticism.

And another be your chief critic, I am content to remain treasurer.

It shall be, as you say, the Sultan agreed, at least for the present, and as you go out

will you be kind enough to send us the what officer comes next to you in rank.

The minister of justice answered the treasurer, yes, I will see that he comes at once.

Well, remarked the page at the door, the new Sultan certainly makes the officers happy,

how they do grin when they come back. Later in the afternoon, the page had reason to repeat

this remark with added emphasis, for meanwhile he had admitted the greatest officers of the realm,

and all as they came from their interview with the young sovereign were adorned by the same

self-satisfied grimace. Stronger and stronger became the pages curiosity to know what it was that

made all the courtiers so well satisfied with themselves. For after the first two or three

had exclaimed to the rest that the young Sultan thinks he's a genius in the poetry line,

and all you got to do is praise his verses and you should keep your place.

It was as easy as rolling off a log to go in, hear the verses, and express your raptures,

and come out in clover. But no one told the page about all this, and his curiosity about the

interviewers became very keen. He thought there must be something worth seeing in the throne room,

not long after each great official entered. He could hear a murmur of voices and then such

expressions as, exquisite, beautiful, or perfect, couldn't be better. Well, well, I never did.

Never was anything like it. Strangely enough, the page's curiosity was gratified most unexpectedly.

It was getting late in the Sultan and seeing all the prominent officials of the palace.

At length, he came to the doorway and found the page sitting in attendance on rather a thin and

hard cushion. Why, my boy, said the Sultan kindly. You must be worn out. Have you been there all day?

All day, Your Majesty? The page replied respectfully. And since Your Majesty asked me,

I am a little tired. Come in, said the Sultan. Holding aside the curtain, you shall rest a while.

What? With Your Majesty in the throne room? The boy exclaimed in amazement certainly.

No one need no. Answered the Sultan kindly. Are you afraid of me?

No, Your Majesty, said the page for the Sultan smiled very cordially, and the page entered the throne

room. Be seated, said the Sultan. I commanded, he added, as the boy hesitated, so the page sat

down upon a soft silk cushion. I have been writing some verses, said the Sultan, and he

bade the boy help himself to the delicious fruits and ices. And while you refresh yourself,

I should like to read them to you. Your Majesty is very kind, said the page.

But suppose someone should come. No one will come to the Sultan decidedly,

and he clapped his hands, summoned a slave, and bade him stand sensible to keep out all intruders.

So, while the boy enjoyed the fruits and ices, the Sultan, for the 20th time at least,

read aloud his precious lines on youth. When he had finished, he turned to the page, saying,

now I should like your opinion of the poem. But your highness, I am too young to criticize

your verses, replied the page uneasily. All nonsense answered the Sultan, but pleasantly enough.

I see you have an opinion. I desire you to express it freely. Nay, more than that, I command you

to do so. I must obey then," said the page, looking very serious.

But if I should incur your Majesty's displeasure, may I beg that you will visit your wrath upon me

alone. I have a mother and sister who are dependent upon me. They shall be cared for,"

said the Sultan in a solemn tone, if the need arises.

But you make me suspect that my lines do not meet with your approval.

On your own head be it, Commander of the Faithful,

exclaim the unhappy page, by the prophet, as I promised my mother that I would tell truth,

the lines are the various Bosch nonsense. They mean nothing. They do not even sound sensible.

They are as unmusical as the brain of a lost donkey. There, I have said the truth.

A man dies but once, remember then your words.

All I'll be praised, cried the Sultan. I have found a pearl, and all the men of my court declared

the lines perfect beyond praise. Now have I found the honest man I sought. But your Majesty

stammered the astonished page, I am no more than a boy, enough said the Sultan.

The years will find you wisdom as well as age. But honesty comes not even with long ages,

if the seed, be not already planted. Say not a word.

The Sultan clapped his hands, directed all the courtiers to be summoned, and in their presence

appointed the page Chief Counselor and Grand High Visitor of the Realm for life,

at the same time, investing him with the order of the golden sunburst of the east,

and a whole row of smaller decorations of different colors.

When the ceremony was over, Salah Bon Rifraf prostrated himself before the throne.

Speak, Ben Rifraf, said the Sultan.

Would your Majesty deign to inform his humble slaves what has caused the merited elevation of his

favorite? Ben Rifraf inquired, most willingly responded to Sultan.

I read my verses to this youth, and he has given upon them the wisest judgment of you all.

But words cannot say more than we said. Ben Rifraf ventured to say,

did we not praise your Highness's genius?

Most true, O Salah truth, you did replied to Sultan,

yet were the verses the various trash as we well knew. Most true, O Sultan, came the course from

the whole court, for they saw the tide had turned, and courage to tell this truth was found only

in my page, whom I have made chief counsellor.

Enough, the audience is at an end. Then, just before the band struck up an inspiring march,

the voice of Ben Rifraf was heard reciting a well-known proverb, which in its original Arabic

looks like a procession of earthworms, but which means in plain English,

after wit is everybody's wit, end of the sultans verses by Tutor Janks.

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