Translation:Collection of Slavic Folk Tales/I
A DRACHMA OF TONGUE
(Serbian tale)
Omer's father reproached him every day for loving too much to wander about, playing his tamburica[1] through the streets of Sarajevo.
"You are young, my son," he would say. "We are old, we can no longer work. Who will feed us, if not you?"
But Omer cared little for such advice or for work. He was known in Sarajevo as the leader of all idlers. Going from house to house, from window to window, that was his occupation. Everyone saw that Omer was not ripe for marriage; and even if his youth had not forbidden it, his empty purse certainly would have. All were convinced the devil possessed him. The shame of his conduct fell on his poor parents. The grief they felt shortened their lives: they died.
Omer was left master of an empty, crumbling house, with three orphans. He had long wanted to live free from his father's reproaches, able to indulge all his whims; but he soon learned how hard it is to live without parents, how heavy a house can weigh on one's shoulders.
"Who will spin now, who will weave, who will sweep the house? I must become serious."
After reflecting thus, Omer said to himself:
"By my tamburica, there's no other way, I must get married."
So he slung his tamburica over his shoulder and went beneath the window of the beautiful Meïra. It was the hour of the Turks' prayer when he arrived. A light was burning, and voices could be heard in the room. Omer knocked on the window, and talking ceased; he sang and the light went out. Nobody paid him any attention.
For three nights he came under the window, and each time went away sad and dejected. Meïra never showed herself. He came back a fourth time:
"Well, I will sing once more tonight, and never come back to her window."
He tuned his tamburica and sang in a sad voice:
Tamburica, my pastime, Bow, my sweet joy, Long hast thou fed my hunger, Quenched my thirst. Thou hast drawn girls to the window, Lit their faces with love. Tamburica, my pastime, Bow, my sweet joy, Alas! I've lost days and years Singing beneath Meïra's window: Meïra will not even look at me.
At these words, the light went out and the window suddenly opened. Omer was beside himself with joy, but Meïra said:
"I think you've gone mad, Omer. I'm amazed at your folly. What are you looking for beneath my window? It's all quite useless, you know."
Omer's joy faded; he was more desolate than before.
Seeing his distress, Meïra said:
"My friend, perhaps you'd like to marry me? Is that true, Omer?"
"Yes," he answered.
"Be careful," she said. "That can't be. You don't have a crust of bread at home, and yet you dream of marriage! I know what you're about to say: 'like seeks like.' I am a poor girl, it's true; but there's no prettier one in Sarajevo, and I can marry richly. Still, listen: it's not gold or silver, but the joy of the heart that makes happiness. For my part, I'd prefer you to all of Sarajevo; but I love and respect my parents. I will only marry the man who will make them as happy as me, and who can feed them until their death."
Hearing this, Omer thought a moment.
"Ah! If only I knew how much wealth I'd need to win you!"
"Open a shop," said Meïra. "Become a merchant. It's enough if you can feed and clothe my parents and your orphans."
"Goodbye, Meïra," said Omer. "I understand, and, if anything can come of this, we shall see each other again tomorrow."
Full of both joy and sadness, Omer left her.
"Ah," he said to himself, "if I could borrow some money somewhere, who would be happier than me? And if I cannot, who would be more miserable?"
This thought haunted his sleep. When he awoke, he could scarcely think for joy. He'd remembered he had as a close friend a very rich Jew.
"If he doesn't lend me money, no one will."
So he went to see Isakar (that was the Jew's name). He found him home and explained his request. The Jew was ready to shed his blood for his friend Omer, much more to lend him thirty purses.
"It will be a great joy," he said, "to see you married to the beautiful Meïra."
Then he asked when Omer would repay him.
"In seven years," answered Omer.
"And if, in seven years, you haven't paid me, what then?"
After some thought, they made the following strange agreement before the qadi (judge):
"If, in seven years, Omer has not repaid Isakar the thirty purses, Isakar shall cut, before the tribunal, one drachma of his tongue, and so the matter shall be settled."
Who was happier than young Omer? All day long he thought only of his wedding: what a feast he'd give! what fine clothes for Meïra! In a word, he thought far less about how he would repay the borrowed money than about how he would spend it.
After a month, Meïra was brought to the house of the rich Omer. The feast lasted eight whole days. Everyone wondered where Omer had found the fortune to display such luxury. Many guessed he had not found it in the ground. There's an old proverb: "Work is worth more than money." And another: "It's not enough just to sing in the villages."
After the wedding, Omer didn't worry much about his trade. "I still have fifteen purses left," he thought. "That's what I'll use for business."
However, he ended up with a shop full of salt, tobacco, pinecones, and birch brooms. All of these were in his shop, but he sold nothing else.
He did business this way for four years. During that time, not a trace of worry was seen on his face. The loan and the contract had quite vanished from his mind. But in the fifth year, something began to gnaw at him. By the seventh, his face was completely changed. His wife and friends often found him weeping bitterly. But it was useless to ask the reason for his sorrow. He refused to answer any of their questions.
"Nobody," he'd say. "can help me. Leave me be."
That was always his answer.
But the clever Meïra had long since learned from the Jew himself all the clauses of the terrible contract. Had she not hoped to find a remedy, she would never have married Omer; for what woman would want a husband without a tongue?
"Well, it's time," she said to herself. "Let's take a bochtchaluk (a gift) and go throw ourselves at the feet of the qadi."
She went twice.
"This woman shames me," said the qadi. "She must have some favor to ask. It's disgraceful."
On the third day, she came again with even finer gifts, kissed the hem of his robe, and was about to leave. But the qadi ordered his guards to stop her.
"Woman," said he, "you've shamed me three times now. What can I do for you? Speak."
That was all Meïra needed. With one hand on her forehead and the other on her chest, she said:
"Qadi, your kind heart gives me courage to beg. Grant me the favor of sitting in your place for one hour at the tribunal next Friday."
"By my Turkish faith," said the qadi, "if that pleases you, you may sit there all day. I permit it."
Meïra kissed his feet and carpet, thanked him, and left, waiting joyfully for Friday.
Friday came, the day of repayment. Omer had not a bechlouk (a coin) in his purse, let alone thirty purses. The other clause must now be fulfilled. The Jew was to cut one drachma from Omer's tongue before the tribunal.
Meïra rose early. When she arrived, the qadi dressed her in his robes and himself placed his turban on her head. Truly, it was a strange qadi who would judge that day.
The real qadi withdrew to the next room and peered through a windowpane to watch.
The beardless qadi (Meïra) had just finished a whole chibouk when the Jew and Omer entered. Omer was wiping his tears. They saluted and advanced. The qadi puffed a few clouds of smoke before speaking.
The Qadi: What do you want from me?
The Jew: We've come to request your judgment, noble effendi!
The Qadi: What matter brings you here?
The Jew explained how, seven years earlier, he had lent Omer thirty purses, with a contract that if the money were not repaid, he might cut one drachma of Omer's tongue.
The Qadi (to Omer): Is this true? What's your name? Has he told the truth?
Omer (weeping): Effendi, all of it is true.
The qadi opened a great book, flipped through, and said gravely:
"Yes, it's written so. And you, Jew, did you bring a razor?"
"Of course," said the Jew.
"Well then," said the qadi solemnly, "cut; but be very careful not to cut more than one drachma. Know that if you cut more or less than what the contract states, you will not be able to justify yourself."
The Jew trembled and hesitated.
"No, noble effendi; but if I cut too much, I'll pay him in gold; if I cut too little, he can keep what's left."
"By Allah, Jew, are you the qadi, to dictate laws before the court? Come now, cut at once."
You can imagine the Jew's torment.
"Pardon, noble effendi, I'll meddle no more in the affairs of our sovereign. You judge by the book... I'll leave him the thirty purses and his bit of tongue... We are good friends."
The qadi grew sterner still. "Bring me the executioner," he told the guards, "that I may teach this dog of a Jew how to obey the tribunal. Cut at once!"
The executioner entered; the Jew fell to his knees, kissed the qadi's robe, pleaded. But the qadi remained unmoved.
"Cut the drachma of tongue, infidel, or offer your neck to the executioner!"
The Jew saw there was only one way to save his life: buy it back.
"Noble effendi," he cried, "I'll give you thirty purses; I abandon the thirty I lent. Be to me a father and mother. Effendi, I have sinned, forgive me; do not order me to cut anyone's tongue, least of all my good friend Omer's."
"Cut his throat," said the qadi to the executioner.
The poor Jew clung to the qadi, crying, "Mercy, effendi, if you are a Turk!"
Then Omer interceded, begging the qadi on behalf of his friend. That was what the qadi had been waiting for.
"Omer," said the qadi, "for your sake, I forgive him. The honesty of a Turk is harder than stone. Let this Jew understand what a tribunal is, and what the qadi's justice means."
The Jew paid thirty purses to the qadi, who then invited him to embrace Omer.
"And, so this matter never comes up again," said the qadi, "I will record it in my great book."
After kissing the carpet and the qadi's slippers, the two men thanked him for his fair judgment and left.
One door closed, another opened. The real qadi entered: he was shaking with laughter.
"By my beard, woman, there's nothing in the books wiser than you! If you were a man, there'd be no qadi in Constantinople to equal you!"
Meïra thanked him for the favor of letting her sit in his place and offered him fifteen purses from the Jew's forfeited money.
The qadi refused and even gave her one more purse. She kissed his robe's hem, thanked him, and returned home before Omer. He had lingered at the café. Seeing him arrive from the window, she started to tease him.
"Ah, here comes Omer the tongueless!" she said, pretending to stammer.
"You're mistaken," said Omer.
She, as if surprised he wasn't stammering, asked, "What happened, then?"
"God and the wise qadi (pretty as an apple, may God guard him!) saved me and tricked the Jew."
"Is the qadi more pretty than I?" Meïra said, showing him the thirty purses.
Omer wept with joy and kissed three times the lovely brow of his clever wife. Seeing how wise she was, he loved her three times more than before, listened to her good counsel, devoted himself eagerly to work, and became very rich.
- ↑ (Tamburica: a stringed musical instrument.)