ABSTRACT
IT is related, O auspicious King, that there was once, in the fortunate city of Cairo, a cobbler of liberal sympathies and excellent disposition, who earned his bread by patching old slippers. His name was Maaruf, and Allah-may His name be exalted!—had afflicted him with a calamitous wife. She was called Fatimah, but her soul had been so steeped in tar and pitch that the neighbours nicknamed her Hot-Slop, knowing that she was an itching plaster upon the cobbler’s heart and a black misfortune to any eye. This shrew used and abused the patience of her man, cursed him a thousand times a day, and never gave him any sleep at night. As time went on, therefore, Maaruf began to tremble at her evil deeds and fear her wickedness. He was a wise and sensitive man, jealous of his good name even in its poverty; so he would hand over all his money to the caprices of this dry wasp to avoid dispute. If, by ill fortune, he did not earn enough during his day’s work, his ears were doomed that night to be filled with shrieking and his eyes with formidable domestic scenes. Sometimes the hours which should have been spent in sleep were darker for the poor man than the book of his Destiny, and he might well have murmured these words of the poet:
Hopeless at night I squirm Beside the rough-legged worm I call my wife. On that dark funeral day When we were wedded, say Where was my knife? Where the cold poison cup For her to tipple up And sneeze out life?
