Outside

[Guest guest]

Outside

 

by Isabelle Eberhardt

translated by Paul Bowles

 

Long and white, the road twists like a snake toward the far-off blue

places, toward the bright edges of the earth. It burns in the

sunlight, a dusty stripe between the wheat's dull gold on one side,

and the shimmering red hills and grey-green scrub on the other. In the

distance, prosperous farms, ruined mud walls, a few huts. Everything

seems asleep, stricken by the heat of day. A chanting comes up from

the plain, a sound long as the unsheltered road, or as poverty without

the hope of change tomorrow, or as weeping that goes unheard. The

Kabyl farmers are singing as they work. The pale wheat, the brown

barley, lie piled on the earth's flanks, and the earth herself lies

back, exhausted by her labor pains.

But all the warm gold spread out in the sunlight causes no

glimmer of interest in the uncertain eyes of the wayfarer. His locks

are grey, as if covered by the same dull dust

that cushions the impact of his bare feet on the earth. He is tall and

emaciated, with a sharp profile that juts out from beneath his ragged

turban. His grey beard is untended, his eyes cloudy, his lips cracked

open by thirst. When he comes to a farm or hut, he stops and pounds

the earth with his long staff of wild olive wood. His raucous voice

breaks

the silence of the countryside as he asks for Allah's bread. And he is

right, the sad-faced

wanderer. The sacred bread he demands, without begging for it, is his

by right, and the giving of it is only a feeble compensation, a

recognizing of the injustice that is in the world.

The wayfarer has no home or family. He goes where he pleases,

and his somber gaze encompasses all the vast African landscape. And he

leaves the milestones behind, one after the other, as he goes. When

the heat is too great and he has had enough walking, he lies down

under the big pistachio tree on the side hill, or at the foot of a

weeping eucalyptus beside the road. There in the shade he drops into a

dreamless sleep.

It may be that at one time it was painful for him to be

homeless, to possess nothing, and doubtless also to have to ask for

that which his instinct told him was due him in any case. But now,

after so many years, each like the last, he has no more desires. He

merely undergoes life, indifferent to it.

Often the gendarmes have arrested him and thrown him into

prison. But he has never been able to understand, nor has anyone

explained to him, how a man can be prohibited from walking in the

life-giving light of day, or why those very men who had failed to give

him bread or shelter should then tell him that is was forbidden not to

possess these things.

When they accused him of being a vagabond, always he said the

same thing: I haven't stolen. I've done nothing wrong. But they

claimed that was not enough, and they would not listen to him. This

struck him as unjust, like the signposts along the highways

that illiterates had to understand.

The tall, straight back grew bent, and his gait became

uncertain. Old age arrived early to exact its payments for his

shattered health. He suffered from the wretched illnesses of old age,

those ailments whose very cure brings no consolation to the patient,

and one day he fell beside the road. Some pious Moslems found him

there and carried him to a hospital. He said nothing.

But there the old man of the wide horizons could not bear the

white walls, the lack of space. And that spongy bed did not feel as

good as the ground that he was used to.

He grew depressed and longed for the open road. If he stayed there, he

felt, he would merely die, without even the solace of familiar sights

around him.

They handed him back his ragged clothes with disgust. He was

not able to go very far, and he collapsed before he got out of the

city. A policeman came up to him and offered to help him. The old man

cried: "If you're a Moslem, leave me alone. I want to die outside.

Outside! Leave me alone."

The policeman, with the respect of those of his religion for

the penniless and the deranged, went away. The wayfarer dragged

himself beyond the hostile city and fell asleep on the soft ground

beside a faintly trickling stream. Covered by the friendly dark, and

with the vast emptiness around him, he fell into an untroubled sleep.

Later, he felt stronger, and he began to walk straight ahead, across

the fields and through the scrub.

The night was drawing to an end. A pale glow came up behind

the black line of the mountains in Kabylia, and from the farms the

cocks' cracked voices called for daylight. He had slept on an

embankment which the first rains of autumn had covered with grass. The

cyclamen-scented breeze brought with it a penetrating chill. He was

weak; a great weariness weighted his arms and legs, but the cough that

had come with the arrival of the cold air now bothered him less.

It was daylight. From behind the mountains shone a red dawn,

making bloody streaks on the calm surface of the sea, and dyeing the

water with golden splotches. The faint mist that still hung above the

ravines of Mustapha disappeared, and the countryside

came nearer, huge, soft, serene. No broken lines, no clash of color.

One would have said

that the earth, lying back in exhaustion, still permitted itself a sad

and slightly sensual smile. And the wayfarer's arms and legs grew

heavier.

He thought of nothing. No desires, no regrets. Softly, in the

solitude of the open spaces, the uncomplicated and yet mysterious

force that had animated him for so many years, fell asleep inside him.

No prayers, no medicines, merely the ineffable happiness of dying.

The first tepid rays of sunlight, filtering through damp veils

of eucalyptus leaves,

gilded the motionless profile, the closed eyes, the hanging rags, the

dusty bare feet and the long olivewood staff: everything that the

wayfarer had been. The soul no one suspected him of possessing had

been exhaled, a murmur of resignation from ancient Islam, in simple

harmony with the melancholy of life.

[Guest guest]

Tykal & Friends,

 

Tykal, you and anyone else who enjoyed the story you recently posted

might enjoy a short, somewhat romanticized, but excellent short novel

about Sufism by Ian Dallas called The Book of Strangers, published by

Quokka/Pocket Books. It is also an investigation of the value of th

Guru/Sheik in the Sufi tradition. Among other gems it includes this

remark by Bayazid of Bistam. The message is familiar, but the telling

is authoritative: "This knowledge cannot be attained by seeking it,

but only those who seek it find it."

 

yours in the bonds,

eric

 

 

 

, "Tykal49" <tykal@e...> wrote:

> Outside

>

> by Isabelle Eberhardt

> translated by Paul Bowles

>

> Long and white, the road twists like a snake toward the far-off

blue

> places, toward the bright edges of the earth. It burns in the

> sunlight, a dusty stripe between the wheat's dull gold on one side,

> and the shimmering red hills and grey-green scrub on the other. In

the

> distance, prosperous farms, ruined mud walls, a few huts.

Everything

> seems asleep, stricken by the heat of day. A chanting comes up from

> the plain, a sound long as the unsheltered road, or as poverty

without

> the hope of change tomorrow, or as weeping that goes unheard. The

> Kabyl farmers are singing as they work. The pale wheat, the brown

> barley, lie piled on the earth's flanks, and the earth herself lies

> back, exhausted by her labor pains.

> But all the warm gold spread out in the sunlight causes no

> glimmer of interest in the uncertain eyes of the wayfarer. His

locks

> are grey, as if covered by the same dull dust

> that cushions the impact of his bare feet on the earth. He is tall

and

> emaciated, with a sharp profile that juts out from beneath his

ragged

> turban. His grey beard is untended, his eyes cloudy, his lips

cracked

> open by thirst. When he comes to a farm or hut, he stops and pounds

> the earth with his long staff of wild olive wood. His raucous voice

> breaks

> the silence of the countryside as he asks for Allah's bread. And he

is

> right, the sad-faced

> wanderer. The sacred bread he demands, without begging for it, is

his

> by right, and the giving of it is only a feeble compensation, a

> recognizing of the injustice that is in the world.

> The wayfarer has no home or family. He goes where he pleases,

> and his somber gaze encompasses all the vast African landscape. And

he

> leaves the milestones behind, one after the other, as he goes. When

> the heat is too great and he has had enough walking, he lies down

> under the big pistachio tree on the side hill, or at the foot of a

> weeping eucalyptus beside the road. There in the shade he drops

into a

> dreamless sleep.

> It may be that at one time it was painful for him to be

> homeless, to possess nothing, and doubtless also to have to ask for

> that which his instinct told him was due him in any case. But now,

> after so many years, each like the last, he has no more desires. He

> merely undergoes life, indifferent to it.

> Often the gendarmes have arrested him and thrown him into

> prison. But he has never been able to understand, nor has anyone

> explained to him, how a man can be prohibited from walking in the

> life-giving light of day, or why those very men who had failed to

give

> him bread or shelter should then tell him that is was forbidden not

to

> possess these things.

> When they accused him of being a vagabond, always he said the

> same thing: I haven't stolen. I've done nothing wrong. But they

> claimed that was not enough, and they would not listen to him. This

> struck him as unjust, like the signposts along the highways

> that illiterates had to understand.

> The tall, straight back grew bent, and his gait became

> uncertain. Old age arrived early to exact its payments for his

> shattered health. He suffered from the wretched illnesses of old

age,

> those ailments whose very cure brings no consolation to the patient,

> and one day he fell beside the road. Some pious Moslems found him

> there and carried him to a hospital. He said nothing.

> But there the old man of the wide horizons could not bear the

> white walls, the lack of space. And that spongy bed did not feel as

> good as the ground that he was used to.

> He grew depressed and longed for the open road. If he stayed there,

he

> felt, he would merely die, without even the solace of familiar

sights

> around him.

> They handed him back his ragged clothes with disgust. He was

> not able to go very far, and he collapsed before he got out of the

> city. A policeman came up to him and offered to help him. The old

man

> cried: "If you're a Moslem, leave me alone. I want to die outside.

> Outside! Leave me alone."

> The policeman, with the respect of those of his religion for

> the penniless and the deranged, went away. The wayfarer dragged

> himself beyond the hostile city and fell asleep on the soft ground

> beside a faintly trickling stream. Covered by the friendly dark,

and

> with the vast emptiness around him, he fell into an untroubled

sleep.

> Later, he felt stronger, and he began to walk straight ahead,

across

> the fields and through the scrub.

> The night was drawing to an end. A pale glow came up behind

> the black line of the mountains in Kabylia, and from the farms the

> cocks' cracked voices called for daylight. He had slept on an

> embankment which the first rains of autumn had covered with grass.

The

> cyclamen-scented breeze brought with it a penetrating chill. He was

> weak; a great weariness weighted his arms and legs, but the cough

that

> had come with the arrival of the cold air now bothered him less.

> It was daylight. From behind the mountains shone a red dawn,

> making bloody streaks on the calm surface of the sea, and dyeing

the

> water with golden splotches. The faint mist that still hung above

the

> ravines of Mustapha disappeared, and the countryside

> came nearer, huge, soft, serene. No broken lines, no clash of

color.

> One would have said

> that the earth, lying back in exhaustion, still permitted itself a

sad

> and slightly sensual smile. And the wayfarer's arms and legs grew

> heavier.

> He thought of nothing. No desires, no regrets. Softly, in the

> solitude of the open spaces, the uncomplicated and yet mysterious

> force that had animated him for so many years, fell asleep inside

him.

> No prayers, no medicines, merely the ineffable happiness of dying.

> The first tepid rays of sunlight, filtering through damp

veils

> of eucalyptus leaves,

> gilded the motionless profile, the closed eyes, the hanging rags,

the

> dusty bare feet and the long olivewood staff: everything that the

> wayfarer had been. The soul no one suspected him of possessing had

> been exhaled, a murmur of resignation from ancient Islam, in simple

> harmony with the melancholy of life.