The Story Of The Barber's Sixth Brother

: The Arabian Nights Entertainments

There now remains for me to relate to you the story of my sixth

brother, whose name was Schacabac. Like the rest of us, he inherited a

hundred silver drachmas from our father, which he thought was a large

fortune, but through ill-luck, he soon lost it all, and was driven to

beg. As he had a smooth tongue and good manners, he really did very

well in his new profession, and he devoted himself specially to making

with the servants in big houses, so as to gain access to their


One day he was passing a splendid mansion, with a crowd of servants

lounging in the courtyard. He thought that from the appearance of the

house it might yield him a rich harvest, so he entered and inquired to

whom it belonged.

"My good man, where do you come from?" replied the servant. "Can't you

see for yourself that it can belong to nobody but a Barmecide?" for the

Barmecides were famed for their liberality and generosity. My brother,

hearing this, asked the porters, of whom there were several, if they

would give him alms. They did not refuse, but told him politely to go

in, and speak to the master himself.

My brother thanked them for their courtesy and entered the building,

which was so large that it took him some time to reach the apartments

of the Barmecide. At last, in a room richly decorated with paintings,

he saw an old man with a long white beard, sitting on a sofa, who

received him with such kindness that my brother was emboldened to make

his petition.

"My lord," he said, "you behold in me a poor man who only lives by the

help of persons as rich and as generous as you."

Before he could proceed further, he was stopped by the astonishment

shown by the Barmecide. "Is it possible," he cried, "that while I am

in Bagdad, a man like you should be starving? That is a state of

things that must at once be put an end to! Never shall it be said that

I have abandoned you, and I am sure that you, on your part, will never

abandon me."

"My lord," answered my brother, "I swear that I have not broken my fast

this whole day."

"What, you are dying of hunger?" exclaimed the Barmecide. "Here,

slave; bring water, that we may wash our hands before meat!" No slave

appeared, but my brother remarked that the Barmecide did not fail to

rub his hands as if the water had been poured over them.

Then he said to my brother, "Why don't you wash your hands too?" and

Schacabac, supposing that it was a joke on the part of the Barmecide

(though he could see none himself), drew near, and imitated his motion.

When the Barmecide had done rubbing his hands, he raised his voice, and

cried, "Set food before us at once, we are very hungry." No food was

brought, but the Barmecide pretended to help himself from a dish, and

carry a morsel to his mouth, saying as he did so, "Eat, my friend, eat,

I entreat. Help yourself as freely as if you were at home! For a

starving man, you seem to have a very small appetite."

"Excuse me, my lord," replied Schacabac, imitating his gestures as

before, "I really am not losing time, and I do full justice to the


"How do you like this bread?" asked the Barmecide. "I find it

particularly good myself."

"Oh, my lord," answered my brother, who beheld neither meat nor bread,

"never have I tasted anything so delicious."

"Eat as much as you want," said the Barmecide. "I bought the woman who

makes it for five hundred pieces of gold, so that I might never be

without it."

After ordering a variety of dishes (which never came) to be placed on

the table, and discussing the merits of each one, the Barmecide

declared that having dined so well, they would now proceed to take

their wine. To this my brother at first objected, declaring that it

was forbidden; but on the Barmecide insisting that it was out of the

question that he should drink by himself, he consented to take a

little. The Barmecide, however, pretended to fill their glasses so

often, that my brother feigned that the wine had gone into his head,

and struck the Barmecide such a blow on the head, that he fell to the

ground. Indeed, he raised his hand to strike him a second time, when

the Barmecide cried out that he was mad, upon which my brother

controlled himself, and apologised and protested that it was all the

fault of the wine he had drunk. At this the Barmecide, instead of

being angry, began to laugh, and embraced him heartily. "I have long

been seeking," he exclaimed, "a man of your description, and henceforth

my house shall be yours. You have had the good grace to fall in with

my humour, and to pretend to eat and to drink when nothing was there.

Now you shall be rewarded by a really good supper."

Then he clapped his hands, and all the dishes were brought that they

had tasted in imagination before and during the repast, slaves sang and

played on various instruments. All the while Schacabac was treated by

the Barmecide as a familiar friend, and dressed in a garment out of his

own wardrobe.

Twenty years passed by, and my brother was still living with the

Barmecide, looking after his house, and managing his affairs. At the

end of that time his generous benefactor died without heirs, so all his

possessions went to the prince. They even despoiled my brother of

those that rightly belonged to him, and he, now as poor as he had ever

been in his life, decided to cast in his lot with a caravan of pilgrims

who were on their way to Mecca. Unluckily, the caravan was attacked

and pillaged by the Bedouins, and the pilgrims were taken prisoners.

My brother became the slave of a man who beat him daily, hoping to

drive him to offer a ransom, although, as Schacabac pointed out, it was

quite useless trouble, as his relations were as poor as himself. At

length the Bedouin grew tired of tormenting, and sent him on a camel to

the top of a high barren mountain, where he left him to take his

chance. A passing caravan, on its way to Bagdad, told me where he was

to be found, and I hurried to his rescue, and brought him in a

deplorable condition back to the town.

"This,"--continued the barber,--"is the tale I related to the Caliph,

who, when I had finished, burst into fits of laughter.

"Well were you called `the Silent,'" said he; "no name was ever better

deserved. But for reasons of my own, which it is not necessary to

mention, I desire you to leave the town, and never to come back."

"I had of course no choice but to obey, and travelled about for several

years until I heard of the death of the Caliph, when I hastily returned

to Bagdad, only to find that all my brothers were dead. It was at this

time that I rendered to the young cripple the important service of

which you have heard, and for which, as you know, he showed such

profound ingratitude, that he preferred rather to leave Bagdad than to

run the risk of seeing me. I sought him long from place to place, but

it was only to-day, when I expected it least, that I came across him,

as much irritated with me as ever"-- So saying the tailor went on to

relate the story of the lame man and the barber, which has already been


"When the barber," he continued, "had finished his tale, we came to the

conclusion that the young man had been right, when he had accused him

of being a great chatter-box. However, we wished to keep him with us,

and share our feast, and we remained at table till the hour of

afternoon prayer. Then the company broke up, and I went back to work

in my shop.

"It was during this interval that the little hunchback, half drunk

already, presented himself before me, singing and playing on his drum.

I took him home, to amuse my wife, and she invited him to supper.

While eating some fish, a bone got into his throat, and in spite of all

we could do, he died shortly. It was all so sudden that we lost our

heads, and in order to divert suspicion from ourselves, we carried the

body to the house of a Jewish physician. He placed it in the chamber

of the purveyor, and the purveyor propped it up in the street, where it

was thought to have been killed by the merchant.

"This, Sire, is the story which I was obliged to tell to satisfy your

highness. It is now for you to say if we deserve mercy or punishment;

life or death?"

The Sultan of Kashgar listened with an air of pleasure which filled the

tailor and his friends with hope. "I must confess," he exclaimed,

"that I am much more interested in the stories of the barber and his

brothers, and of the lame man, than in that of my own jester. But

before I allow you all four to return to your own homes, and have the

corpse of the hunchback properly buried, I should like to see this

barber who has earned your pardon. And as he is in this town, let an

usher go with you at once in search of him."

The usher and the tailor soon returned, bringing with them an old man

who must have been at least ninety years of age. "O Silent One," said

the Sultan, "I am told that you know many strange stories. Will you

tell some of them to me?"

"Never mind my stories for the present," replied the barber, "but will

your Highness graciously be pleased to explain why this Jew, this

Christian, and this Mussulman, as well as this dead body, are all here?"

"What business is that of yours?" asked the Sultan with a smile; but

seeing that the barber had some reasons for his question, he commanded

that the tale of the hunchback should be told him.

"It is certainly most surprising," cried he, when he had heard it all,

"but I should like to examine the body." He then knelt down, and took

the head on his knees, looking at it attentively. Suddenly he burst

into such loud laughter that he fell right backwards, and when he had

recovered himself enough to speak, he turned to the Sultan. "The man

is no more dead than I am," he said; "watch me." As he spoke he drew a

small case of medicines from his pocket and rubbed the neck of the

hunchback with some ointment made of balsam. Next he opened the dead

man's mouth, and by the help of a pair of pincers drew the bone from

his throat. At this the hunchback sneezed, stretched himself and

opened his eyes.

The Sultan and all those who saw this operation did not know which to

admire most, the constitution of the hunchback who had apparently been

dead for a whole night and most of one day, or the skill of the barber,

whom everyone now began to look upon as a great man. His Highness

desired that the history of the hunchback should be written down, and

placed in the archives beside that of the barber, so that they might be

associated in people's minds to the end of time. And he did not stop

there; for in order to wipe out the memory of what they had undergone,

he commanded that the tailor, the doctor, the purveyor and the

merchant, should each be clothed in his presence with a robe from his

own wardrobe before they returned home. As for the barber, he bestowed

on him a large pension, and kept him near his own person.