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Translated From The Russian By Isabel Hapgood

Who in Bagdad does not know the great Giaffar, the sun of the universe?

One day, many years ago, when he was still a young man, Giaffar was strolling in the suburbs of Bagdad.

Suddenly there fell upon his ear a hoarse cry: some one was calling desperately for help.

Giaffar was distinguished among the young men of his own age for his good sense and prudence; but he had a compassionate heart, and he trusted to his strength.

He ran in the direction of the cry, and beheld a decrepit old man pinned against the wall of the city by two brigands who were robbing him.

Giaffar drew his sword and fell upon the malefactors. One he slew, the other he chased away.

The old man whom he had liberated fell at his rescuer’s feet, and kissing the hem of his garment, exclaimed: “Brave youth, thy magnanimity shall not remain unrewarded. In appearance I am a beggar; but only in appearance. I am not a common man.–Come to-morrow morning early to the chief bazaar; I will await thee there at the fountain–and thou shalt convince thyself as to the justice of my words.”

Giaffar reflected: “In appearance this man is a beggar, it is true; but all sorts of things happen. Why should not I try the experiment?”–and he answered: “Good, my father, I will go.”

The old man looked him in the eye and went away.

On the following morning, just as day was breaking, Giaffar set out for the bazaar. The old man was already waiting for him, with his elbows leaning on the marble basin of the fountain.

Silently he took Giaffar by the hand and led him to a small garden, surrounded on all sides by high walls.

In the very centre of this garden, on a green lawn, grew a tree of extraordinary aspect.

It resembled a cypress; only its foliage was of azure hue.

Three fruits–three apples–hung on the slender up-curving branches. One of medium size was oblong in shape, of a milky-white hue; another was large, round, and bright red; the third was small, wrinkled and yellowish.

The whole tree was rustling faintly, although there was no wind. It tinkled delicately and plaintively, as though it were made of glass; it seemed to feel the approach of Giaffar.

“Youth!”–said the old man, “pluck whichever of these fruits thou wilt, and know that if thou shalt pluck and eat the white one, thou shalt become more wise than all men; if thou shalt pluck and eat the red one, thou shalt become as rich as the Hebrew Rothschild; if thou shalt pluck and eat the yellow one, thou shalt please old women. Decide! … and delay not. In an hour the fruits will fade, and the tree itself will sink into the dumb depths of the earth!”

Giaffar bowed his head and thought.–“What am I to do?” he articulated in a low tone, as though arguing with himself.–“If one becomes too wise, he will not wish to live, probably; if he becomes richer than all men, all will hate him; I would do better to pluck and eat the third, the shrivelled apple!”

And so he did; and the old man laughed a toothless laugh and said: “Oh, most wise youth! Thou hast chosen the good part!–What use hast thou for the white apple? Thou art wiser than Solomon as thou art.–And neither dost thou need the red apple…. Even without it thou shalt be rich. Only no one will be envious of thy wealth.”

“Inform me, old man,” said Giaffar, with a start, “where the respected mother of our God-saved Caliph dwelleth?”

The old man bowed to the earth, and pointed out the road to the youth.

Who in Bagdad doth not know the sun of the universe, the great, the celebrated Giaffar?

April, 1878.