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Topic: Smutty Stories by Starlight (Read 6374 times) |
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Smutty Stories by Starlight
« on: 2002-03-31 00:07:27 » |
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Translations of meme-strands from various languages. Bon Appétit.
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With or without religion, you would have good people doing good things and evil people doing evil things. But for good people to do evil things, that takes religion. - Steven Weinberg, 1999
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un leçon en français
« Reply #1 on: 2002-03-31 00:12:01 » |
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un leçon en français
(a french lesson)
from the "Heptameron" of Marguerite, Queen of Navarre
Balls were the big thing in the duchy of Milan, and to one of them came Bonnivet, a visiting Frenchman, all silk, beard and lasciviousness. Like a hunter on the trail, he moved among the dancers with a stealthy tread and a scanning eye, until he suddenly stopped, rooted to the parquet - he had a beast in view.
It was surely the loveliest beast of the Lombardy plain, a dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty in green velvet. Bonnivet stalked her carefully; he approached her with sweet, baited words. But the prey was both quick and proud. She’d have nothing to do with Bonnivet, and there were three good reasons: husband, lover and a decided distaste for the French. “Silly excuses,” he thought, bowing and saying adieu - but to her back; the lady was already moving off. It was a chase requiring strategy; Bonnivet returned to his quarters to plan.
Her ridiculous prejudice against the French was of no consequence; ignorance disappears with the proper kind of sentimental education. So Bonnivet concerned himself with buying wine for such gossips as he encountered and asking careful questions about the husband and about Rinaldo, the lover. He was charmed to find out that the former was so aged that he had long since lost the key to wedlock and that the latter was so young and shy that he couldn't have known how to fit it. Bonnivet, changing the figure, foresaw a feast: The affair would be potage de canard for him. No – perhaps in Italy one ought to say chicken cacciatore. He contrived to meet Rinaldo at another ball, ingratiated himself, sympathized with the fellow’s unsuccess and offered advice on the latest French hunting techniques.
Rinaldo was dazzled. Sigh close to her ear. Strip her naked with your eyes. Be bold. Bonnivet was even slightly ashamed of himself for expounding such elementary lessons.
Rinaldo went away with new confidence; he returned overwhelmed with success. The lady had listened and smiled and touched his hand - and finally had whispered, “Tonight at midnight.”
But - Rinaldo turned pale at the thought - what if he failed when he got there? “You have taught me the art of stalking, Frenchman, but you have said nothing about the methods of the kill!”
Bonnivet smiled and once again admired the superb perfection of his own plan. “Listen,” he said, and bent close to Rinaldo’s ear. For half an hour, he lectured in detail as the astonished and grateful suitor listened.
Then Bonnivet went back to his quarters shaved off his beard, ending up with Rinaldo’s smooth, boyish look. “But how do I make myself smell like an Italian?” Bonnivet reflected. Seized with inspiration, he bathed in olive oil and rose from his bath shiny beyond recognition. While Rinaldo was sitting in his house, humming a canzone and trying to remember all of his instructions, Bonnivet was stealing through the darkened corridors of the lady’s house. Once in her room, he blew out the candle immediately and began to undress.
“But you are an hour early!” Came her voice from the bed.
“I couldn't contain myself, carissima,” he said, and soon proved what he meant.
Tallyho and view halloo, it was a spectacular demonstration of Gallic virtuosity. Bonnivet played every trick, practiced every ardent device invented in his fertile country. But the lady? The lady, astonished and overcome, thought it was something like an Italian renaissance. She felt as if she were dropped from the Tower of Pisa, soaring from the pinnacle of Saint Mark’s, deluged by the fountains of the Villa d’Este, raised to paradise with Dante - or run over by the eight white Arabian stallions and the gilt coach of the Duke of Palermo.
Even the magnificent Bonnivet grew a little exhausted. And time was growing short. As he slipped from the bed, he whispered in the lady's ear, "Voilà, un leçon en français, chérie.”
“What? What?” she asked. And, a few minute’s later, when Rinaldo slipped into the room: “Are back so soon?”
Rinaldo took Bonnivet’s place, but it was soon obvious that he was far from able to fill it. Somehow, the instructions he’d had from his master turned out to be all the wrong things. As he fumbled, the lady said, “Oh! What are you doing, you idiot? Be careful! My, how you have changed!” Finally, she sprang out of bed and lighted the candle - and looked at Rinaldo’s red face.
She began to understand. “Do you speak any French?” she demanded.
“What a question,” he replied, “No, not a word.”
“Mon dieu!” she said, realizing now what had happened. “Vive la France! Begone, you wretched Italian!”
The next day, Bonnivet heard the scandalous rumor about the young man found in the wrong bedroom, crowned by a chamber pot and pushed down the stairs. When asked what he thought of it, Bonnivet shook his head gravely and said, “Incroyable. Such things never happen in my own country. But then, everyone in my country speaks French.”
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With or without religion, you would have good people doing good things and evil people doing evil things. But for good people to do evil things, that takes religion. - Steven Weinberg, 1999
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Hermit
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measure for pleasure
« Reply #2 on: 2002-03-31 00:18:46 » |
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measure for pleasure
an ancient Magyar folk tale
In ancient Buda town there lived a lady named the Countess Hunyadi. She was one of those tall beauties with amber hair, gray eyes and magnificent promises under all those stiff silks and brocades she wore. She was as vain as she was lovely, and as arrogant as she was vain. Men lost their voices when they met her, and before they had regained themselves enough to offer a compliment, she had smiled coldly and swept by.
Ehasz Feri did manage to speak to her one day at a friend’s house. He was a young painter who was just beginning to be fashionable among the aristocracy of Buda, and he said, “Gracious lady, I know it is a bold thing to ask, but would Her Ladyship consent to sitting for a portrait by me? It would make my reputation and ensure my future in my chosen field of art.”
The countess gave him the look she gave all beggars. “Little painter,” she said, “the finest masters of Italy and Flanders have pleaded to do my portrait and I have not consented. If ever I am ready to sit for a picture, it will be with a great artist, not with a simple dauber like you.” She turned magnificently away from him
Feri walked back to his humble studio in great humiliation. But he did not give up - during the next few weeks, he tried again several times to gain an answer from the lady, but all of the letters he sent were returned with the seals unbroken.
Then one night he saw the lady in a dream and he lad an inspiration. In the morning he set to work on his canvas, and after two weeks of unremitting work, he had finished. He arranged to have his picture shown in one of Buda's most popular cafes.
When the picture was unveiled, the onlookers at the tables gasped and swallowed their drinks the wrong way. It was a life-size, full-figure portrait of the countess with an astonishing likeness of her beautiful face. But it was scarcely the face the drinkers were staring at, though they tried hard enough to pretend. “Such expression in the eyes!” they said as they gaped at the rich curve of her bared breasts. “Feri has caught her proud smile,” they said, looking farther down at the flow of her body, at the rounded hips and the splendid thighs. “What insight into her character,” they remarked as they gawked at her lovely legs. Seven times that day, the cafe owner had to replenish his stock of wine; he had never seen such business.
Within a few hours, the lady learned what all Buda knew. Two of her burly footmen escorted Feri to her house. She confronted him in a fury. “I have seen your wretched libel,” she said. “Explain!”
“A higher power commanded me,” Feri replied. “A vision of Your Ladyship came to me in a dream and I painted you exactly as you appeared.”
“Fool,” she said, “bungler - you have distorted everything by drawing my thighs a full six centimeters heavier than they are!”
Feri was astonished. He had not realized how much the lady was ruled by vanity. A plan came to him, however, and he pretended to be stubborn. “The vision couldn't be wrong,” he said. “They are exactly as I painted them. Will you make a wager on it? All I own against a single kiss.”
“Look, then, you fool,” she said and thrust a tape measure into his hands. Furiously, she began to undress. Off came the stiff bodice, off came the ornate skirt, off came the numerous petticoats. When Feri saw his vision become real in all her nudity, his hands began to tremble. “Go on!” she said and offered her satiny thighs. Feri fumbled and nearly dropped the tape.
His attempts were so awkward that, at last, the lady impatiently took his hands and guided them aright. But somehow, in the confusion of thighs and thumbs, the intertwining of fingers and tape, unusual things began to arise. A warm pink appeared in the countess’ once-haughty face; her lips parted and she smiled as she had never done before; now it was she who was trembling. “Haven't you something besides this tape?” she sighed. “A measuring stick?” Feri discovered one close by.
Those measurements were taken with the utmost care in thoroughness - but not without considerable enthusiasm on both sides. When they were finally completed, the lady whispered into his ear, “Now admit, my dear Feri, that I am six centimeters slimmer than you imagined. Your portrait is a fraud.”
“It is, indeed,” he said and kissed her bare shoulder. “I must begin all over again? I can no longer depend on my dreams.”
“Art must copy nature,” she said. “You must work from the real form. Shall we begin tomorrow? But, since you must be absolutely accurate in every place, you can start by measuring me again.”
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With or without religion, you would have good people doing good things and evil people doing evil things. But for good people to do evil things, that takes religion. - Steven Weinberg, 1999
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Tears and laughter
« Reply #3 on: 2002-03-31 00:23:59 » |
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Tears and laughter
from “Russkie Zavetnyie Skazki”
On the bank of a river in the Ukraine, there once lived a ferryman and his wife. He was strong as an ox and nearly as clever and he earned his bread by rowing travelers from bank to bank. She had a supple body and a face like a flower - but the first was so neglected by her husband that the second was often full of longing. One day, a Volga sailor appeared on the other side of the stream and shouted for the ferryman.
“Can you pay for the ferry young man?” Asked the boatman. “Otherwise, I can't take you across.”
“I have no money,” said the traveler, “but if you will help me, I will make you laugh and cry at the same time.”
“Impossible. What does he mean?” thought the ferryman, but he was so full of curiosity that he seized his oars and rowed the young man across the river.
“Very good, batka,” the fellow said. “Now turn your boat bottom up.” Still curious, the ferryman did so. The sailor reached into his trousers and pulled out his huge, stout member and with it gave the boat bottom such a blow that he stove in the timbers.
It was such an astonishing sight that the ferryman began to laugh heartily; then, when he contemplated the destruction of his boat, he felt so sad that tears came to his eyes. “Well, batka, have I kept my word?” said the sailor.
“The Devil take you,” cried the boatman. “Go away!”
The ferryman returned home, still provoked. As he came in the door, he thought of the sailor's prodigious member and began to laugh, and then he recalled the fate of his boat and he burst into tears. His wife anxiously asked him what the matter was and, when he was recovered, he told her all that had occurred.
Her eyes widened and a thoughtful look came over her face. Suddenly, she began to reproach him. “You old devil, why did you let him go? That was no sailor - that was my brother, and you didn’t recognize him. My parents must have sent him to visit us. Harness the horse and follow him quickly; I must have all the news of my dear mother and father!”
When the ferryman caught up with the sailor, he said, “See here, why didn’t you say you were my wife’s brother? You must come home and stay with us awhile.”
The clever sailor guessed the answer to the puzzle almost at once. “How could I?” he said. “I'd never seen you before.”
When they came back to the house, the girl ran out and threw her arms around the young man with many expressions of: “My dear, how long since I saw you” and “How are they all at home?” He replied appropriately with many hugs and words of pleasure at the joyful reunion. She took him inside, plied him with omelets and brandy, and all three made merry until night came. As darkness fell, the pretty wife said to husband, “My brother and I still have much to tell each other about our relatives, living and dead, that I shall sit here by his bed for a while. Don't trouble yourself to stay up, but make your bed in the lean-to.” Being sleepy he agreed and went off.
Very shortly thereafter the sailor and the girl were locked together in such a vigorous game of bouncing the she let out a loud cry.
“What is the matter?” shouted her husband.
She answered, “father is dead, I have just learned of this misfortune.”
“God rest his soul,” said the ferryman. Then he crossed himself and went back to sleep.
Soon she gave a louder cry, and again the husband asked the cause. “Mother is dead,” said the girl. “May she rest with the saints,” said the ferryman. This continued all night until even the second and third cousins were in their graves.
The next morning, the sailor prepared to return home. The young wife gave him some pie and brandy and many kisses and said, “Please come again soon!”
And the ferryman added, “We shall always be glad to see you.”
In order to set the brother on the high road in the right direction, the couple went along with him on the small road that led through the woods. The conversation was brisk and merry, but at last the girl said, “You must not be too long from your work, batka. Return home now and I'll go just a little farther with my dear brother.”
The ferryman turned back, but after he had gone some 30 paces through the wood, he stopped and looked back. In the meantime, the sailor, wishing to give his supposed sister a rousing farewell, hoisted her skirts around her neck, laid her down on a grassy bank and began to roger her strenuously. In order to deceive the husband, however, he raised her right leg in the air and put his cap over her foot.
In the midst of her pleasure, the girl’s foot kept shaking and, seeing only the cap over the bushes, the ferryman said to himself, “What affection! Her brother is already more than halfway up the path and still he is waving goodbye.” He took off his own cap and waved that, too.
When husband and wife were home again, she was glowing with happiness. “This is the first time in two years I have heard you singing,” he said.
“Do you blame me?” she asked. “It was such a deep pleasure to see my dear brother. I hope he will come again,”
“Well, for your sake,” said her husband, “I hope that he will come again many times.”
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With or without religion, you would have good people doing good things and evil people doing evil things. But for good people to do evil things, that takes religion. - Steven Weinberg, 1999
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Hermit
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the woman and the well
« Reply #4 on: 2002-03-31 00:37:10 » |
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the woman and the well
from the Hindu "Panchatantra"
A philosopher once studied the wiles of women until he believed that no woman on earth could deceive him. Equipped with such vast knowledge, he felt that he could marry and keep his wife chaste, and he chose, therefore, a very beautiful and very young woman for his bride. Their house he turned into a fortress. The wall around it was tall and thick, and the only window through which his wife could look was set high in a tower. This wise philosopher kept only female servants, carried his keys on a chain around his neck when he left the house, and at night slept with it beneath his pillow. Such precautions enabled him to banish care and to live a peaceful and tranquil life as befitted a man of sense and wisdom.
All went well until the day his wife gazed from her window and saw a tall and fair young man. She called down to him, he smiled up at her, and they fell in love. ”But,” she said sadly, “we have no hope at all of being together, for my husband is a jealous man and a wise and watchful one.”
“There is a means to every end,” the young man replied. “See that the philosopher drinks strong wine at night before retiring, get the key from beneath his pillow, and we can spend some blissful hours in the garden.”
And all these things came to pass.
One night however, the philosopher grew suspicious and only pretended to drink the wine. When his wife had taken the key and had stolen away, he left his bed and slid the bolt, locking her out. When she tried to get in, he leaned from the window and said, “Stay there until your parents come tomorrow and find out then what punishment they will have for the daughter who brings disgrace upon her household.”
The wife conferred with her lover. Then she called to her husband. “I have decided to fling myself into the well out of remorse,” she said. “I bid you farewell.”
The philosopher smiled and closed the window, knowing full well she would never do so; but when the wife screamed and when the lover dropped a large stone into the well to make a loud splash, the philosopher smiled no longer. He rushed into the garden and peered into the well. Meanwhile, his wife slipped unseen into the house and locked the door behind her.
“Let me in,” cried her husband when he discovered the ruse. “I will forgive you.”
“I should think you would forgive me,” she said. “But before 1 open the door and let you in, you and I must make a pact.” Dawn was breaking when the philosopher agreed, and when his wife's parents arrived the next morning; they found the couple standing hand in hand at the door to greet them. The philosopher was really no worse for it all. No one knew that his wife now wore the key around her neck and that she came and went, as she pleased - no one, that is, but her lover. And no one noticed - not even his wife - that the philosopher had quietly burned all his books that dealt with the wiles of women.
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With or without religion, you would have good people doing good things and evil people doing evil things. But for good people to do evil things, that takes religion. - Steven Weinberg, 1999
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how t'ai hao drove the devils out
« Reply #5 on: 2002-03-31 00:45:33 » |
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how t'ai hao drove the devils out
from a Chinese folk tale
In all the province of Szechwan, there was none who was reputed to serve better food in his restaurant or to have a more beautiful wife than Fong. Yet, in spite of his blessings, Fong was not happy.
“Thrice have I wed beautiful maidens and thrice have they proven themselves barren,” he said to T’ai Hao. “I know you for what you truly are, a drunkard and a wencher, yet I come to you for advice. For surely, who should know more of such matters than a follower of willows and moonbeams?"
Although T’ai Hao was shocked at such barbaric frankness of speech, he did not allow his surprise to show through his portly smile. “You have offended the gods,” he said. “I know something of such matters and may be able to help you. But I promise you that it will cost you dearly.”
The next day, T’ai Hao visited his old friend, the abbot of the monastery that stands on the hill that guards the gates of heaven.
“Well,” T’ai Hao later said to Fong, “it is all arranged. Both you and your wife, Plum Blossom, must come away to the monastery. For three days neither of you will leave the room of meditation, whilst we attempt to drive from Plum Blossom's body the devils that prevent conception.”
When Fong and Plum Blossom arrived at the monastery, two files of shaven-headed monks bowed them into a comfortable room overlooking the garden. In the center of the room, hung with lemon-yellow curtains, stood an enormous bed. A monk held out his begging bowl and Fong, realizing that he dare not be niggardly, placed within it one thousand in cash. That night, they were served a clear soup and duck in oiled paper.
“It is cooked well enough,” Fong conceded, “but not as well as mine, which costs one tenth the price.”
The moon rose, casting bright pools of silver on the ground. From another building came the tinkle of bells. When Fong was asleep, Plum Blossom stepped into the garden. The scent of roses and lilies was so strong that she felt faint. She saw a fat little man sitting on a rock in the far corner of the garden.
“Can two soups cook in the same pot at the same time?” he asked her.
“No,” she stammered.
“Can the Devil live with joy?” the man asked.
“No,” said Plum Blossom.
“Can he who is without joy create a work of art?” the man asked.
“I think not,” replied Plum Blossom.
“Is not the creation of a child the highest act of creation?”
Plum Blossom nodded. His hand was flowing over her breast so lightly she could scarce feel it.
“Let joy flow within you,” the little man said.
She allowed his hands to roam over her, raising her to delights she had not known of. While the moon climbed higher into the sky, she allowed herself to be transported to a realm of pure bliss. When she opened her eyes and rose to refasten her garments, she was amazed to see that she was alone in the garden.
The next morning, when a monk brought them their morning broth, he held out his begging bowl. By his demeanor, Fong knew a large donation was expected. Once again he dropped into the bowl one thousand in cash. Another monk led Fong to an altar on which there was a large stone. “You shall lift the stone one thousand times today,” the monk intoned, “each time imploring Amida to drive out the devils.”
The monk had slipped away. “The Devil take them,” Fong said aloud. Then, thinking of the money he had already spent, he began his exertions. When nightfall came, he could barely finish his supper before he fell fast asleep. Again, Plum Blossom stepped into the garden.
“Ah,” said the little man, “I see my mistress has enjoyed her life today. Roses blush in her cheeks. Many are the delights of life, if we but relax and allow them to reach us.” Plum Blossom relaxed while he showed her delights even greater than she had experienced on the previous night.
The next morning, Fong awoke angry and stiff in every muscle. “I think we are being hoodwinked,” he declared. “Such prayers and exercises I could have done in my own restaurant.”
“You know much of soups and noodles but little of gods,” Plum Blossom said sharply, then blushed at being so harsh with her master. Seeing her thus, Fong would have embraced her had not a monk appeared then.
“Amida has heard you,” said the monk. “Today you will walk around the temple one hundred times, beating these cymbals to tell the gods the Devil has been driven away.” He handed Fong two very heavy bronze cymbals. While Plum Blossom rested serenely in their room, Fong reassured the gods. By nightfall, his legs felt as if they were broken into bits.
“Are you a deity?” Plum Blossom whispered that evening to the little man.
“Only to bring to those on earth the delights of heaven,” he said merrily. While the moon rose, he brought her trembling up to heaven. She felt herself being carried away on clouds and moonbeams, then sailing softly back to earth.
Before they departed the next morning, Fong presented the assembled monks with many pieces of silver to show his gratitude.
Several months later, while T’ai Hao was sitting on the porch drinking the white wine of Szechwan province, Fong appeared. “My wife is with child,” he said, smiling.
“Even as I foretold,” T’ai Hao said.
“But I have already paid a great price,” Fong said.
“You owe me nothing,” said T’ai Ha .”It is always my pleasure to bring joy to those hose path crosses mine.”
Later that day, T’ai Hao visited the abbot and told him of Master Fong’s good fortune.
“The gods smile kindly upon those who enjoy their time on earth,” the abbot said. Whereupon he placed on T’ai Hao’s lap a small pouch that jingled.
“Indeed,” said T’ai Hao, “it is our duty to bring joy to those whose path crosses ours.”
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With or without religion, you would have good people doing good things and evil people doing evil things. But for good people to do evil things, that takes religion. - Steven Weinberg, 1999
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Hermit
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how the sultan made peace in his harem
« Reply #6 on: 2002-03-31 00:49:06 » |
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how the sultan made peace in his harem
from a traditional Turkish tale
Need I begin my story by explaining to you who Achmet Hodja was? His fame, whether as wise man or as simpleton, has spread throughout the lands inhabited by the faithful, all the way from Bokhara to Fès, from Sarajevo to Timbuktu. Recently, I have been told that some of the less ignorant among the infidels have already published learned dissertations on his divinely inspired blend of sense and folly, in the distant and benighted universities of Uppsala, Chicago and Johannesburg. Let it therefore suffice that I remind you that Allah, in His infinite wisdom, had also seen fit to endow Achmet Hodja with physical gifts of such magnificent proportions and remarkable endurance as to be able to satisfy the lusts of the most wanton of women. But these gifts were seemingly an afterthought to compensate for the disabilities of a man otherwise hunchbacked, crooklegged, prematurely bald, hook-nosed, clubfooted, gat-toothed and pock-marked.
Be that all as it may, the rumor of this unfortunate monster’s rare gifts began to spread as soon as he was old enough to be discussed, along with the other men of his native village of Bok Kay, meaning “the Hamlet of Turds”, among the 999 mothers, sisters-in-law, mothers-in-law, wives, daughters and sisters of this otherwise undistinguished community. It thus came to pass, in time, that every one of these 999 women of Bok Kay had been tempted in turn, out of wanton idleness, to taste in secret of the forbidden fruits with which Allah had seen fit to endow Achmet Hodja.
But not one of these 999 wanton women of Bok Kay had ever fallen in love with Achmet Hodja, each one of them in turn using his services as if he were but a kind of public convenience placed discreetly at their disposal. Not even Achmet Hodja’s own wife, a hag, who in any other village of Turkey would have had to remain content with her broomstick, ever expressed any tenderness toward her mate. Still, a boy had been born of this strange union, Allah-ud-din, a child that, remarkable as this may seem, grew daily in strength and beauty, the pride of the whole village of Bok Kay. In due time, it then became known on the riverbank that the growing boy had inherited his father's rare gifts, in spite of his not really needing such compensation for any lack of natural wit or beauty. But Achmet Hodja knew the 999 shrews of his native village too well and was determined that his son deserved more worthy mates. He therefore devised, with his friend Murad Haimoglou, a physician and the son of a physician from nearby EIâziz, a strange plan to ensure Allah-ud-din a great future.
Their plan was as follows: First, the physician would inflict on the boy’s extraordinary gifts some quite harmless scars that might nevertheless give the impression that he had been made fit for a job as eunuch in a great harem. Then the physician would accompany him to Stamboul and, before presenting him to the chief eunuch for appointment in the imperial harem, would also administer to him a potion that would make him able to pass the strict civil-service tests.
The plan worked perfectly, and the boy was accepted in due course as an apprentice eunuch in the sultan’s harem. There, because of his rare beauty and charm, he was soon entrusted with the task of holding the towel or bathrobe when the sultana took her daily bath.
In those days, the ladies of the sultan’s harem were particularly idle and restless. Many of them had been recruited from among the infidels, so that their upbringing had not prepared them for a life of dignified retirement. Moreover, affairs of state and other preoccupations kept the sultan from devoting to his 999 wives and concubines the only kind of attention that might have justified, in their eyes, their rigorous seclusion from the world. Reduced to their own devices, the ladies thus played cards all day, consulted dubious fortunetellers, wrote poems, sometimes even studied theology. Several of them, especially the poetesses, had organized societies of mutual admiration where they discussed the utter uselessness of men and had even discovered means of happily dispensing with the favors, rare as these were, of their lord and master. Others corresponded regularly with bishops and rabbis and other dignitaries of the communities of the infidels and had already caused many of the imperial harem's Moslem inmates to abandon the true faith in favor of every kind of strange and foolish belief. The sultana, a truly great lady, had developed a passion for contemporary French poetry. She wore at all times an emerald monocle, specially cut for her by a Frenchman who was then jeweler to the Imperial Muscovite Court, and she corresponded regularly with a chlorotic Parisian poetess who sent her autographed copies of privately printed limited editions of her works, together with autographed photographs that revealed “the Sappho of Argenteuil” wearing a cavalry officer’s helmet, breastplate, breeches and spurs, for all the world like one of the corseted military attachés of the infidels attending in full dress a diplomatic reception of the Sublime Porte.
One day, as this great but perverse sultana was taking her bath, stripped of all her finery except her emerald monocle, she suddenly perceived, through this flawless green stone, an unusual stirring, like that of a captive bird, beneath the towel that her boy eunuch was holding spread out against his body and readiness for the moment when she would rise from the perfumed waters and need to wrap the cloth round her exquisite and glistening form. A Circassian princess, she was the daughter of a Mameluke from Egypt who had deemed her worthy of only the greatest of all living sovereigns, but this did not make her appear any less desirable to the common run of men. When she stepped out of her bath, the proud and beautiful sultana simulated a moment of clumsiness, in the course of which she was able to verify, with her erring and surprised hand, the exact shape, size, quality and nature of the mysterious birdlike thing that she had seen stirring beneath the outspread towel. That evening, she summoned young Allah-ud-din to her private apart- ment, ostensibly to fan her throughout the hot August night. True, no breeze reached the imperial harem from the shores of the Bosphorus, and even the fountains in the marble courtyards of the palace appeared to wilt from the heat. The sultana and her boy eunuch thus spent the whole night together in rare transports of love, after which she ceased to correspond with the Parisian poetess and even donated her autographed volumes of verse and photographs to the library of a nearby French convent, for the education of the daughters of the wealthier infidel merchants of Pera.
But the ladies of a great harem are not much different from the gossiping shrews of a village such as Bok Kay, and it soon became known among them that the sultana had made the greatest discovery of her life, something indeed worthy of the attention of the 998 other wives and concubines of the sultan, too. For a while, Allah-ud-din was kept very busy, but he was always able, thanks to the unusual powers of endurance with which Allah had endowed him, to give satisfaction to all and sundry. The sultan began to receive reports, from the unsuspecting chief eunuch, of a most satisfactory lull in the harem’s intrigues and of an unusual improvement in the morale of the strictly secluded ladies. They no longer accused one another of cheating in their card games, nor did they listlessly consult so many dubious but expensive fortunetellers. In their poetic societies of mutual admiration, organized on the same principles as the courts of love of the troubadours who had once accompanied the crusader armies of the infidel in their invasions, the imperial ladies no longer interrupted their debates to fight and tear one another’s hair or scratch one another’s faces, nor did any of them correspond any longer on theological matters with the sly and intriguing great doctors of the infidel.
This lull in the usual goings-on of a great harem could scarcely, in view of the very nature of women, be expected to last long. In time, several ladies fell in love with Allah-ud-din, each one of them wanting him as her own exclusive property. The imperial harem then became, in short shrift, such an inferno that the chief eunuch was prompted to conduct an inquiry into the cause of so much turmoil, after which he submitted a shocked but tactful report on his weird findings to the sultan in person. He did this orally and in secret conclave with the ruler of all the faithful, lest the nature of the scandal he had discovered reach the ears of any court official of doubtful discretion who might report it all, for a consideration, to the special Constantinople correspondents of La Vie Parisienne, The Sporting Times or even the Wiener journal. Among other findings, the chief eunuch’s report included alarming statistics on the number of heirs whom the sultan, who had not visited his harem once in five full years, had good reason to expect within the next few months.
The sultan was a sovereign of rare wisdom, busy with important affairs of state and too devoted to the privacy of his rare leisures, when he pursued other delights, to want his neglected harem to remain at all times a seething source of worry and vulgar scandal. He was grateful to the young eunuch for having solved, at least in the early stages of his career in the imperial harem and within the limitations imposed on him by the lack of discretion of the ladies concerned rather than by any failings of his own remarkable potency, at least some of the problems of this vast and unruly hen-roost. The sultan therefore sent for Allah-ud-din. Charmed by the boy's appearance and rare modesty, instead of ordering that he be impaled forthwith, the sultan asked him to explain how and why he had thus been appointed under apparently false pretenses to his job in the imperial household.
Allah-ud-din, like most country boys from the distant village of Anatolia, was courageous, truthful and respectful and remained so in the presence of his sovereign. Though dazzled by the magnificence of the imperial divan, he did not hesitate to tell the Great sultan in a clear voice and in modest terms, of his own father’s misfortunes and of how Achmet Hodja had decided that his more fortunate son deserved a better fate. The sultan was delighted with the boy's truthfulness and dignity and moved by the account of Achmet Hodja’s fate. He therefore appointed Allah-ud-din, on the spot, Captain of the palace guards, and then added: “Boy, send immediately for your father. I have important affairs of state to discuss with this Achmet Hodja. Why have I been deprived all these years of the services of so wise and resourceful man from among my countless loyal subjects? Why do I always seem to be surrounded only with ambitious fools?”
Several days later, Achmet Hodja arrived at the imperial palace in Stamboul. As soon as he was announced, he was admitted into the august presence of the ruler of all the faithful, who gave orders that they be left alone in the Baghdad kiosk, from the windows of which the view over the Bosphorus is truly like a glimpse of paradise. The sultan first assured himself that this monstrous old man in his torn and filthy garb of a poor and Anatolian villager, had been truly endowed by Allah with such rare concealed gifts of the body as well as of the mind. The sultan then appointed Achmet Hodja hereditary eunuch of the bathrobe, in Allah-ud-din’s stead, in the imperial harem, and then added with a delighted chuckle: “Achmet Hodja, have you still a father as fortunately deformed as yourself, to inherit in the third generation this great honor should your aptitudes ever fail to the point of suggesting that you may have reached the age of retirement?”
From that day on, there was no more trouble of any sort in the imperial harem. The sultan’s 999 wives and concubines took it in turns to be the joy of Achmet Hodja’s days and nights, but not one of them ever fell in love with him. They began to bear him peacefully a great number of beautiful and wise princes and princesses, all remarkably alike in their physical and intellectual gifts and only once was a foolish grand vizier, a former Armenian slave who had reached high office through his gift for intrigue and gossip, impaled for remarking to a Russian diplomat, in the presence of a loyal eavesdropper, that all these princes and princesses looked suspiciously like the captain of the palace guards. As for Captain Allah-ud-din, he soon became the sultan’s confidant, rapidly learning to unburden his lord and master of many wearisome affairs of state. He always slept, they say, fully armed on a Bokhara rug spread out at the foot of the sultan’s bed, the constant companion of the days and nights of the ruler of all the faithful.
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With or without religion, you would have good people doing good things and evil people doing evil things. But for good people to do evil things, that takes religion. - Steven Weinberg, 1999
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Hermit
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dumb jaime, and how he spoke
« Reply #7 on: 2002-03-31 01:10:43 » |
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dumb jaime, and how he spoke
from the “Liber Facetiarum” of Poggio Bracciolini
Of all the grandees at the court of King Alfonso of Aragon, Don Federico was, certainly the most proud and honorable. His name was an ancient point, and he never forgot the fact that most of his ancestors had died in battle for King or Christendom. Don Federico had two great sorrows in life - the death of his wife in childbirth, and the thoroughly disappointing son she had given him.
On the surface there was nothing wrong with Jaime, a pleasant enough lad of 14, who seemed to have at least two wits to rub together. But having been brought up by servants, the boy seemed to have acquired the interests of servants - his great delight was eavesdropping at doors, hiding behind tapestries or lying concealed behind strategic hedges. In this way, he developed a vast and detailed knowledge of the clandestine sports carried on by certain ladies and gentlemen of the court. What was worse, he enjoyed describing all this- adding a few comic remarks of his own - to his father’s menials.
When Don Federico discovered this, he sent for his son in a thunderous rage, forbade him on pain of death ever to speak again and packed him off to a family estate near Huesca. Now, whatever his faults, Jaime respected his father, who had never been known to utter a false word or idle threat in all his life. Jaime vowed to keep absolute silence and he kept his vow. It was rumored that Don Federico’s son had suffered a severe illness that had deprived him of his speech and hearing (an affliction that some ladies attributed to the hand of God). After one year, Don Federico learned that his command had been kept, and he brought the boy back to court.
It so fell that the queen, observing the boy one day, was attracted by his looks. Learning that he was deaf and dumb, she suddenly had the idea that he could be useful to her in certain delicate matters, and so she requested Don Federico to permit Jaime to enter her personal service. The old nobleman could do nothing but agree, though with some misgivings. Again, he warned his son about the dramatic things that would happen if he spoke so much as a word - and Jaime nodded meekly in reply.
Queen Elisenda, as Jaime soon found out, was a lady of contrasts. In court, she looked like a stiff royal portrait - handsome, cold and disdainful. But in her private apartments, with the stays and heavy brocades laid aside, there was an entirely different woman - rosy, voluptuous and cheerfully wanton. Jaime trembled with emotion as he held the towel waiting for her to step out of the bath; his head swam as he carried her a tray of wine and biscuits while she lay naked on her bed. He was even more astounded to discover, very shortly, that the other half of the bed was likely to be occupied by the form of some gentlemen or another who was definitely not the king.
Each day, almost everyday, Jaime witnessed the most amazing and delicious scenes in the royal apartments, for queen Elisenda was a lady of varied tastes, wide acquaintance among the nobleman of Spain and other countries and remarkable enthusiasm for testing their manhood. Jaime nearly burst with all the gossip he contained; at night he returned to his room with his tongue swollen from biting back the words.
Now, it happened that a great banquet was to be held at which all the court would be present. King Alfonso had, on occasion, noticed the queen’s new page and had become curious about his affliction. During the dinner, while Jaime was serving the queen, King Alfonso suddenly turned to Don Federico and put a question
“Your poor son” said the king, “tell me if he was born without speech and hearing or was this misfortune the result of some accident?”
Don Federico had never lied in his life - and he was not ready to begin by deceiving his King. “Sire,” he said, “the boy is quite capable of speech. It is only that I once commanded him, on pain of losing his life, to give up his habits of slander and to speak no more.”
This story intrigued the king and he felt sorry such a harsh penalty. “I am sure,” he said, “that the child has suffered enough and has learned his lesson. He seems a brisk, well-mannered, honest lad, and I urge you to remove the ban.”
Don Federico was much troubled and he hesitated a long time, thinking that only evil could come of it. But at last the king's leniency prevailed. Don Federico ordered his son to speak.
After all the long silence and this sudden piece of good fortune, Jaime was dazed. A huge bee-swarm of words buzzed and tumbled about in his head. For a moment he was still dumb. Then, giving way to something he could not control, his mouth seemed to open of its own accord.
Jaime looked at the king and said, “Sire, I must tell you that your wife is the most wanton and shameless whore in the whole of Christendom.”
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With or without religion, you would have good people doing good things and evil people doing evil things. But for good people to do evil things, that takes religion. - Steven Weinberg, 1999
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Hermit
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buckskin man
« Reply #8 on: 2002-03-31 21:29:34 » |
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buckskin man
from the folklore of the Apaches
Buckskin Man was an Apache hunter. They called him so because he wore a suit of the finest buckskin with a fringe hanging from it and rattles that jingled when he walked. All the women stopped their work and turned to look when he passed, for they knew his reputation as a great lover. All the braves smiled and spoke to him, for they esteemed him as a great hunter.
But a certain wife whose name was Cactus Thorn, because her tongue was sharp, vowed that the very sight of him made her ill. Whenever she saw him pass her hogan, she would clutch her belly and rush inside to complain to her husband, “Buckskin Man is going by. He has turned my stomach.”
Her husband did not really care. In fact, it pleased him, for too many wives yearned after Buckskin Man, who had a way with women. But his wife carried the thing so far as to arouse his suspicion of her true feelings.
He determined to test his wife, and if he discovered that she yearned like other wives after the tall hunter, he would put a quick end to such unseemly lust at once. “I am going off on a hunting trip and will be gone for about four days,” he told her one morning. “Feed the children well, and wait until I return. With fortune, I shall perhaps bring you some fresh buffalo liver.”
Cactus Thorn was glad to see him go. In her heart she told herself that, with her husband away, almost any thing might come about.
He packed his things, took his best bow and many good arrows, sacrificed the sacred pollen to the Immortal Hactcin, and marched out into the prairie. But as soon as he was out of sight of the people in the village, he turned back towards the hogan of Buckskin Man, who lived apart as was the habit of bachelors among the Apaches. After they had greeted each other, they smoked a few pipes and talked. Then the husband said: “My friend, would you let me borrow your fringed suit for a short time this evening?”
“Gladly,” answered Buckskin Man with a sly mile. “But after you have persuaded the girl to follow you off into the thickets, what will you do? After all, old fellow, you are not the man I am.” The husband denied that he had any intention of seducing a maiden, but he did not convince the hunter, who smiled knowingly as his friend walked way with the suit over his arm. Out in the mesquite, he slipped off his shabby suit and put on Buckskin Man’s beautiful fringed jacket and trousers. They were a bit large for him, but in the dark he was certain they would serve his purpose.
When deep twilight layover the land, he started for his hogan. His wife was sitting before a fire that burned at the doorway. The children were playing at her feet.
The husband walked up and stood near the front wall, but he kept to the shadows so that the firelight would not touch his face. The wife heard the jingling of the rattles on his suit. She was certain that the man for whom she had yearned so many moons and whom she said she hated had come at last.
The figure in the shadows motioned with his head toward the willow thickets down by the stream and started in that direction. She arose immediately from the fire, threw what water there was in her water jar to the earth, and ran into the hogan for a blanket.
“Stay by the fire,” she told the children, “until I return from the stream with fresh water.”
Then, carrying the blanket, she followed the man in fringed buckskin into the night.
He walked on until he reached the edge of the stream. There he stopped and with folded arms looked out over the water. The woman spread the blanket on the soft moss before he could turn around. Then she stretched herself out on the blanket awaiting the longed-for embrace of Buckskin Man, hunter of buffalo and wooer of women.
“I am ready and waiting!” she cried out in eager anticipation.
She closed her eyes and held out her arms expectantly. In a second she would find herself in his powerful embrace.
At this point, strong arms enfolded her, but not in the way she had hoped. With the suddenness of n eagle swooping down to seize a prairie dog, her husband picked her up, blanket and all, and tossed her into the icy water. Still silent, he stalked off into the darkness, leaving Cactus Thorn to thrash her way up the slippery bank and slink home wet, and somewhat chagrined, to her children.
The husband went back to the hogan of the hunter, handed him the suit, and thanked him.
“Any luck?” asked Buckskin Man in friendly banter.
“Quite a bit,” replied the husband. “More, 1 believe, than I had counted upon.”
Then, after saying goodbye, he made his way back cross the prairie to the village. The fire in front of is hogan blazed high, and he frowned for a moment when he realized how much wood was being wasted. But then he smiled at the sight of his wife. She stood shivering, the wet blanket spread on the ground where the heat would reach it, her clothing stretched on a bush to dry.
“What has happened?” he asked in mock alarm. “Did you fall into the stream?”
“I did,” she hissed through chattering teeth, somewhat surprised at his early return. “I had no business to be going there in the dark, but the children kept deviling me for fresh drinking water, and I had to get some for them.”
Her husband clucked in consolation and smiled behind his hand. And that was the last he heard of her unreasonable dislike for Buckskin Man and his fine, fringed suit.
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With or without religion, you would have good people doing good things and evil people doing evil things. But for good people to do evil things, that takes religion. - Steven Weinberg, 1999
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