Khoja Nasr-ud-Dín frequently told his disciples that they must think well before acting, and he modestly proposed himself to them as a good example of a man who, before doing anything, always meditated profoundly on the possible consequences of what he was going to do.

"Most men," he said, "thrash or punish the water-carrier after the pitcher is broken. This is very foolish, however, for it neither repairs the pitcher nor replaces the water brought to perform the necessary ablutions. Water I need five times a day, before I humbly prostrate myself before the creator and adore Him in His nine and ninety different attributes, and my pitcher, Mâshâlldh! has not yet been broken. Why? The explanation is very simple. I always punish my boy severely, while giving him at the same time many wise admonitions, before he goes to the stream for the water. On his return I reward him with kind words, and never omit to explain to him the good he has done by bringing back a pitcher full of water. Most, nay nearly all, men are fools, and they thrash the boy when the pitcher is broken as if that would repair it. "Sometimes my wife goes to the stream for water, and, as I cannot thrash her, I employ other means to save my pitcher. With women it is very easy to find such means, as, according to them, men, especially husbands, are never out of their debt. So you promise to pay one of the imaginary debts you owe them, and the pitcher is not broken."

Whilst the holy man was thus holding sage discourse with his disciples, the hour for evening prayer approached, but as if with feminine perversity to belie his teaching, the khoja's wife did not appear with the pitcher. Finally, both the khoja and his disciples became anxious, as the time of the "azan" (call to prayer) was close at hand. For, no matter what happened, they must all pray when that call was heard, and, before praying, they must all wash. Finally, the muezzin was heard, giving out the solemn summons to prayer from the lofty summit of the minaret, but the khoja's wife had not yet come. The disciples kept their thoughts to themselves, and uttered no word. Each preferred that one of the others should give voice to the fear they all entertained, for well they knew that the khoja's wife was a good and holy woman, and that she would never miss the hour of prayer were she alive. They had not long to wait for the painful silence to be broken, as a messenger soon entered with the pitcher, which had not been broken, saying he feared that whoever had gone for the water must have fallen into the river.

A mournful procession, composed of the khoja and his disciples, now proceeded to the river in silent and dignified haste. There, sure enough, were signs to indicate that the unhappy woman had fallen into the swiftly running river, and that undoubtedly she was at that moment many miles away down the stream. The khoja was stricken with grief, and his respectful disciples bowed their heads in silent sympathy.

"Allah! Allah!" the holy man at length cried, "Why hast thou taken her from me in my old age? Thou knewest her mission, and why we wanted the water, for all things are known unto Thee. No better woman ever lived in this world, but now, alas! Thou hast taken her from me. Thou hast taken her to paradise, where her youth and beauty will be restored, but Thou hast left me, O Allah! alone."

"It is true," continued the khoja, when his first transports of grief had somewhat moderated, "It is true that the sages of old said that woman is gifted with divine inspiration once, and once only, every forty years (Kirk-yil-de-bir). They always held, in consequence, that it would be imprudent for a man not to consult a woman and follow her advice once in every forty years.

"Allah! Allah! I consulted my wife every day. Nay, I frequently consulted her several times a day, for I feared that the divine inspiration which comes upon her once every forty years might suddenly descend at any moment. But I must admit that never in my life have I had a divine revelation from her. On one occasion I not only consulted her, but nearly followed her advice. Allah be praised! I had the divine inspiration not to do what she told me, however, for had I done so, I should not be here to-day to mourn over this calamity… Yet perhaps," he added, after a pause, "even that would have been better than this dire misfortune of losing my wife, to say nothing of letting the hour of the azan go past without prayer."

All the disciples sighed audibly at this remark, and all of them wondered what advice it was which his wife gave him, and which it would have been fatal for him to follow. But, naturally, they did not like to question him at such a moment.

"Yes," continued the khoja, in a reminiscent tone, w when Tímúr-i-Leng (Timur the Lame) conquered our land, bringing death and destruction thereunto, all the people who remained hastened to pay homage to the great conqueror. Past our humble door, day after day, went camel caravans laden with presents both rare and costly, as well as flocks of sheep and herds of cattle, and armies of servants carrying still more treasure; and lo! I beheld envy in my wife's eye, mingled with fear for both of us should we not be able to do likewise. But I said nothing, for I knew that she could not long keep silent. And in a short time my patience was rewarded.

" 'O khoja,' said she at last,' hasten thou likewise to do homage to Tímúr-i-Leng, lest some evil befall us. One kind act averts calamity and charms away danger, even as the amulet saves us from the envious eye.' "I looked attentively at her, secretly thinking that this might perchance be the inspired moment for which I had waited patiently for so many long years. But there was nothing in our home worthy of being presented to a beggar, much less to a conqueror, and that conqueror Tímúr. This wonderful woman read my thoughts, however, as I looked around the house, for, said she, 'Amongst all the presents that have passed our door I did not see any fruit. Now in our little garden we have choice fruit. Go, khoja, and present Tímúr with some of our quinces. The day is hot, and it would be pleasant for him to quench his thirst with that delicious fruit, which would assure him of your own and your disciples' loyalty. Go, khoja, and In-shâ-Allah! it will be well for us! '

"I dared to differ mildly, telling my wife that perhaps Tímúr-i-Leng would prefer some of our figs. I pointed out that there was not another fig-tree – a Sultan Selim fig-tree – in the whole of Caramania, and that perhaps such rare figs might be worthy of his acceptance, for certainly there was not another Tímúr in the whole of Caramania."

My wife tried to have her way, but, Allah be praised! I climbed the fig-tree, and, having selected the best fruit, started on my day's journey. I was privileged, being a turbaned khoja, and was shown at once into the presence of the mighty man. With a few well-chosen words I presented my figs, and forgot none of the compliments and assurances of loyalty that one of the conquered should pay to the conqueror.

" ' What does that dog want, and what does he bring me?' were the words I heard at the end of my speech. 'Tie him to a tree,' continued Timur, Tímúr 'and, learned and all as he may be, he will soon find that pleasantries of this kind are not to be tolerated.' " No sooner was I tied to the tree than those beautiful Sultan Selim figs were thrown with great violence at my face. I could not help laughing, for I thought of the quinces, and what would have happened to me had I followed my wife's advice. For, as you know, the fig known as the Sultan Selim or royal fig has only very fine seeds. I was ordered to explain why I laughed, and when I did explain, Tímúr, being a wise man, ordered me to be released at once. "Little did I think this morning, O my wife, that I would not see you in life again. But I must at least gaze upon your face once more, even if that face be the face of a corpse." And the khoja turned mournfully and sadly, his disciples following him, to wend his way up the river.

The disciples glanced at each other mournfully for they feared that the holy man had suddenly lost his reason. After some time the eldest disciple took courage, and, touching the master on the shoulder, respectfully said: "O Khoja! Believe in our sincerity and pardon my interruption, but if you would look upon the face of your wife again, might we say that it is down this running river that you should go to look for her, and not up the stream."

The khoja turned a reproachful gaze on his disciples and said: "Is this the only result of all my teaching? This is the greatest blow of all. Know then, young man – for you certainly are young, being only two score and two – that if there are two ways to go, the one is right, the other wrong. Man invariably takes the wrong road, but once in every forty years woman takes the right road. The question is how to know when the one divinely inspired action of a woman takes place; then you may follow. If my wife, brethren, is in that river she is up at the head, at the source," and the khoja continued his journey, his disciples mournfully and respectfully following him.

[Note by authors. The conclusion of this tale is purposely told with some obscurity by the story-tellers. The idea of the saintly khoja seems to be that, since his wife did nothing extraordinary and therefore divinely inspired during her life, her only chance of distinguishing herself was by floating upstream instead of downstream while she was drowning. On the face of the story-teller at this stage there is a suggestion that the hard-hearted old khoja was really rather glad to get rid of his wife and afraid that if he went downstream he might see her clinging to a log and be compelled to rescue her.]