The two elder ones, I was told by his
neighbours, were entirely abandoned by the husband, and the two younger
ones were always bickering and quarrelling, as to which of them should
have the greater favour of their common tyrant; the house a scene of
tumult, disorder and indecency. Amongst the whole of the wives, there
was only one child, a boy, of course an immense pet, a little surly
wretch; his growth smothered, his health nearly ruined, by the
overattentions of the four women, whom he kicked and pelted when out of
humour.
This little imp was the fit type, or interpretation of the presiding
genius of polygamy. I once visited this happy family, this biting satire
on domestic bliss and the beauty of the harem of the East. The women
were all sour, and busy at work, weaving or spinning cotton, "Do you
work for your husband?" I asked,
_The women_. - "Thank Rabbi, no."
_Traveller_. - "What do you do with your money?"
_The women_. - "Spend it ourselves."
_Traveller_. - "How do you like to have only one husband among you four?"
_The women_. - "Pooh! is it not the will of God?"
_Traveller_. - "Whose boy is that?"
_The women_. - "It belongs to us all."
_Traveller_. - "Have you no other children?"
_The women_. - "Our husband is good for no more than that."
Whilst I was talking to these angelic creatures, their beloved lord was
quietly stuffing capons, without hearing our polite discourse.
