I
GENERAL PLAN OF EASTERN ROMANCES--THE "TUTI NAMA," OR PARROT-BOOK--THE
FRAME-STORY--TALES: THE STOLEN IMAGES--THE WOMAN CARVED OUT OF WOOD--THE
MAN WHOSE MARE WAS KICKED BY A MERCHANT'S HORSE.
Oriental romances are usually constructed on the plan of a number of
tales connected by a general or leading story running throughout, like
the slender thread that holds a necklace of pearls together--a familiar
example of which is the _Book of the Thousand and One Nights_, commonly
known amongst us under the title of _Arabian Nights Entertainments_. In
some the subordinate tales are represented as being told by one or more
individuals to serve a particular object, by the moral, or warning,
which they are supposed to convey; as in the case of the _Book of
Sindibád_, in which a prince is falsely accused by one of his father's
ladies, and defended by the king's seven vazírs, or counsellors, who
each in turn relate to the king two stories, the purport of which being
to warn him to put no faith in the accusations of women, to which the
lady replies by stories representing the wickedness and perfidy of men;
and that of the _Bakhtyár Náma_, in which a youth, falsely accused of
having violated the royal harem, obtains for himself a respite from
death during ten days by relating to the king each day a story designed
to caution him against precipitation in matters of importance. In others
supernatural beings are the narrators of the subordinate tales, as in
the Indian romances, _Vetála Panchavinsati_, or Twenty-five Tales of a
Demon, and the _Sinhásana Dwatrinsati_, or Tales of the Thirty-two
Speaking Statues--literally, Thirty-two (Tales) of a Throne. In others,
again, the relators are birds, as in the Indian work entitled _Hamsa
Vinsati_, or Twenty Tales of a Goose.
Of this last class is the popular Persian work, _Tútí Náma_, (Tales of a
Parrot, or Parrot-Book), of which I purpose furnishing some account, as
it has not yet been completely translated into English. This work was
composed, according to Pertsch, in A.D. 1329, by a Persian named
Nakhshabí, after an older Persian version, now lost, which was made from
a Sanskrit work, also no longer extant, but of which the modern
representative is the _Suka Saptati_, or Seventy Tales of a Parrot.[41]
The frame, or leading story, of the Persian Parrot-Book is to the
following effect:
[41] Ziyáu-'d-Dín Nakhshabí, so called from Nakhshab, or
Nasaf, the modern Kashí, a town situated between
Samarkand and the Oxus, led a secluded life in Badá'um,
and died, as stated by 'Abdal-Hakk, A.H. 751 (A.D.
1350-1).--Dr. Rieu's _Catalogue of Persian MSS. in the
British Museum_.--In 1792 the Rev. B. Gerrans published
an English translation of twelve of the fifty-two tales
comprised in the _Tútí Náma_, but the work is now best
known in Persia and India from an abridgment made by
Kádirí in the last century, which was printed, with a
translation, at London in 1801.
A merchant who had a very beautiful wife informs her one day that he has
resolved to travel into foreign countries in order to increase his
wealth by trade. His wife endeavours to persuade him to remain at home
in peace and security instead of imperiling his life among strangers.
But he expatiates on the evils of poverty and the advantages of wealth:
"A man without riches is fatherless, and a home without money is
deserted. He that is in want of cash is a nonentity, and wanders in the
land unknown. It is, therefore, everybody's duty to procure as much
money as possible; for gold is the delight of our lives--it is the
bright live-coal of our hearts--the yellow links which fasten the coat
of mail--the gentle stimulative of the world--the complete coining die
of the globe--the traveller who speaks all languages, and is welcome in
every city--the splendid bride unveiled--the defender, register, and
mirror of jehandars. The man who has dirhams [_Scottice_,
'siller'--_Fr._ 'l'argent'] is handsome; the sun never shines on the
inauspicious man without money."[42] Before leaving home the merchant
purchased at great cost in the bazaar a wonderful parrot, that could
discourse eloquently and intelligently, and also a sharak, a species of
nightingale, which, according to Gerrans, "imitates the human voice in
so surprising a manner that, if you do not see the bird, you cannot help
being deceived"; and, having put them into the same cage, he charged his
spouse that whenever she had any matter of importance to transact she
should first obtain the sanction of both birds.
[42] "He that has money in the scales," says Saádí, "has
strength in his arms, and he who has not the command of
money is destitute of friends in the world."--Hundreds
of similar sarcastic observations on the power of wealth
might be cited from the Hindú writers, such as: "He who
has riches has friends; he who has riches has relations;
he who has riches _is even a sage_!" The following
verses in praise of money are, I think, worth
reproducing, if only for their whimsical arrangement:
Honey,
Our Money
We find in the end
Both relation and friend;
'Tis a helpmate for better, for worse.
Neither father nor mother,
Nor sister nor brother,
Nor uncles nor aunts,
Nor dozens
Of cousins,
Are like a friend in the purse.
Still regard the main chance;
'Tis the clink
Of the chink
Is the music to make the heart dance.
The merchant having protracted his absence many months (Vatsyayana, in
his _Káma Sutra_, says that the man who is given to much travelling does
not deserve to be married), and, his wife chancing to be on the roof of
her house one day when a young foreign prince of handsome appearance
passed by with his attendants, she immediately fell in love with
him--"the battle-axe of prudence dropped from her hand; the vessel of
continence became a sport to the waves of confusion; while the avenues
leading to the fortress of reason remained unguarded, the sugar-cane of
incontinence triumphantly raised its head above the rose-tree of
patience." The prince had also observed the lady, as she stood on the
terrace of her house, and was instantly enamoured of her. He sends an
old woman (always the obliging--"for a consideration"--go-between of
Eastern lovers) to solicit an interview with the lady at his own palace
in the evening, and, after much persuasion, she consents. Arraying her
beauteous person in the finest apparel, she proceeds to the cage, and
first consults the sharak as to the propriety of her purpose. The sharak
forbids her to go, and is at once rewarded by having her head wrung off.
She then represents her case to the parrot, who, having witnessed the
fate of his companion, prudently resolves to temporise with the amorous
dame; so he "quenched the fire of her indignation with the water of
flattery, and began a tale conformable to her temperament, which he took
care to protract till the morning." In this manner does the prudent
parrot prevent the lady's intended intrigue by relating, night after
night, till the merchant returns home from his travels, one or more
fascinating tales, which he does not bring to an end till it is too late
for the assignation.[43]
[43] In a Telúgú MS., entitled _Patti Vrútti Mahima_ (the
Value of Chaste Wives), the minister of Chandra Pratápa
assumes the form of a bird owing to a curse pronounced
against him by Siva, and is sold to a merchant named
Dhanadatta, whose son, Kuvéradatta, is vicious. The bird
by moral lessons reformed him for a time. They went to a
town called Pushpamayuri, where the king's son saw the
wife of Kuveradatta when he was absent from home. An
illicit amour was about to begin, when the bird
interposed by relating tales of chaste wives, and
detained the wanton lady at home till her husband
returned.
The order of the parrot's tales is not the same in all texts; in
Kádirí's abridgment there are few of the Nights which correspond with
those of the India Office MS. No. 2573, which may, perhaps, be partly
accounted for by the circumstance that Kádirí has given only 35 of the
52 tales that are in the original text. For the general reader, however,
the sequence of the tales is a minor consideration; and I shall content
myself with giving abstracts of some of the best stories, irrespective
of their order in any text, and complete translations of two or three
others. It so happens that the Third Night is the same in Kádirí and the
India Office MS. No. 2573, which comprises the complete text; and the
story the eloquent bird relates on that night may be entitled
_The Stolen Images._
A goldsmith and a carpenter, travelling in company, steal from a Hindú
temple some golden images, which, when they arrive in the neighbourhood
of their own city, they bury beneath a tree. The goldsmith goes secretly
one night and carries away the images, and next morning, when both go
together to share the spoil, the goldsmith accuses the carpenter of
having played him false. But the carpenter was a shrewd fellow, and so
he makes a figure resembling the goldsmith, dresses it in clothes
similar to what he usually wore, and procures a couple of bear's cubs,
which he teaches to take their food from the skirts and sleeves of the
effigy. Thus the cubs conceived a great affection for the figure of the
goldsmith. He then contrives to steal the goldsmith's two sons, and,
when the father comes to seek them at his house, he pretends they have
been changed into young bears. The goldsmith brings his case before the
kází; the cubs are brought into court, and no sooner do they discover
the goldsmith than they run up and fondle him. Upon this the judge
decides in favour of the carpenter, to whom the goldsmith confesses his
guilt, and offers to give up all the gold if he restore his children,
which he does accordingly.[44]
[44] Many Asiatic stories relate to the concealing of
treasure--generally at the foot of a tree, to mark the
spot--by two or more companions, and its being secretly
stolen by one of them. The device of the carpenter in
the foregoing tale of abducting the rascally goldsmith's
two sons, and so on, finds an analogue in the
_Panchatantra_, the celebrated Sanskrit collection of
fables (Book I, Fab. 21, of Benfey's German
translation), where we read that a young man, who had
spent the wealth left to him by his father, had only a
heavy iron balance remaining of all his possessions, and
depositing it with a merchant went to another country.
When he returned, after some time, he went to the
merchant and demanded back his balance. The merchant
told him it had been eaten by rats; adding: "The iron of
which it was composed was particularly sweet, and so the
rats ate it." The young man, knowing that the merchant
spoke falsely, formed a plan for the recovery of his
balance. One day he took the merchant's young son,
unknown to his father, to bathe, and left him in the
care of a friend. When the merchant missed his son he
accused the young man of having stolen him, and summoned
him to appear in the king's judgment-hall. In answer to
the merchant's accusation, the young man asserted that a
kite had carried away the boy; and when the officers of
the court declared this to be impossible, he said: "In a
country where an iron balance was eaten by rats, a kite
might well carry off an elephant, much more a boy." The
merchant, having lost his cause, returned the balance to
the young man and received back his boy.
The Sixth Tale of the Parrot, according to the India Office MS., relates
to
_The Woman Carved out of Wood._
Four men--a goldsmith, a carpenter, a tailor, and a dervish--travelling
together, one night halted in a desert place, and it was agreed they
should watch turn about until daybreak. The carpenter takes the first
watch, and to amuse himself he carves the figure of a woman out of a log
of wood. When it came to the goldsmith's turn to watch, finding the
beautiful female figure, he resolved also to exhibit his art, and
accordingly made a set of ornaments of gold and silver, which he placed
on the neck, arms, and ankles. During the third watch the tailor made a
suit of clothes becoming a bride, and put them on the figure. Lastly,
the dervish, when it came to his turn to watch, beholding the
captivating female form, prayed that it might be endowed with life, and
immediately the effigy became animated. In the morning all four fell in
love with the charming damsel, each claiming her for himself; the
carpenter, because he had carved her with his own hands; the goldsmith,
because he had adorned her with gems; the tailor, because he had
suitably clothed her; and the dervish, because he had, by his
intercession, endowed her with life. While they were thus disputing, a
man came to the spot, to whom they referred the case. On seeing the
woman, he exclaimed: "This is my own wife, whom you have stolen from
me," and compelled them to come before the kutwal, who, on viewing her
beauty, in his turn claimed her as the wife of his brother, who had been
waylaid and murdered in the desert. The kutwal took them all, with the
woman, before the kází, who declared that she was his slave, who had
absconded from his house with a large sum of money. An old man who was
present suggested that they should all seven appeal to the Tree of
Decision, and thither they went accordingly; but no sooner had they
stated their several claims than the trunk of the tree split open, the
woman ran into the cleft, and on its reuniting she was no more to be
seen. A voice proceeded from the tree, saying: "Everything returns to
its first principles"; and the seven suitors of the woman were
overwhelmed with shame.[45]
[45] So, too, Boethius, in his _De Consolatione Philosophiæ_,
says, according to Chaucer's translation: "All thynges
seken ayen to hir [i.e. their] propre course, and all
thynges rejoysen on hir retournynge agayne to hir
nature."--A tale current in Oude, and given in _Indian
Notes and Queries_ for Sept. 1887, is an illustration of
the maxim that "everything returns to its first
principles": A certain prince chose his friends out of
the lowest class, and naturally imbibed their principles
and habits. When the death of his father placed him on
the throne, he soon made his former associates his
courtiers, and exacted the most servile homage from the
nobles. The old vazír, however, despised the young king
and would render none. This so exasperated him that he
called his counsellors together to advise the most
excruciating of tortures for the old man. Said one: "Let
him be flayed alive and let shoes be made of his skin."
The vazír ejaculated on this but one word, "Origin."
Said the next: "Let him be hacked into pieces and his
limbs cast to the dogs." The vazír said, "Origin."
Another advised: "Let him be forthwith executed, and his
house be levelled to the ground." Once more the vazír
simply said, "Origin." Then the king turned to the rest,
who declared each according to his opinion, the vazír
noticing each with the same word. At last a young man,
who had not spoken hitherto, was asked. "May it please
your Majesty," said he, "if you ask my opinion, it is
this: Here is an aged man, and honourable from his
years, family, and position; moreover, he served in the
king your father's court, and nursed you as a boy. It
were well, considering all these matters, to pay him
respect, and render his old age comfortable." Again the
vazír uttered the word "Origin." The king now demanded
what he meant by it. "Simply this, your Majesty,"
responded the vazír: "You have here the sons of
shoemakers, butchers, executioners, and so forth, and
each has expressed himself according to his father's
trade. There is but one noble-born among them, and he
has made himself conspicuous by speaking according to
the manner of his race." The king was ashamed, and
released the vazír.--A parallel to this is found in the
Turkish _Qirq Vezír Taríkhí_, or History of the Forty
Vezírs (Lady's 4th Story): according to Mr. Gibb's
translation, "All things return to their origin."
I am strongly of opinion that the foregoing story is of Buddhistic
extraction; but however this may be, it is not a bad specimen of Eastern
humour, nor is the following, which the eloquent bird tells the lady
another night:
_Of the Man whose Mare was kicked by a Merchant's Horse._
A merchant had a vicious horse that kicked a mare, which he had warned
the owner not to tie near his animal. The man carried the merchant
before the kází, and stated his complaint. The kází inquired of the
merchant what he had to say in his own defence; but he pretended to be
dumb, answering not a word to the judge's interrogatives. Upon this the
kází remarked to the plaintiff that since the merchant was dumb he could
not be to blame for the accident. "How do you know he is dumb?" said the
owner of the mare. "At the time I wished to fasten my mare near his
horse he said, 'Don't!' yet now he feigns himself dumb." The kází
observed that if he was duly warned against the accident he had himself
to blame, and so dismissed the case.