There was once a knight, who, from his earliest infancy, appeared to be
the peculiar favourite of Fortune. His birth was noble; his person
equally remarkable for strength and beauty; his possessions so extensive
as to furnish the amusements of hawking and hunting in the highest
perfection. Though he had found no opportunity of signalising his
courage in war, he had borne away the prize at numberless tournaments;
his courtesy was the theme of general praise; his hall was the seat of
unceasing plenty; it was crowded with minstrels, whom he entertained
with princely liberality, and the possession of a beautiful wife and
three lovely children completed the sum of earthly happiness.
Sir Isumbras had many virtues, but he had one vice. In the pride of his
heart he forgot the Giver of all good things, and considered the
blessings so abundantly showered upon him as the proper and just reward
of his distinguished merit. Instances of this overweening presumption
might perhaps be found in all ages among the possessors of wealth and
power; but few sinners have the good fortune to be recalled, like Sir
Isumbras, by a severe but salutary punishment, to the pious sentiments
of Christian humility.
It was usual with knights to amuse themselves with hawking or hunting
whenever they were not occupied by some more serious business; and, as
business seldom intervened, they thus amused themselves every day in the
year. One morning, being mounted on his favourite steed, surrounded by
his dogs, and with a hawk on his wrist, Sir Isumbras cast his eyes on
the sky, and discovered an angel, who, hovering over him, reproached him
with his pride, and announced the punishment of instant and complete
degradation. The terrified knight immediately fell on his knees;
acknowledged the justice of his sentence; returned thanks to Heaven for
deigning to visit him with adversity while the possession of youth and
health enabled him to endure it; and, filled with contrition, prepared
to return from the forest. But scarcely had the angel disappeared when
his good steed suddenly fell dead under him; the hawk dropped from his
wrist; his hounds wasted and expired; and, being thus left alone, he
hastened on foot towards his palace, filled with melancholy forebodings,
but impatient to learn the whole extent of his misfortune.
He was presently met by a part of his household, who, with many tears,
informed him that his horses and oxen had been suddenly struck dead with
lightning, and that his capons were all stung to death with adders. He
received the tidings with humble resignation, commanded his servants to
abstain from murmurs against Providence, and passed on. He was next met
by a page, who related that his castle was burned to the ground, that
many of his servants had lost their lives, and that his wife and
children had with great difficulty escaped from the flames. Sir
Isumbras, rejoiced that Heaven had yet spared those who were most dear
to him, bestowed upon the astonished page his purse of gold as a reward
for the intelligence.
A doleful sight then gan he see;
His wife and children three
Out of the fire were fled:
There they sat, under a thorn,
Bare and naked as they were born,
Brought out of their bed.
A woful man then was he,
When he saw them all naked be,
The lady said, all so blive,
“For nothing, sir, be ye adrad.”
He did off his surcoat of pallade,[573]
And with it clad his wife.
His scarlet mantle then shore[574] he;
Therein he closed his children three
That naked before him stood.
He then proposed to his wife that, as an expiation of their sins, they
should at once undertake a pilgrimage to Jerusalem; so, cutting with his
knife a sign of the cross on his bare shoulder, he set off with the four
companions of his misery, resolving to beg his bread till they should
arrive at the Holy Sepulchre. After passing through “seven lands,”
supported by the scanty alms of the charitable, they arrived at length
at a forest, where they wandered during three days without meeting a
single habitation. Their food was reduced to the few berries which they
were able to collect; and the children, unaccustomed to such hard fare,
began to sink under the accumulated difficulties of their journey. In
this situation they were stopped by a wide and rapid though shallow
river. Sir Isumbras, taking his eldest son in his arms, carried him over
to the opposite bank, and placing him under a bush of broom, directed
him to dry his tears, and amuse himself by playing with the blossoms
till his return with his brothers. But scarcely had he left the place
when a lion, starting from a neighbouring thicket, seized the child and
bore him away into the recesses of the forest. The second son became, in
like manner, the prey of an enormous leopard; and the disconsolate
mother, when carried over with her infant to the fatal spot, was with
difficulty persuaded to survive the loss of her two elder children. Sir
Isumbras, though he could not repress the tears extorted by this cruel
calamity, exerted himself to console his wife, and, humbly confessing
his sins, contented himself with praying that his present misery might
be accepted by Heaven as a partial expiation.
Through forest they went days three,
Till they came to the Greekish sea;
They grette,[575] and were full wo!
As they stood upon the land,
They saw a fleet sailand,[576]
Three hundred ships and mo.[577]
With top-castels set on-loft,
Richly then were they wrought,
With joy and mickle[578] pride:
A heathen king was therein,
That Christendom came to win;
His power was full wide.
It was now seven days since the pilgrims had tasted bread or meat; the
soudan’s[579] galley, therefore, was no sooner moored to the beach than
they hastened on board to beg for food. The soudan, under the
apprehension that they were spies, ordered them to be driven back on
shore; but his attendants observed to him that these could not be common
beggars; that the robust limbs and tall stature of the husband proved
him to be a knight in disguise; and that the delicate complexion of the
wife, who was “bright as blossom on tree,” formed a striking contrast to
the ragged apparel with which she was very imperfectly covered. They
were now brought into the royal presence; and the soudan, addressing Sir
Isumbras, immediately offered him as much treasure as he should require,
on condition that he should renounce Christianity and consent to fight
under the Saracen banners. The answer was a respectful but peremptory
refusal, concluded by an earnest petition for a little food; but the
soudan, having by this time turned his eyes from Sir Isumbras to the
beautiful companion of his pilgrimage, paid no attention to his request.
The soudan beheld that lady there,
Him thought an angel that she were,
Comen a-down from heaven;
“Man! I will give thee gold and fee,
An thou that woman will sellen me,
More than thou can neven.[580]
I will give thee an hundred pound
Of pennies that been whole and round,
And rich robes seven:
She shall be queen of my land,
And all men bow unto her hand,
And none withstand her steven.”[581]
Sir Isumbras said, “Nay!
My wife I will nought sell away,
Though ye me for her sloo![582]
I weddid her in Goddislay,
To hold her to mine ending day,
Both for weal and wo.”
It evidently would require no small share of casuistry to construe this
declaration into an acceptance of the bargain; but the Saracens, having
heard the offer of their sovereign, deliberately counted out the
stipulated sum on the mantle of Sir Isumbras; took possession of the
lady; carried the knight with his infant son on shore; beat him till he
was scarcely able to move; and then returned for further orders. During
this operation, the soudan, with his own hand, placed the regal crown on
the head of his intended bride; but recollecting that the original
project of the voyage to Europe was to conquer it, which might possibly
occasion a loss of some time, he delayed his intended nuptial, and
ordered a fast-sailing vessel to convey her to his dominions, providing
her at the same time with a charter addressed to his subjects, in which
he enjoined them to obey her, from the moment of her landing, as their
legitimate sovereign.
The lady, emboldened by these tokens of deference on the part of her new
lord, now fell on her knees and entreated his permission to pass a few
moments in private with her former husband, and the request was
instantly granted by the complaisant Saracen. Sir Isumbras, still
smarting from his bruises, was conducted with great respect and ceremony
to his wife, who, embracing him with tears, earnestly conjured him to
seek her out as soon as possible in her new dominions, to slay his
infidel rival, and to take possession of a throne which was probably
reserved to him by Heaven as an indemnification for his past losses. She
then supplied him with provisions for a fortnight; kissed him and her
infant son; swooned three times; and then set sail for Africa.
Sir Isumbras, who had been set on shore quite confounded by this quick
succession of strange adventures, followed the vessel with his eyes till
it vanished from his sight, and then taking his son by the hand led him
up to some rocky woodlands in the neighbourhood. Here they sat down
under a tree, and after a short repast, which was moistened with their
tears, resumed their journey. But they were again bewildered in the
forest, and, after gaining the summit of the mountain without being able
to descry a single habitation, lay down on the bare ground and resigned
themselves to sleep. The next morning Sir Isumbras found that his
misfortunes were not yet terminated. He had carried his stock of
provisions, together with his gold, the fatal present of the soudan,
enveloped in a scarlet mantle; and scarcely had the sun darted its first
rays on the earth when an eagle, attracted by the red cloth, swooped
down upon the treasure and bore it off in his talons. Sir Isumbras,
waking at the moment, perceived the theft, and for some time hastily
pursued the flight of the bird, who, he expected, would speedily drop
the heavy and useless burthen; but he was disappointed; for the eagle,
constantly towering as he approached the sea, at length directed his
flight towards the opposite shore of Africa. Sir Isumbras slowly
returned to his child, whom he had no longer the means of feeding; but
the wretched father only arrived in time to behold the boy snatched from
him by a unicorn. The knight was now quite disheartened. But his last
calamity was so evidently miraculous that even the grief of the father
was nearly absorbed by the contrition of the sinner. He fell on his
knees and uttered a most fervent prayer to Jesus and the Virgin, and
then proceeded on his journey.
His attention was soon attracted by the sound of a smith’s bellows: he
quickly repaired to the forge and requested the charitable donation of a
little food; but was told by the labourers that he seemed as well able
to work as they did, and they had nothing to throw away in charity.
Then answered the knight again,
“For meat would I swink[583] fain.”
Fast he bare and drow;[584]
They given him meat and drink anon.
And taughten him to bear stone:
Then had he shame enow.
This servitude lasted a twelvemonth, and seven years expired before he
had fully attained all the mysteries of his new profession. He employed
his few leisure hours in fabricating a complete suit of armour: every
year had brought him an account of the progress of the Saracens; and he
could not help entertaining a hope that his arm, though so ignobly
employed, was destined at some future day to revenge the wrongs of the
Christians, as well as the injury which he had personally received from
the unbelievers.
At length he heard that the Christian army had again taken the field;
that the day was fixed for a great and final effort; and that a plain at
an inconsiderable distance from his shop was appointed for the scene of
action. Sir Isumbras rose before day, buckled on his armour, and
mounting a horse which had hitherto been employed in carrying coals,
proceeded to the field and took a careful view of the disposition of
both armies. When the trumpets gave the signal to charge, he dismounted,
fell on his knees, and after a short but fervent prayer to Heaven, again
sprang into his saddle and rode into the thickest ranks of the enemy.
His uncouth war-horse and awkward armour had scarcely less effect than
his wonderful address and courage in attracting the attention of both
parties; and when after three desperate charges, his sorry steed was
slain under him, one of the Christian chiefs made a powerful effort for
his rescue, bore him to a neighbouring eminence, and presented to him a
more suitable coat of armour, and a horse more worthy of the heroic
rider.
When he was armed on that stead,
It is seen where his horse yede,[585]
And shall be evermore.
As sparkle glides off the glede,[586]
In that stour he made many bleed,
And wrought hem wonder sore.
He rode up into the mountain,
The soudan soon hath he slain,
And many that with him were.
All that day lasted the fight;
Sir Isumbras, that noble knight,
Wan the battle there.
Knights and squires have him sought,
And before the king him brought;
Full sore wounded was he.
They asked what was his name;
He said, “Sire, a smith’s man;
What will ye do with me?”
The Christian king said, than,
“I trow never smith’s man
In war was half so wight.”
“I bid[587] you, give me meat and drink
And what that I will after think,
Till I have kevered[588] my might.”
The king a great oath sware,
As soon as he whole were,
That he would dub him knight.
In a nunnery they him leaved,
To heal the wound in his heved,[589]
That he took in that fight.
The nuns of him were full fain,
For he had the soudan slain,
And many heathen hounds;
For his sorrow they gan sore rue;
Every day they salved him new,
And stoppèd well his wounds.
We may fairly presume, without derogating from the merit of the holy
sisters or from the virtue of their salves and bandages, that the
knight’s recovery was no less accelerated by the pleasure of having
chastised the insolent possessor of his wife and the author of his
contumelious beating. In a few days his health was restored; and having
provided himself with a “scrip and pike” and the other accoutrements of
a palmer, he took his leave of the nuns, directed his steps once more to
the “Greekish Sea,” and, embarking on board of a vessel which he found
ready to sail, speedily arrived at the port of Acre.
During seven years, which were employed in visiting every part of the
Holy Land, the penitent Sir Isumbras led a life of continued labour and
mortification: fed during the day by the precarious contributions of the
charitable, and sleeping at night in the open air, without any addition
to the scanty covering which his pilgrim’s weeds, after seven years’
service, were able to afford. At length his patience and contrition were
rewarded. After a day spent in fruitless applications for a little food,
Beside the burgh of Jerusalem
He set him down by a well-stream,
Sore wepand[590] for his sin.
And as he sat, about midnight,
There came an angel fair and bright,
And brought him bread and wine;
He said, “Palmer, well thou be!
The King of Heaven greeteth well thee;
Forgiven is sin thine.”
Sir Isumbras accepted with pious gratitude the donation of food, by
which his strength was instantly restored, and again set out on his
travels; but he was still a widower, still deprived of his children, and
as poor as ever; nor had his heavenly monitor afforded him any hint for
his future guidance. He wandered therefore through the country, without
any settled purpose, till he arrived at a “rich burgh,” built round a
“fair castle,” the possessor of which, he was told, was a charitable
queen, who daily distributed a florin of gold to every poor man who
approached her gates, and even condescended to provide food and lodging
within her palace for such as were distinguished by superior misery. Sir
Isumbras presented himself with the rest; and his emaciated form and
squalid garments procured him instant admittance.
The rich queen in hall was set;
Knights her served, at hand and feet,
In rich robes of pall:
In the floor a cloth was laid;
“The poor palmer,” the steward said,
“Shall sit above you all.”
Meat and drink forth they brought;
He sat still, and ate right nought,
But looked about the hall.
So mickle he saw of game and glee
(Swiche mirthis he was wont to see),
The tears he let down fall.
Conduct so unusual attracted the attention of the whole company, and
even of the queen, who, ordering “a chair with a cushion” to be placed
near the palmer, took her seat in it, entered into conversation with him
on the subject of his long and painful pilgrimage, and was much edified
by the moral lessons which he interspersed in his narrative. But no
importunity could induce him to taste food: he was sick at heart, and
required the aid of solitary meditation to overcome the painful
recollections which continually assailed him. The queen was more and
more astonished, but at length left him to his reflections, after
declaring that, “for her lord’s soul, or for his love, if he were still
alive,” she was determined to retain the holy palmer in her palace, and
to assign him a convenient apartment, together with a servant to attend
him.
An interval of fifteen years, passed in the laborious occupations of
blacksmith and pilgrim, may be supposed to have produced a very
considerable alteration in the appearance of Sir Isumbras; and even his
voice, subdued by disease and penance, may have failed to discover the
gallant knight under the disguise which he had so long assumed. But that
his wife (for such she was) should have been equally altered by the sole
operation of time; that the air and gestures and action of a person once
so dear and so familiar to him should have awakened no trace of
recollection in the mind of a husband, though in the midst of scenes
which painfully recalled the memory of his former splendour, is more
extraordinary. Be this as it may, the knight and the queen, though
lodged under the same roof and passing much of their time together,
continued to bewail the miseries of their protracted widowhood.
Sir Isumbras, however, speedily recovered, in the plentiful court of the
rich queen, his health and strength, and with these the desire of
returning to his former exercises. A tournament was proclaimed; and the
lists, which were formed immediately under the windows of the castle,
were quickly occupied by a number of Saracen knights, all of whom Sir
Isumbras successively overthrew. So dreadful was the stroke of his
spear, that many were killed at the first encounter; some escaped with a
few broken bones; others were thrown headlong into the castle ditch; but
the greater number consulted their safety by a timely flight; while the
queen contemplated with pleasure and astonishment the unparalleled
exploits of her favourite palmer.
Then fell it, upon a day,
The Knight went him for to play,
As it was ere his kind;
A fowl’s nest he found on high;
A red cloth therein he seygh[591]
Wavand[592] in the wind.
To the nest he gan win;[593]
His own mantle he found therein;
The gold there gan he find.
The painful recollection awakened by this discovery weighed heavily on
the soul of Sir Isumbras. He bore the fatal treasure to his chamber,
concealed it under his bed, and spent the remainder of the day in tears
and lamentations. The images of his lost wife and children now began to
haunt him continually; and his altered demeanour attracted the attention
and excited the curiosity of the whole court, and even of the queen, who
could only learn from the palmer’s attendant that his melancholy seemed
to originate in the discovery of something in a bird’s nest. With this
strange report she was compelled to be satisfied, till Sir Isumbras,
with the hope of dissipating his grief, began to resume his usual
exercises in the field; but no sooner had he quitted his chamber than
the “squires” by her command broke open the door, discovered the
treasure, and hastened with it to the royal apartment. The sight of the
gold and the scarlet mantle immediately explained to the queen the whole
mystery of the palmer’s behaviour. She burst into tears; kissed with
fervent devotion the memorial of her lost husband; fell into a swoon;
and on her recovery told the story to her attendants, and enjoined them
to go in quest of the palmer, and to bring him at once before her. A
short explanation removed her few remaining doubts; she threw herself
into the arms of her husband, and the reunion of this long separated
couple was immediately followed by the coronation of Sir Isumbras and by
a protracted series of festivities.
The Saracen subjects of the Christian sovereign continued, with unshaken
loyalty, to partake of the plentiful entertainments provided for all
ranks of people on this solemn occasion; but no sooner had the pious Sir
Isumbras signified to them the necessity of their immediate conversion,
than his whole “parliament” adopted the resolution of deposing and
committing to the flames their newly-acquired sovereign, as soon as they
should have obtained the concurrence of the neighbouring princes. Two of
these readily joined their forces for the accomplishment of this
salutary purpose, and invading the territories of Sir Isumbras with an
army of thirty thousand men, sent him, according to usual custom, a
solemn defiance. Sir Isumbras boldly answered the defiance, issued the
necessary orders, called for his arms, sprang upon his horse, and
prepared to march out against the enemy; when he discovered that his
subjects had, to a man, abandoned him, and that he must encounter singly
the whole host of the invaders.
Sir Isumbras was bold and keen,
And took his leave at the queen,
And sighed wonder sore:
He said, “Madam, have good day!
Sickerly, as you I say,
For now and evermore!”
“Help me, sir, that I were dight
In arms, as it were a knight;
I will with you fare:
Gif God would us grace send,
That we may together end,
Then done were all my care.”
Soon was the lady dight
In arms, as it were a knight;
He gave her spear and shield:
Again[594] thirty thousand Saracens and mo.[595]
There came no more but they two,
When they met in field.
Never, probably, did a contest take place between such disproportioned
forces. Sir Isumbras was rather encumbered than assisted by the presence
of his beautiful but feeble helpmate; and the faithful couple were upon
the point of being crushed by the charge of the enemy, when three
unknown knights suddenly made their appearance, and as suddenly turned
the fortune of the day. The first of these was mounted on a lion, the
second on a leopard, and the third on a unicorn. The Saracen cavalry, at
the first sight of these unexpected antagonists, dispersed in all
directions. But flight and resistance were equally hopeless: three and
twenty thousand unbelievers were soon laid lifeless on the plain by the
talons of the lion and leopard and by the resistless horn of the
unicorn, or by the swords of their young and intrepid riders; and the
small remnant of the Saracen army who escaped from the general carnage
quickly spread, through every corner of the Mohammedan world, the news
of this signal and truly miraculous victory.
Sir Isumbras, who does not seem to have possessed the talent for
unravelling mysteries, had never suspected that his three wonderful
auxiliaries were his own children, whom Providence had sent to his
assistance at the moment of his greatest distress; but he was not the
less thankful when informed of the happy termination of all his
calamities. The royal family were received in the city with every
demonstration of joy by his penitent subjects, whose loyalty had been
completely revived by the recent miracle. Magnificent entertainments
were provided; after which Sir Isumbras, having easily overrun the
territories of his two pagan neighbours, who had been slain in the last
battle, proceeded to conquer a third kingdom for his youngest son; and
the four monarchs, uniting their efforts for the propagation of the true
faith, enjoyed the happiness of witnessing the baptism of all the
inhabitants of their respective dominions.
They lived and died in good intent;
Unto heaven their souls went,
When that they dead were.
Jesu Christ, heaven’s king,
Give us, aye, his blessing,
And shield us from care!
* * * * *
On comparing these several versions it will be seen that, while they
differ one from another in some of the details, yet the fundamental
outline is identical, with the single exception of the Tibetan story,
which, in common with Tibetan tales generally, has departed very
considerably from the original. A king, or knight, is suddenly deprived
of all his possessions, and with his wife and two children becomes a
wanderer on the face of the earth; his wife is forcibly taken from him;
he afterwards loses his two sons; he is once more raised to affluence;
his sons, having been adopted and educated by a charitable person, enter
his service; their mother recognises them through overhearing their
conversation; finally husband and wife and children are happily
re-united. Such is the general outline of the story, though
modifications have been made in the details of the different
versions—probably through its being transmitted orally in some
instances. Thus in the Arabian story, the king is ruined apparently in
consequence of no fault of his own; in the Panjábí version, he
relinquishes his wealth to a fakír as a pious action; in the Kashmírí
and in the romance of Sir Isumbras, the hero loses his wealth as a
punishment for his overweening pride; in the legend of St. Eustache, as
in the story of Job, the calamities which overtake the Christian convert
are designed by Heaven as a trial of his patience and fortitude; while
even in the corrupted Tibetan story the ruin of the monarch is reflected
in the destruction of the parents of the heroine by a hurricane. In both
the Kashmírí and the Panjábí versions, the father is swallowed by a fish
(or an alligator) in re-crossing the river to fetch his second child; in
the Tibetan story the wife loses her husband, who is killed by a snake,
and having taken one of her children over the river, she is returning
for the other when, looking back, she discovers her babe in the jaws of
a wolf: both her children perish: in the European versions they are
carried off by wild beasts and rescued by strangers—the romance of Sir
Isumbras is singular in representing the number of children to be three.
Only in the Arabian story do we find the father carrying his wife and
children in safety across the stream, and the latter afterwards lost in
the forest. The Kashmírí and “Gesta” versions correspond exactly in
representing the shipman as seizing the lady because her husband could
not pay the passage-money: in the Arabian she is entrapped in the ship,
owned by a Magian, on the pretext that there is on board a woman in
labour; in Sir Isumbras she is forcibly “bought” by the Soudan. She is
locked up in a chest by the Magian; sent to rule his country by the
Soudan; respectfully treated by the merchant in the Kashmírí story, and,
apparently, also by Kandan in the Panjábí legend; in the story of St.
Eustache her persecutor dies and she is living in humble circumstances
when discovered by her husband.—I think there is internal evidence,
apart from the existence of the Tibetan version, to lead to the
conclusion that the story is of Buddhist extraction, and if such be the
fact, it furnishes a further example of the indebtedness of Christian
hagiology to Buddhist tales and legends.
_AL-MALIK AL-ZAHIR AND THE SIXTEEN CAPTAINS OF POLICE.—Vol. II. p. 3._
We must, I think, regard this group of tales as being genuine narratives
of the exploits of Egyptian sharpers. From the days of Herodotus to the
present time, Egypt has bred the most expert thieves in the world. The
policemen don’t generally exhibit much ability for coping with the
sharpers whose tricks they so well recount; but indeed our home-grown
“bobbies” are not particularly quick-witted.
_THE THIEF’S TALE.—Vol. II. p. 42._
A parallel to the woman’s trick of shaving off the beards and blackening
the faces of the robbers is found in the well-known legend, as told by
Herodotus (Euterpe, 121), of the robbery of the treasure-house of
Rhampsinitus king of Egypt, where the clever thief, having made the
soldiers dead drunk, shaves off the right side of their beards and then
decamps with his brother’s headless body.
_THE NINTH CONSTABLE’S STORY.—Vol. II. p. 46._
The narrow escape of the singing-girl hidden under a pile of _halfah_
grass may be compared with an adventure of a fugitive Mexican prince
whose history, as related by Prescott, is as full of romantic daring and
hair’s-breadth ’scapes as that of Scanderbeg or the “Young Chevalier.”
This prince had just time to turn the crest of a hill as his enemies
were climbing it on the other side, when he fell in with a girl who was
reaping _chian_, a Mexican plant, the seed of which is much used in the
drinks of the country. He persuaded her to cover him with the stalks she
had been cutting. When his pursuers came up and inquired if she had seen
the fugitive, the girl coolly answered that she had, and pointed out a
path as the one he had taken.
_THE FIFTEENTH CONSTABLE’S STORY.—Vol. II. p. 59._
The concluding part of this story differs very materially from that of
the Greek legend of Ibycus (fl. B.C. 540), which is thus related in a
small MS. collection of Arabian and Persian anecdotes in my possession,
done into English from the French:
It is written in the history of the first kings that in the reign of a
Grecian king there lived a philosopher named Ibycus, who surpassed in
sagacity all other sages of Greece. Ibycus was once sent by the king to
a neighbouring court. On the way he was attacked by robbers, who,
suspecting him to have much money, formed the design of killing him.
“Your object in taking my life,” said Ibycus, “is to obtain my money; I
give it up to you, but allow me to live.” The robbers paid no attention
to his words, and persisted in their purpose. The wretched Ibycus, in
his despair, looked about him to see if any one was coming to his
assistance, but no person was in sight. At that very moment a flock of
cranes flew overhead. “O cranes!” cried Ibycus, “know that I have been
seized in this desert by these wicked men, and I die from their blows.
Avenge me, and demand from them my blood.” At these words the robbers
burst into laughter: “To take away life from those who have lost their
reason,” they observed, “is to add nothing to their hurt.” So saying,
they killed Ibycus and divided his money. On receipt of the news that
Ibycus had been murdered, the inhabitants of the town were exasperated
and felt great sorrow. They caused strict inquiries to be made for the
murderers, but they could not be found. After some time the Greeks were
celebrating a feast. The inhabitants of the adjoining districts came in
crowds to the temples. The murderers of Ibycus also came, and everywhere
showed themselves. Meanwhile a flock of cranes appeared in the air and
hovered above the people, uttering cries so loud and prolonged that the
prayers and ceremonies were interrupted. One of the robbers looked with
a smile at his comrades, saying, by way of joke, “These cranes come
without doubt to avenge the blood of Ibycus.” Some one of the town, who
was near them, heard these words, repeated them to his neighbour, and
they together reported them to the king. The robbers were taken,
strictly cross-examined, confessed their crime, and suffered for it a
just punishment. In this way the cranes inflicted vengeance on the
murderers of Ibycus. But we ought to see in this incident a matter which
is concealed in it: This philosopher, although apparently addressing his
words to the cranes, was really imploring help from their Creator; he
hoped, in asking their aid, that He would not suffer his blood to flow
unavenged. So God accomplished his hopes; and willed that cranes should
be the cause that his death was avenged in order that the sages of the
world should learn from it the power and wisdom of the Creator.
* * * * *
This ancient legend was probably introduced into Arabian literature in
the 9th century, when translations of so many of the best Greek works
where made; and, no doubt, it was adapted in the following Indian
(Muslim) story:[596]
There was a certain _pir_, or saint, of great wisdom, learning, and
sanctity, who sat by the wayside expounding the Kurán to all who would
listen to him. He dwelt in the out-buildings of a ruined mosque close
by, his only companion being a maina, or hill-starling, which he had
taught to proclaim the excellence of the formula of his religion,
saying, “The Prophet is just!” It chanced that two travellers passing
that way beheld the holy man at his devotions, and though far from being
religious persons yet tarried a while to hear the words of truth.
Evening now drawing on, the saint invited his apparently pious auditors
to his dwelling, and set before them such coarse food as he had to
offer. Having eaten and refreshed themselves, they were astonished at
the wisdom displayed by the bird, who continued to repeat holy texts
from the Kurán. The meal ended, they all lay down to sleep, and while
the good man reposed, his treacherous guests, who envied him the
possession of a bird that in their hands might be the means of enriching
them, determined to steal the treasure and murder its master. So they
stabbed the sleeping devotee to the heart and then seized hold of the
bird’s cage. But, unperceived by them, the door of it had been left open
and the bird was not to be found. After searching for the bird in vain,
they considered it necessary to dispose of the body, since, if
discovered, suspicion would assuredly fall upon them; and carrying it
away to what they deemed a safe distance they buried it. Vexed to be
obliged to leave the place without obtaining the reward of their evil
deeds, they again looked carefully for the bird, but without success; it
was nowhere to be seen, and so they were compelled to go forward without
the object of their search. The maina had witnessed the atrocious deed,
and unseen had followed the murderers to the place where they had buried
the body; it then perched upon the tree beneath which the saint had been
wont to enlighten the minds of his followers, and when they assembled
flew into their midst, exclaiming, “The Prophet is just!” making short
flights and then returning. These unusual motions, together with the
absence of their preceptor, induced the people to follow it, and
directing its flight to the grave of its master, it uttered a mournful
cry over the newly-covered grave. The villagers, astonished, began to
remove the earth, and soon discovered the bloody corse. Surprised and
horror-stricken, they looked about for some traces of the murderers, and
perceiving that the bird had resumed the movements which had first
induced them to follow it, they suffered it to lead them forward. Before
evening fell, the avengers came up with two men, who no sooner heard the
maina exclaim, “The Prophet is just!” and saw the crowd that accompanied
it, than they fell upon their knees, confessing that the Prophet had
indeed brought their evil deeds to light; so, their crime being thus
made manifest, summary justice was inflicted upon them.
_TALE OF THE DAMSEL TUHFAT AL-KULUB.—Vol. II. p. 70._
An entertaining story, but very inconsistent in the character of Iblis,
who is constantly termed, in good Muslim fashion, “the accursed,” yet
seems to be somewhat of a follower of the Prophet, and on the whole a
good-natured sort of fellow. His mode of expressing his approval of the
damsel’s musical “talent” is, to say the least, original.
_WOMEN’S WILES.—Vol. II. p. 137._
A variant—perhaps an older form—of this story occurs in the tale of
Prince Fadlallah, which is interwoven with the History of Prince Calaf
and the Princess of China, in the Persian tales of “The Thousand and One
Days”:
The prince, on his way to Baghdád, is attacked by robbers, his followers
are all slain, and himself made prisoner, but he is set at liberty by
the compassionate wife of the robber-chief during his absence on a
plundering expedition. When he reaches Baghdád he has no resource but to
beg his bread, and having stationed himself in front of a large mansion,
an old female slave presently comes out and gives him a loaf. At this
moment a gust of wind blew aside the curtain of a window and discovered
to his admiring eyes a most beautiful damsel, of whom he became
immediately enamoured. He inquired of a passer-by the name of the owner
of the mansion, and was informed that it belonged to a man called
Mouaffac, who had been lately governor of the city, but having
quarrelled with the kází, who was of a revengeful disposition, the
latter had found means to disgrace him with the khalíf and to have him
deprived of his office. After lingering near the house in vain till
nightfall, in hopes of once more obtaining a glimpse of this beauty, he
retired for the night to a burying-ground, where he was soon joined by
two thieves, who pressed upon him a share of the good cheer with which
they had provided themselves; but while the thieves were feasting and
talking over a robbery which they had just accomplished, the police
suddenly pounced upon them, and took all three and cast them into
prison.
In the morning they were examined by the kází, and the thieves, seeing
it was useless to deny it, confessed their crime. The prince then told
the kází how he chanced to fall into company of the thieves, who
confirmed all he said, and he was set at liberty. Then the kází began to
question him as to how he had employed his time since he came to
Baghdád, to which he answered very frankly but concealed his rank. On
his mentioning the brief glance he had of the beautiful lady at the
window of the ex-governor’s house, the kází’s eyes sparkled with
apparent satisfaction, and he assured the prince that he should have the
lady for his bride; for, believing the prince to be a mere beggarly
adventurer, he resolved to foist him on Mouaffac as the son of a great
monarch. So, having sent the prince to the bath and provided him with
rich garments, the kází despatched a messenger to request Mouaffac to
come to him on important business. When the ex-governor arrived, the
kází told him blandly that there was now an excellent opportunity for
doing away the ill will that had so long existed between them. “It is
this,” continued he: “the prince of Basra, having fallen in love with
your daughter from report of her great beauty, has just come to Baghdád,
unknown to his father, and intends to demand her of you in marriage. He
is lodged in my house, and is most anxious that this affair should be
arranged by my interposition, which is the more agreeable to me, since
it will, I trust, be the means of reconciling our differences.” Mouaffac
expressed his surprise that the prince of Basra should think of marrying
his daughter, and especially that the proposal should come through the
kází, of all men. But the kází begged him to forget their former
animosity and consent to the immediate celebration of the nuptials.
While they were thus talking, the prince entered, in a magnificent
dress, and was not a little astonished to be presented to Mouaffac by
the treacherous kází as the prince of Basra, who had come as a suitor
for his daughter in marriage. The ex-governor saluted him with every
token of profound respect, and expressed his sense of the honour of such
an alliance: his daughter was unworthy to wait upon the meanest of the
prince’s slaves. In brief, the marriage is at once celebrated, and the
prince duly retires to the bridal chamber with the beauteous daughter of
Mouaffac. But in the morning, at an early hour, a servant of the kází
knocks at his door, and, on the prince opening it, says that he brings
him his rags of clothes and is required to take back the dress which the
kází had lent him yesterday to personate the prince of Basra. The
prince, having donned his tattered garments, said to his wife, “The kází
thinks he has married you to a wretched beggar, but I am no whit
inferior in rank to the prince of Basra—I am also a prince, being the
only son of the king of Mosel,” and then proceeded to recount all his
adventures. When he had concluded his recital, the lady despatched a
servant to procure a suitable dress for the prince, which when he had
put on, she said, “I see it all: the kází, no doubt, believes that by
this time we are all overwhelmed with shame and grief. But what must be
his feelings when he learns that he has been a benefactor to his
enemies! Before you disclose to him your real rank, however, we must
contrive to punish him for his malicious intentions. There is a dyer in
this town who has a frightfully ugly daughter—but leave this affair in
my hands.”
The lady then dressed herself in plain but becoming apparel, and went
out of the house alone. She proceeded to the court of the kází, who no
sooner cast his eyes upon her than he was struck with her elegant form.
He sent an officer to inquire of her who she was and what she had come
about. She made answer that she was the daughter of an artisan in the
city, and that she desired to have some private conversation with the
kází. When the officer reported the lady’s reply, the kází directed her
to be conducted into a private chamber, where he presently joined her,
and gallantly placed his services at her disposal. The lady now removed
her veil, and asked him whether he saw anything ugly or repulsive in her
features. The kází on seeing her beautiful face was suddenly plunged in
the sea of love, and declared that her forehead was of polished silver,
her eyes were sparkling diamonds, her mouth a ruby casket containing a
bracelet of pearls. Then she displayed her arms, so white and plump, the
sight of which threw the kází into ecstasies and almost caused him to
faint. Quoth the lady, “I must tell you, my lord, that with all the
beauty I possess, my father, a dyer in the city, keeps me secluded, and
declares to all who come to ask me in marriage that I am an ugly,
deformed monster, a mere skeleton, lame, and full of diseases.” On this
the kází burst into a tirade against the brutal father who could thus
traduce so much beauty, and vowed that he would make her his wife that
same day. The lady, after expressing her fears that he would not find it
easy to gain her father’s consent, took her leave and returned home.
The kází lost no time in sending for the dyer, and, after complimenting
him upon his reputation for piety, said to him, “I am informed that
behind the curtain of chastity you have a daughter ripe for marriage. Is
not this true?” Replied the dyer, “My lord, you have been rightly
informed. I have a daughter who is indeed fully ripe for marriage, for
she is more than thirty years of age; but the poor creature is not fit
to be a wife to any man. She is very ugly, lame, leprous, and foolish.
In short, she is such a monster that I am obliged to keep her out of all
people’s sight.” “Ha!” exclaimed the kází, “you can’t impose on me with
such a tale. I was prepared for it. But let me tell you that I myself am
ready and willing to marry that same ugly and leprous daughter of yours,
with all her defects.” When the dyer heard this, he looked the kází full
in the face and said, “My lord, you are welcome to divert yourself by
making a jest of my daughter.” “No,” replied the kází, “I am quite in
earnest. I demand your daughter in marriage.” The dyer broke into
laughter, saying, “By Allah, some one has meant to play you a trick, my
lord. I forewarn you that she is ugly, lame, and leprous.” “True,”
responded the kází, with a knowing smile; “I know her by these tokens. I
shall take her notwithstanding.” The dyer, seeing him determined to
marry his daughter, and being now convinced that he had been imposed
upon by some ill-wisher, thought to himself, “I must demand of him a
round sum of money which may cause him to cease troubling me any further
about my poor daughter.” So he said to the kází, “My lord, I am ready to
obey your command; but I will not part with my daughter unless you pay
me beforehand a dowry of a thousand sequins.” Replied the kází,
“Although, methinks, your demand is somewhat exorbitant, yet I will pay
you the money at once,” which having done, he ordered the contract to be
drawn up. But when it came to be signed the dyer declared that he would
not sign save in the presence of a hundred men of the law. “Thou art
very distrustful,” said the kází, “but I will comply in everything, for
I am resolved to make sure of thy daughter.” So he sent for all the men
of law in the city, and when they were assembled at the house of the
kází, the dyer said that he was now willing to sign the contract; “But I
declare,” he added, “in the presence of these honourable witnesses, that
I do so on the condition that if my daughter should not prove to your
liking when you have seen her, and you should determine to divorce her,
you shall oblige yourself to give her a thousand sequins of gold in
addition to the same amount which I have already received from you.”
“Agreed,” said the kází, “I oblige myself to it, and call this whole
assembly to be witnesses. Art thou now satisfied?” “I am,” replied the
dyer, who then went his way, saying that he would at once send him his
bride.
As soon as the dyer was gone, the assembly broke up, and the kází was
left alone in his house. He had been two years married to the daughter
of a merchant of Baghdad, with whom he had hitherto lived on very
amicable terms. When she heard that he was arranging for a second
marriage, she came to him in a great rage. “How now,” said she, “two
hands in one glove! two swords in one scabbard! two wives in one house!
Go, fickle man! Since the caresses of a young and faithful wife cannot
secure your constancy, I am ready to yield my place to my rival and
retire to my own family. Repudiate me—return my dowry—and you shall
never see me more.” “I am glad you have thus anticipated me,” answered
the kází, “for I was somewhat perplexed how to acquaint you of my new
marriage.” So saying, he opened a coffer and took out a purse of five
hundred sequins of gold, and putting it into her hands, “There, woman,”
said he, “thy dowry is in that purse: begone, and take with you what
belongs to you. I divorce thee once; I divorce thee twice; three times I
divorce thee. And that thy parents may be satisfied thou art divorced
from me, I shall give thee a certificate signed by myself and my nayb.”
This he did accordingly, and his wife went to her father’s house, with
her bill of divorce and her dowry.
The kází then gave orders to furnish an apartment sumptuously for the
reception of his bride. The floor was spread with velvet carpets, the
walls were hung with rich tapestry, and couches of gold and silver
brocade were placed around the room. The bridal chamber was decked with
caskets filled with the most exquisite perfumes. When everything was in
readiness, the kází impatiently expected the arrival of his bride, and
at last was about to despatch a messenger to the dyer’s when a porter
entered, carrying a wooden chest covered with a piece of green taffeta.
“What hast thou brought me there, friend?” asked the kází. “My lord,”
replied the porter, setting the chest on the floor, “I bring your
bride.” The kází opened the chest, and discovered a woman of three feet
and a half, defective in every limb and feature. He was horrified at the
sight of this object, and throwing the covering hastily over it,
demanded of the porter, “What wouldst thou have me do with this
frightful creature?” “My lord,” said the porter, “this is the daughter
of Omar the dyer, who told me that you had espoused her out of pure
inclination.” “O Allah!” exclaimed the kází, “is it possible to marry
such a monster as this?” Just then, the dyer, well knowing that the kazi
must be surprised, came in. “Thou wretch,” cried the kází, “how dost
thou dare to trifle with me? In place of this hideous object, send
hither your other daughter, whose beauty is beyond comparison; otherwise
thou shalt soon know what it is to insult me.” Quoth the dyer, “My lord,
I swear, by Him who out of darkness produced light, that I have no other
daughter but this. I told you repeatedly that she was not for your
purpose, but you would not believe my words. Who, then, is to blame?”
Upon this the kází began to cool, and said to the dyer, “I must tell
you, friend Omar, that this morning there came to me a most beautiful
damsel, who pretended that you were her father, and that you represented
her to everybody as a monster, on purpose to deter all suitors that came
to ask her in marriage.” “My lord,” answered the dyer, “this beautiful
damsel must be an impostor; some one, undoubtedly, owes you a grudge.”
Then the kází, having reflected for a few minutes, said to the dyer,
“Bid the porter carry thy daughter home again. Keep the thousand sequins
of gold which I gave thee, but ask no more of me, if thou desirest that
we should continue friends.” The dyer, knowing the implacable
disposition of the kází, thought it advisable to content himself with
what he had already gained, and the kází, having formally divorced his
hideous bride, sent her away with her father. The affair soon got wind
in the city and everybody was highly diverted with the trick practised
on the kází.
* * * * *
It will be observed that in the Arabian story there are two clever
devices: that of the lady who tricks the boastful merchant, whose motto
was that men’s craft is superior to women’s craft, into marrying the
ugly daughter of the kází; and that of the merchant to get rid of his
bad bargain by disgusting the kází with the alliance. The scene at the
house of the worthy judge—the crowd of low rascals piping, drumming, and
capering, and felicitating themselves on their pretended kinsman the
merchant’s marriage—is highly humorous. This does not occur in the
Persian story, because it is the kází who has been duped into marrying
the dyer’s deformed daughter, and she is therefore simply packed off
again to her father’s house.
* * * * *
That the tales of the “Thousand and One Days” are not (as is supposed by
the writer of an article on the several English versions of The Nights
in the “Edinburgh Review” for July 1886, p. 167) mere imitations of
Galland[597] is most certain, apart from the statement in the preface to
Petis’ French translation, which there is no reason to doubt—see vol. x.
of The Nights, p. 166, note 1. Sir William Ouseley, in his _Travels_,
vol. ii., p. 21, note, states that he brought from Persia a manuscript
which comprised, _inter alia_, a portion of the “Hazár ú Yek Rúz,” or
the Thousand and One Days, which agreed with Petis’ translation of the
same stories. In the Persian collection entitled “Shamsa ú Kuhkuha”
occur several of the tales and incidents, for example, the Story of
Nasiraddoli King of Mousel, the Merchant of Baghdád, and the Fair
Zeinib, while the Story of the King of Thibet and the Princess of the
Naimans has its parallel in the Turkish “Kirk Vazír,” or Forty Vazírs.
Again, the Story of Couloufe and the Beautiful Dilara reminds us of that
of Haji the Cross-grained in Malcolm’s “Sketches of Persia.” But of the
French translation not a single good word can be said—the Oriental
“costume” and phraseology have almost entirely disappeared, and between
Petis de la Croix and the author of “Gil Blas”—who is said to have had a
hand in the work—the tales have become ludicrously Frenchified. The
English translation made from the French is, if possible, still worse.
We there meet with “persons of quality,” “persons of fashion,” with
“seigneurs,” and a thousand and one other inconsistencies and
absurdities. A new translation is much to be desired. The copy of the
Persian text made by Petis is probably in the Paris Library and
Ouseley’s fragment is doubtless among his other Oriental MSS. in the
Bodleian. But one should suppose that copies of the “Hazár ú Yek Rúz”
may be readily procured at Ispahán or Tehrán, and at a very moderate
cost, since the Persians now-a-days are so poor in general that they are
eager to exchange any books they possess for the “circulating medium.”
_NUR AL-DIN AND THE DAMSEL SITT AL-MILAH. Vol. II. p. 151._
This is an excellent tale; the incidents occur naturally and the
reader’s interest in the fortunes of the hero and heroine never flags.
The damsel’s sojourn with the old Muezzin—her dispatching him daily to
the shroff—bears some analogy to part of the tale of Ghanim the Slave of
Love (vol. ii. of The Nights), which, by the way, finds close parallels
in the Turkish “Forty Vazírs” (the Lady’s 18th story in Mr. Gibb’s
translation), the Persian “Thousand and One Days” (story of Aboulcasem
of Basra,) and the “Bagh o Bahár” (story of the First Dervish). This
tale is, in fact, a compound of incidents occurring in a number of
different Arabian fictions.
_TALE OF KING INS BIN KAYS AND HIS DAUGHTER. Vol. II. p. 191._
Here we have another instance of a youth falling in love with the
portrait of a pretty girl (see _ante_, p. 328). The doughty deeds
performed by the young prince against thousands of his foes throw into
the shade the exploits of the Bedouin hero Antar, and those of our own
famous champions Sir Guy of Warwick and Sir Bevis of Hampton.
_ADDITIONAL NOTES._
FIRUZ AND HIS WIFE, _p. 301_.
I find yet another variant of this story in my small MS. collection of
Arabian and Persian anecdotes, translated from the French (I have not
ascertained its source):
They relate that a lord of Basra, while walking one day in his garden,
saw the wife of his gardener, who was very beautiful and virtuous. He
gave a commission to his gardener which required him to leave his home.
He then said to his wife, “Go and shut all the doors.” She went out and
soon returned, saying, “I have shut all the doors except one, which I am
unable to shut.” The lord asked, “And where is that door?” She replied,
“That which is between you and the respect due to your Maker: there is
no way of closing it.” When the lord heard these words, he asked the
woman’s pardon, and became a better and a wiser man.
We have here a unique form of the wide-spread tale of “The Lion’s
Track,” which, while it omits the husband’s part, yet reflects the
virtuous wife’s rebuke of the enamoured sultan.
THE SINGER AND THE DRUGGIST, _p. 305_.
If Straparola’s version is to be considered as an adaptation of Ser
Giovanni’s novella—which I do not think very probable—it must be allowed
to be an improvement on his model. In the Arabian story the singer is
first concealed in a mat, next in the oven, and again in the mat, after
which he escapes by clambering over the parapet of the druggist’s roof
to that of an adjoining house, and his subsequent adventures seem to be
added from a different story. In Ser Giovanni’s version the lover is
first hid beneath a heap of half-dried clothes, and next behind the
street door, from which he escapes the instant the husband enters, and
the latter is treated as a madman by the wife’s relatives and the
neighbours—an incident which has parallels in other tales of women’s
craft and its prototype, perhaps, in the story of the man who compiled a
book of the Wiles of Woman, as told in “Syntipas,” the Greek version of
the Book of Sindibad. In Straparola the lover—as in the Arabian story—is
concealed three times, first in a basket, then between two boardings,
and lastly in a chest containing law papers; and the husband induces him
to recount his adventures in presence of the lady’s friends, which
having concluded, the lover declares the story to be wholly fictitious:
this is a much more agreeable ending than that of Giovanni’s story, and,
moreover, it bears a close analogy to the latter part of the Persian
tale, where the lover exclaims he is right glad to find it all a dream.
Straparola’s version has another point of resemblance in the Persian
story—so far as can be judged from Scott’s abstract—and also in the
Arabian story: the lover discovers the lady by chance, and is not
advised to seek out some object of love, as in Giovanni;—in the Arabian
the singer is counselled by the druggist to go about and entertain wine
parties. Story-comparers have too much cause to be dissatisfied with
Jonathan Scott’s translation of the “Bahár-i-Dánish”—a work avowedly
derived from Indian sources—although it is far superior to Dow’s garbled
version. The abstracts of a number of the tales which Scott gives in an
appendix, while of some use, are generally tantalising: some stories he
has altogether omitted “because they are similar to tales already well
known” (unfortunately the comparative study of popular fictions was
hardly begun in his time); while of others bare outlines are furnished,
because he considered them “unfit for general perusal.” But his work,
even as it is, has probably never been “generally” read, and he seems to
have had somewhat vague notions of “propriety,” to judge by his
translations from the Arabic and Persian. A complete English rendering
of the “Bahár-i-Dánish” would be welcomed by all interested in the
history of fiction.
THE FULLER, HIS WIFE, AND THE TROOPER, _p. 329_.
The trick played on the silly fuller of dressing him up as a Turkish
soldier resembles that of one of the Three Deceitful Women who found a
gold ring in the public bath, as related in the Persian story-book,
“Shamsa ú Kuhkuha:”
When the wife of the superintendent of police was apprised that her turn
had come, she revolved and meditated for some time what trick she was to
play off on her lord, and after having come to a conclusion she said one
evening to him, “To-morrow I wish that we should both enjoy ourselves at
home without interruptions, and I mean to prepare some cakes.” He
replied, “Very well, my dear; I have also longed for such an occasion.”
The lady had a servant who was very obedient and always covered with the
mantle of attachment to her. The next morning she called this youth and
said to him, “I have long contemplated the hyacinth grove of thy
symmetrical stature; and I know that thou travellest constantly and
faithfully on the road of compliance with all my wishes, and that thou
seekest to serve me. I have a little business which I wish thee to do
for me.” The servant answered, “I shall be happy to comply.” Then the
lady gave him a thousand dinars and said, “Go to the convent which is in
our vicinity; give this money to one of the kalandars there and say to
him, ‘A prisoner whom the Amír had surrendered to the police has escaped
last night. He closely resembles thee, and as the superintendent of the
police is unable to account to the Amír, he has sent a man to take thee
instead of the escaped criminal. I have compassion for thee and mean to
rescue thee. Take this sum of money; give me thy dress; and flee from
the town; for if thou remainest in it till the morning thou wilt be
subjected to torture and wilt lose thy life.’” The servant acted as he
was bid, and brought the garments to his mistress. When it was morning
she said to her husband, “I know you have long wished to eat sweetmeats,
and I shall make some to-day.” He answered, “Very well.” His wife made
all her preparations and commenced to bake the sweetmeats. He said to
her, “Last night a theft was committed in a certain place, and I sat up
late to extort confessions; and as I have spent a sleepless night, I
feel tired and wish to repose a little.” The lady replied, “Very well.”
Accordingly the superintendent of the police reclined on the pillow of
rest; and when the sweetmeat was ready his wife took a little and
putting an opiate into it she handed it to him, saying, “How long will
you sleep? To-day is a day of feasting and pleasure, not of sleep and
laziness. Lift up your head and see whether I have made the sweets
according to your taste.” He raised his head, swallowed a piece of the
hot cake and lay down again. The morsel was still in his throat when
consciousness left and a deep sleep overwhelmed him. His wife
immediately undressed him and put on him the garments of the kalandar.
The servant shaved his head and made some tattoo marks on his body. When
the night set in the lady called her servant and said, “Hyacinth, be
kind enough to take the superintendent on thy back, and carry him to the
convent instead of that kalandar, and if he wishes to return to the
house in the morning, do not let him.” The servant obeyed. Towards dawn
the superintendent recovered his senses a little; but as the opiate had
made his palate very bitter, he became extremely thirsty. He fancied
that he was in his own house, and so he exclaimed, “Narcissus, bring
water.” The kalandars awoke from sleep, and after hearing several shouts
of this kind, they concluded that he was under the influence of bang,
and said, “Poor fellow! the narcissus is in the garden; this is the
convent of sufferers, and there are green garments enough here. Arise
and sober thyself, for the morning and harbinger of benefits as well as
of the acquisition of the victuals for subsistence is approaching.” When
the superintendent heard these words he thought they were a dream, for
he had not yet fully recovered his senses. He sat quietly, but was
amazed on beholding the walls and ceiling of the convent: he got up,
looked at the clothes in which he was dressed and at the marks tattooed
on his body, and began to doubt whether he was awake or asleep. He
washed his face, and perceived that the caravan of his mustachios had
likewise departed from the plain of his countenance.
In this state of perplexity he went out of the convent and proceeded to
his house. There his wife, with her male and female servants, was
expecting his arrival. He approached the house and placed his hand on
the knocker of the door, but was received by Hyacinth, who said,
“Kalandar, whom seekest thou?” The superintendent rejoined, “I want to
enter the house.” Hyacinth continued, “Thou hast to-day evidently taken
thy morning draught of bang earlier and more copiously than usual, since
thou hast foolishly mistaken the road to thy convent. Depart! This is
not a place in which vagabond kalandars are harboured. This is the
palace of the superintendent of the police; and if the symurgh looks
with incivility from the fastness of the west of Mount Káf at this
place, the wings of its impertinence will at once become singed.” The
superintendent said, “What nonsense art thou speaking? Go out of my way,
for I do not relish thy imbecile prattle.” But when he wanted to enter,
Hyacinth struck him with a bludgeon on the shoulder, which the
superintendent returned with a box on the ear, and both began to wrestle
together. At that moment the lady and her maid-servants rushed forth
from the rear and assailed him with sticks and stones, shouting, “This
kalandar wishes in plain daylight to force his way into the house of the
superintendent. What a pity that the superintendent is sick, or else
this crime would have to be expiated on the gallows!” In the meantime
all the neighbours assembled, and on seeing the shameless kalandar’s
proceedings they cried, “Look at that impudent kalandar who wants
forcibly to enter the house of the superintendent.” Ultimately the crowd
amounted to more than five hundred persons, and the gentleman was put to
flight and pursued by all the little boys, who pelted him with stones
till they expelled him from the town.
At the distance of three farsangs from the town there was a village
where the superintendent concealed himself in the corner of a mosque.
During the evenings he went from house to house and begged for food to
sustain life, until his mustachios again grew and the tattooed scars
gradually began to disappear. Whenever anyone inquired for the
superintendent at his house, he was informed by the servants that the
gentleman was sick. After one month had expired, the grief of separation
and the misery of his condition had again driven him back to the city.
He went to the convent because fear hindered him from going to the
house. His wife happened one day to catch a glimpse of him from her
window, and perceived him sitting in the same dress with a company of
kalandars. She felt compassion for him, called the servant and said,
“The superintendent has had enough of this!” She made a loaf of bread
and put some opiate into it, and said, “When the kalandars are asleep,
you must go and place this loaf under the pillow of the superintendent.”
The servant obeyed, and when the gentleman awoke in the middle of the
night he was surprised to find the loaf. He fancied that when his
companions had during the night returned from begging, they had placed
it there, and so he ate some of it. During the same night the servant
went there by the command of the lady, took his master on his back and
carried him home. When it was morning, the lady took off the kalandar’s
clothes from her husband and dressed him in his own garments, and began
to make sweetmeats as on the former occasion. After some time he began
to move, and his wife exclaimed, “O superintendent, do not sleep so
much. I have told you that we shall spend this day in joy and pleasure,
and it was not fair of you to pass the time in this lazy way. Lift up
your head and see what beautiful sweetmeats I have baked for you.” When
he opened his eyes, and saw himself dressed in his own clothes and at
home, the rosebush of his amazement again brought forth the flowers of
astonishment, and he said, “God be praised! What has happened to me?” He
sat up, and exclaimed, “Wife, things have happened to me which I can
scarcely describe.” She replied, “From the uneasy motions which you have
made in your sleep, it appears you must have had extraordinary dreams.”
“Dreams, forsooth,” said he; “since the moment I lay down I have
experienced the most strange adventures.” “Certainly,” rejoined the
lady, “last night you have been eating food disagreeing with your
constitution, and to-day the vapours of it have ascended into your
brains, and have caused you all this distress.” The superintendent said,
“Yes, last night we went to a party in the house of Serjeant Bahman, and
there was roasted pillau, of which I ate somewhat more than usual, and
the vapour of it has occasioned me all this trouble.”[598]
* * * * *
Strikingly similar to this story is the trick of the first lady on her
husband in the “Fabliau des Trois Dames qui trouverent un Anel.” Having
made him drunk, she causes his head to be shaved, dresses him in the
habit of a monk, and carries him, assisted by her lover, to the entrance
of a convent. When he awakes and sees himself thus transformed he
imagines that God by a miraculous exercise of His grace had called him
to the monastic life. He presents himself before the abbot and requests
to be received among the brethren. The lady hastens to the convent in
well-feigned despair, and is exhorted to be resigned and to congratulate
her husband on the saintly vow he has taken. “Many a good man,” says the
poet, “has been betrayed by woman and by her harlotry. This one became a
monk in the abbey, where he abode a very long time. Wherefore, I counsel
all people who hear this story told, that they ought not to trust in
their wives, nor in their households, if they have not first proved that
they are full of virtues. Many a man has been deceived by women and by
their treachery. This one became monk against right, who would never
have been such in his life, if his wife had not deceived him.”[599]
* * * * *
The second lady’s trick in the _fabliau_ is a very close parallel to the
story in The Nights, vol. v. p. 96.[600] She had for dinner on a Friday
some salted and smoked eels, which her husband bade her cook, but there
was no fire in the house. Under the pretext of going to have them cooked
at a neighbour’s fire she goes out and finds her lover, at whose house
she remains a whole week. On the following Friday, at the hour of
dinner, she enters a neighbour’s house and asks leave to cook the eels,
saying that her husband is angry with her for having no fire, and that
she did not dare to go back, lest he should take off her head. As soon
as the eels are cooked she carries them piping hot to her own house. The
husband asks her where she has been for eight days, and commences to
beat her. She cries for help and the neighbours come in, and amongst
them the one at whose fire the eels had been cooked, who swears that the
wife had only just left her house, and ridicules the husband for his
assertion that she had been away a whole week. The husband gets into a
great rage and is locked up for a madman.
* * * * *
The device of the third lady seems a reflection of the “Elopement,” but
without the underground tunnel between the houses of the wife and the
lover. The lady proposes to her lover to marry him, and he believes that
she is only jesting, seeing that she is already married, but she assures
him that she is quite in earnest, and even undertakes that her husband
will consent. The lover is to come for her husband and take him to the
house of Dan Eustace, where he has a fair niece, whom the lover is to
pretend he wishes to espouse, if he will give her to him. The wife will
go thither, and she will have done her business with Eustace before they
arrive. Her husband cannot but believe that he has left her at home, and
she will be so apparelled that he cannot recognise her. This plan is
accordingly carried out. The lover asks the husband for the hand of his
niece in marriage, to which he joyously consents, and without knowing it
makes a present of his own wife. “All his life long the lover possessed
her, because the husband gave and did not lend her; nor could he ever
get her back.”
* * * * *
Le Grand mentions that this _fabliau_ is told at great length in the
tales of the Sieur d’Ouville, tome iv. p. 255. In the “Facetiæ
Bebelianæ,” p. 86, three women wager which of them will play the best
trick on her husband. One causes him to believe he is a monk, and he
goes and sings mass; the second husband believes himself to be dead, and
allows himself to be carried to that mass on a bier; and the third sings
in it quite naked. (There is a very similar story in Campbell’s “Popular
Tales of the West Highlands.”) It is also found, says Le Grand, in the
“Convivales Sermones,” tome i. p. 200; in the “Delices de Verboquet,” p.
166; and in the Facetiæ of Lod. Doménichi, p. 172. In the “Contes pour
Rire,” p. 197, three women find a diamond, and the arbiter whom they
select promises it, as in the _fabliau_, to her who concocts the best
device for deceiving her husband, but their _ruses_ are different.