_THE TALE OF ZAYN AL-ASNAM—p. 3._
This story is a compound of two distinct tales, namely, the Dream of
Riches and the Quest of the Ninth Image. It has always been one of the
most popular of the tales in our common version of the “Arabian Nights,”
with this advantage, that it is perhaps the only one of the whole
collection in which something like a moral purpose may be discovered—“a
virtuous woman is more precious than fine gold.” Baron de Sacy has
remarked of The Nights, that in the course of a few years after
Galland’s version appeared “it filled Europe with its fame, though
offering no object of moral or philosophical interest, and detailing
stories merely for the pleasure of relating them.” But this last
statement is not quite accurate: Shahrazad relates her stories merely to
prolong her own life.
It is a curious fact—and one perhaps not very generally known—that the
Tale of Zayn al-Asnám is one of two (the other being that of Khudádád)
which Galland repudiated, as having been foisted into his 8th volume
without his knowledge, as he expressly asserts in the “Avertissement” to
the 9th vol., promising to remove them in a second edition, which,
however, he did not live to see. I understand that M. Herrmann Zotenberg
purposes showing, in his forthcoming edition of “Aladdin,” that these
two _histoires_ (including that of the Princess of Daryábár, which is
interwoven with the tale of Khudádád and his Brothers) were Turkish
tales translated by M. Petis de la Croix and were intended to appear in
his “Mille et un Jours,” which was published, after his death, in 1710;
and that, like most of the tales in that work, they were derived from
the Turkish collection entitled “Al-Faráj ba’d al-Shiddah,” or Joy after
Affliction. But that Turkish story-book is said to be a translation of
the Persian collection entitled “Hazár ú Yek Rúz” (the Thousand and One
Days), which M. Petis rendered into French.
In the preface to Petis’ work it is stated that during his residence in
Persia, in 1675, he made a transcript of the “Hazár ú Yek Rúz,” by
permission of the author, a dervish named Mukhlis, of Isfahán. That
transcript has not, I understand, been found; but Sir William Ouseley
brought a manuscript from Persia which contained a portion of the “Hazár
ú Yek Rúz,” and which he says (“Travels,” vol. ii. p. 21, note) agreed
so far with the French version. And it does seem strange that Petis
should go to the Turkish book for tales to include in his “Mille et un
Jours” when he had before him a complete copy of the Persian original;
and even if he did so, how came his French rendering of the tales in
question into the hands of Galland’s publisher? The tales are not found
in Petis’ version, which is regularly divided into 1001 Days; and the
Turkish work, judging from the titles of the eleven first tales, of
which I have seen a transcript by M. Zotenberg, has a number of stories
which do not occur in the Persian.[124] But I think it very unlikely
that the tales of Khudádád and the Princess, foisted into Galland’s 8th
volume, were translated from the Turkish collection. In Galland the
story of the Princess Daryábár is inserted in that of Khudádád; while in
the Turkish story-book they are separate tales, the 6th recital being
under the title, “Of the Vazír with the Daughter of the Prince of
Daryábán,” and the 9th story is “Of the Sons of the Sovereign of Harrán
with Khudádád.” This does not seem to support the assertion that these
tales in Galland were derived from the Turkish versions: it is not to be
supposed, surely, that the translator of the versions in Galland
conceived the idea of fusing the two stories together?
The first part of the tale of Zayn al-Asnam—the Dream of Riches—is an
interesting variant of the tale in The Nights, vol. iv. p. 289, where
(briefly to recapitulate, for purposes of comparison by-and-by) a man of
Baghdad, having lost all his wealth and become destitute, dreams one
night that a figure appeared before him and told him that his fortune
was in Cairo. To that city he went accordingly, and as it was night when
he arrived, he took shelter in a mosque. A party of thieves just then
had got into an adjacent house from that same mosque, and the inmates,
discovering them, raised such an outcry as to bring the police at once
on the spot. The thieves contrive to get away, and the walí, finding
only the man of Baghdad in the mosque, causes him to be seized and
severely beaten, after which he sends him to prison, where the poor
fellow remains thirty days, when the walí sends for him and begins to
question him. The man tells his story, at which the walí laughs, calls
him an ass for coming so far because of a dream, and adds that he
himself had had a similar dream of a great treasure buried in the garden
of such a house in Baghdad, but he was not so silly as to go there. The
poor man recognises his own house and garden from the walí’s
description, and being set at liberty returns to Baghdad, and finds the
treasure on the very spot indicated.
Lane, who puts this story (as indeed he has done with much better ones)
among his notes, states that it is also related by El-Ishákí, who
flourished during the reign of the Khalíf El-Ma’mún (9th century); and
his editor Edward Stanley Poole adds that he found it also in a MS. of
Lane’s entitled “Murshid ez-Zúwár ilà Kubúr el-Abrar,” with the
difference that it is there related of an Egyptian saint who travelled
to Baghdad, and was in the same manner directed to his own house in
El-Fustát.
The same story is told in the 6th book of the “Masnaví,” an enormously
long sufí poem, written in Persian, by Jelál ed-Dín, the founder of the
sect of Muslim devotees generally known in Europe as the Dancing
Dervishes, who died in 1272. This version differs from the Arabian in
but a few and unimportant details: Arriving at Cairo, destitute and
hungry, he resolves to beg when it is dark, and is wandering about, “one
foot forward, one foot backwards,” for a third of the night, when
suddenly a watchman pounces on him and beats him with fist and stick—for
the people having been plagued with robbers, the Khalíf had given orders
to cut off the head of any one found abroad at night. The wretched man
begs for mercy till he has told his story, and when he has finished the
watchman acquaints him of a similar dream he had had of treasure at
Baghdad.[125]
A Turkish variant occurs in the “History of the Forty Vazírs,” where a
poor water-carrier of Cairo, named Nu’mán, presents his son’s teacher
with his only camel, which he used daily for carrying his skins of
water, as a reward for instructing the lad in the Kurán, and his wife
rails at him for his folly in no measured terms. In his sleep a
white-haired old man appears to him in a dream and tells him to go to
Damascus, where he would find his portion. After this has occurred three
times in succession, poor Nu’mán, spite of his wife’s remonstrances,
sets out for Damascus, enters a mosque there, and receives a loaf of
bread from a man who had been baking, and having eaten it falls asleep.
Returning home, his wife reviles him for giving away a camel and doing
other mad things. But again the venerable old man appears to him thrice
in a dream, and bids him dig close by himself, and there he would find
his provision. When he takes shovel and pick-axe to dig, his wife’s
tongue is more bitter than before, and after he has laboured a while and
begins to feel somewhat fatigued, when he asks her to take a short spell
at the work, she mocks him and calls him anything but a wise man. But on
his laying bare a stone slab, she thinks there must be something beneath
it, and offers to relieve him. “Nu’mán,” quoth she, “thou’rt weary now.”
“No, I’m rested,” says he. In the end he discovers a well, goes down
into it, and finds a jar full of sequins, upon seeing which his wife
clasps him lovingly round the neck, exclaiming, “O my noble little
hubby! Blessed be God for thy luck and thy fortune!” Her tune changes,
however, when the honest water-carrier tells her that he means to carry
the treasure to the King, which he does, and the King having caused the
money to be examined, the treasure is found to have the following legend
written on it: “This is an alms from God to Nu’mán, by reason of his
respect for the Kurán.”[126]
This curious story, which dates, as we have seen, at least as far back
as the 9th century, appears to be spread over Europe. Mr. E. Sidney
Hartland, in an able paper treating of several of its forms in “The
Antiquary” for February, 1887, pp. 45–48, gives a Sicilian version from
Dr. Pitré’s collection, which is to this effect:
A poor fellow at Palermo, who got his living by salting tunny and
selling it afterwards, dreamt one night that a person came to him and
said that if he wished to find his fortune he would find it under the
bridge of the Teste. Thither he goes and sees a man in rags, and is
beginning to retire when the man calls him back, informs him that he is
his fortune, and bids him go at midnight of that same night to the place
where he had deposited his casks of tunny, dig there, and whatever he
found was his own. The tunny-seller gets a pick-axe and at midnight
begins to dig. He comes upon a large flat stone, which he raises and
discovers a staircase; he descends, and at the bottom finds an immense
treasure of gold. In brief, he becomes so rich that he lends the King of
Spain “a million,” to enable him to carry on his wars; the King makes
him Viceroy of Sicily, and by-and-by, being unable to repay the loan,
raises him to the highest royal dignities.
Johannes Fungerus, in his “Etymologicon Latino-Græcum,” published at
Leyden in 1607, in art. _Somnus_, gravely relates the story, with a
young Dutchman for the hero and as having happened “within the memory of
our fathers, both as it has been handed down in truthful and honourable
fashion as well as frequently told to me.”[127] His “true story” may
thus be rendered:
A certain young man of Dort, in Holland, had squandered his wealth and
all his estate, and having contracted a debt, was unable to pay it. A
certain one appeared to him in a dream, and advised him to betake
himself to Kempen, and there on the bridge he would receive information
from some one as to the way in which he should be extricated from his
difficulties. He went there, and when he was in a sorrowful mood and
thinking upon what had been told him and promenaded almost the whole
day, a common beggar, who was asking alms, pitying his condition, sat
down and asked him, “Why so sad?” Thereupon the dreamer explained to him
his sad and mournful fate, and why he had come there: forsooth, under
the impulse of a dream, he had set out thither, and was expecting God,
as if by a wonder, to unravel this more than Gordian knot. The mendicant
answered, “Good Heaven! are you so mad and foolish as to rely on a
dream, which is emptier than nothing, and journey hither? I should
betake myself to Dort, to dig up a treasure buried under such a tree in
such a man’s garden (now this garden had belonged to the dreamer’s
father), likewise revealed to me in a dream.” The other remained silent
and pondering all that had been said to him, then hastened with all
speed to Dort, and under the aforesaid tree found a great heap of money,
which freed him from his obligations, and having paid off all his debts,
he set up in a more sumptuous style than before.
The second part of the tale, or novelette, of “The Spectre Barber,” by
Musæus (1735–1788), is probably an elaboration of some German popular
legend closely resembling the last-cited version, only in this instance
the hero does not dream, but is told by a ghost, in reward for a service
he had done it (or him), to tarry on the great bridge over the Weser, at
the time when day and night are equal, for a friend who would instruct
him what he must do to retrieve his fortune. He goes there at dawn, and
walks on the bridge till evening comes, when there remained no one but
himself and a wooden legged soldier to whom he had given a small coin in
the early morning, and who ventured at length to ask him why he had
promenaded the bridge all day. The youth at first said he was waiting
for a friend, but on the old soldier remarking that he could be no
friend who would keep him waiting so long, he said that he had only
dreamt he was to meet some friend (for he did not care to say anything
about his interview with the ghost), the old fellow observed that he had
had many dreams, but put not the least faith in them. “But my dream,”
quoth the youth, “was a most remarkable one.” “It couldn’t have been so
remarkable as one I had many years ago,” and so on, as usual, with this
addition, that the young man placed the old soldier in a snug little
cottage and gave him a comfortable annuity for life—taking care, we may
be sure, not to tell him a word as to the result of acting upon his
dream.
To what extent Musæus has enlarged his original material it is
impossible to say; but it is well known that, like Hans Anderson in
later times, he did “improve” and add to such popular tales and
traditions as he dealt with—a circumstance which renders him by no means
trustworthy for folk-lore purposes.
In Denmark our well-travelled little tale does duty in accounting for
the building of a parish church, as we learn from Thorpe, in his
“Northern Mythology,” vol. ii. p. 253:
Many years ago there lived in Erritsö, near Fredericia, a very poor man
who one day said, “If I had a large sum of money, I would build a church
for the parish.” The following night he dreamed that if he went to the
south bridge at Veile he would make his fortune. He followed the
intimation and strolled backwards and forwards on the bridge until it
grew late, but without seeing any sign of good fortune. When just on the
point of returning, he was accosted by an officer, who asked him why he
had spent a whole day so on the bridge. He told him his dream, on
hearing which the officer related to him in return that he also on the
preceding night had dreamed that in a barn in Erritsö, belonging to a
man whose name he mentioned, a treasure lay buried. Now the name he
mentioned was the man’s own, who prudently kept his own counsel,
hastened home, and found the treasure in the barn. The man was faithful
to his word, and built the church.[128]
Equally at home, as we have seen, in Sicily, Holland, Germany, and
Denmark, the identical legend is also domiciled in Scotland and England.
Thus Robert Chambers, in his “Popular Rhymes of Scotland,” ed. 1826, p.
56, speaking of Dundonald Castle, in Ayrshire, the ancient seat of King
Robert II., relates the following local tradition:
Donald, the builder, was originally a poor man, but had the faculty of
dreaming lucky dreams. Upon one occasion he dreamed thrice in one night
that if he were to go to London Bridge he would make a fortune. He went
accordingly, and saw a man looking over the parapet of the bridge, whom
he accosted courteously, and after a little conversation, entrusted him
with the secret of the occasion of his visiting London Bridge. The
stranger told him that he had made a very foolish errand, for he had
himself once had a similar vision, which directed him to go to a certain
spot in Ayrshire, in Scotland, where he would find a vast treasure, and
for his part he had never once thought of obeying the injunction. From
his description of the spot, however, the sly Scot at once perceived
that the treasure in question must be concealed nowhere but in his own
humble kail-yard at home, to which he immediately repaired, in full
expectation of finding it. Nor was he disappointed; for after destroying
many good and promising cabbages, and completely cracking credit with
his wife, who considered him as mad, he found a large potful of gold
coin, with which he built a stout castle for himself, and became the
founder of a flourishing family.
“This absurd story,” adds Chambers, “is localised in almost every
district of Scotland, always referring to London Bridge, and Hogg (the
Ettrick Shepherd) has worked up the fiction in a very amusing manner in
one of his ‘Winter Evening Tales,’ substituting the Bridge at Kelso for
that of London.”
But the legend of the Chapman, or Pedlar, of Swaffam, in Norfolk, handed
down, as it has been, from one credulous generation to another, with the
most minute details and perfect local colour, throws quite into the
shade all other versions or variants of the ancient tale of the poor man
of Baghdad. Blomfield, in his “History of Norfolk,” 8vo ed., vol. vi.
211–213, reproduces it as follows, from Sir Roger Twysden’s
“Reminiscences”:
“The story of the Pedlar of Swaffam Market is in substance this: That
dreaming one night, if he went to London, he should certainly meet with
a man upon London Bridge, which should tell him good news; he was so
perplexed in his mind that till he set upon his journey he could have no
rest. To London therefore he hastes, and walked upon the Bridge for some
hours, where being espied by a shopkeeper and asked what he wanted, he
answered, ‘You may well ask me that question, for truly (quoth he) I am
come hither upon a very vain errand,’ and so told the story of his dream
which occasioned his journey. Whereupon the shopkeeper replied, ‘Alas,
good friend, should I have heeded dreams I might have proved myself as
very a fool as thou hast; for ’tis not long since that I dreamt that at
a place called Swaffam Market, in Norfolk, dwells one John Chapman, a
pedlar, who hath a tree in his back yard, under which is buried a pot of
money. Now, therefore, if I should have made a journey thither to dig
for such hidden treasure, judge you whether I should not have been
counted a fool.’ To whom the Pedlar cunningly said, ‘Yes, truly: I will
therefore return home and follow my business, not heeding such dreams
henceforward.’ But when he came home (being satisfied that his dream was
fulfilled), he took occasion to dig in that place, and accordingly found
a large pot full of money, which he prudently concealed, putting the pot
among the rest of his brass. After a time, it happened that one who came
to his house, and beholding the pot, observed an inscription upon it,
which being in Latin he interpreted it, that under that there was
another twice as good.[129] Of this inscription the Pedlar was before
ignorant, or at least minded it not; but when he heard the meaning of
it, he said, ‘’Tis very true; in the shop where I bought this pot stood
another under it which was twice as big’; but considering that it might
tend to his further profit to dig deeper in the same place where he
found that, he fell again to work and discovered such a pot as was
intimated by the inscription, full of old coin; notwithstanding all
which, he so concealed his wealth that the neighbours took no notice of
it. But not long after the inhabitants of Swaffam resolving to re-edify
their church, and having consulted the workmen about the charge, they
made a levy, wherein they taxed the Pedlar according to no other rate
but what they had formerly done. But he, knowing his own ability, came
to the church and desired the workmen to show him their model and to
tell him what they esteemed the charge of the north aisle would amount
to; which when they told him, he presently undertook to pay them for
building it, and not only that, but for a very tall and beautiful tower
steeple.
“This is the tradition of the inhabitants, as it was told me there. And
in testimony thereof, there was then his picture, with his wife and
three children, in every window of the aisle, with an inscription
running through the bottom of all those windows, viz., ‘Orate pro bono
statu Johannis Chapman.... Uxoris ejus, et Liberorum suorum, qui quidem
Johannes hanc alam cum fenestris tecto et ... fieri fecit.’ It was in
Henry the
Seventh’s time, but the year I now remember not, my notes being left
with Mr. William Sedgwicke, who trickt the pictures, he being then
with me. In that aisle is his seat, of an antique form, and on each
side the entrance, the statue of the Pedlar of about a foot in
length, with pack on his back, very artificially [? artistically]
cut. This was sent me from Mr. William Dugdale, of Blyth Hall, in
Warwickshire, in a letter dated Jan. 29th, 1652–3, which I have
since learned from others to have been most true.—ROGER TWYSDEN.”
Mr. William E. A. Axon, in “The Antiquary,” vol. xi. p. 168, gives the
same version, with some slight variations, from a work entitled “New
Help to Discourse,” which he says was often printed between 1619 and
1696: The dream was “doubled and tripled,” and the Pedlar stood on the
bridge for two or three days; but no mention is made of his finding a
second pot of money: “he found an infinite mass of money, with part of
which he re-edified the church, having his statue therein to this day,
cut out in stone, with his pack on his back and his dog at his heels,
his memory being preserved by the same form or picture in most of the
glass windows in taverns and alehouses in that town to this day.” The
story is also told of a cobbler in Somersetshire (in an article on
Dreams, “Saturday Review,” Dec. 28, 1878), who dreamt three nights in
succession that if he went to London Bridge he would there meet with
something to his advantage. For three days he walked over the bridge,
when at length a stranger came up to him, and asked him why he had been
walking from end to end of the bridge for these three days, offering
nothing for sale nor purchasing aught. The man having told him of his
strange dream, the stranger said that he too had dreamt of a pot of gold
buried in a certain orchard in such a place in Somersetshire. Upon this
the cobbler returned home and found the pot of gold under an apple-tree.
He now sent his son to school, where he learnt Latin, and when the lad
had come home for his holidays, he happened to look at the pot that had
contained the gold and seeing some writing on it he said, “Father, I can
show you what I have learnt at school is of some use.” He then
translated the Latin inscription on the pot thus: “Look under and you
will find better.” They did look under and a large quantity of gold was
found. Mr. Axon gives a version of the legend in the Yorkshire dialect
in “The Antiquary,” vol. xii. pp. 121–2, and there is a similar story
connected with the parish church of Lambeth.[130]
Regarding the Norfolk tradition of the lucky and generous Pedlar,
Blomfield says that the north aisle of the church of Swaffam (or Sopham)
was certainly built by one John Chapman, who was churchwarden in 1462;
but he thinks that the figures of the pedlar etc. were only put “to set
forth the name of the founder: such rebuses are frequently met with on
old works.” The story is also told in Abraham de la Prynne’s Diary under
date Nov. 10, 1699, as “a constant tradition” concerning a pedlar in
Soffham.
Such is the close resemblance between the Turkish version of the Dream
and that in the tale of Zayn al-Asnam that I am disposed to consider
both as having been derived from the same source, which, however, could
hardly have been the story told by El-Ishákí. In Zayn al-Asnam a shaykh
appears to the prince in a dream and bids him hie to Egypt, where he
will find heaps of treasure; in the Turkish story the shaykh appears to
the poor water-carrier three times and bids him go to Damascus for the
like purpose. The prince arrives at Cairo and goes to sleep in a mosque,
when the shaykh again presents himself before him in a dream and tells
him that he has done well in obeying him—he had only made a trial of his
courage: “now return to thy capital and I will make thee wealthy”;—in
the Turkish story the water-carrier also goes into a mosque at Damascus
and receives a loaf of bread there from a baker. When the prince returns
home the shaykh appears to him once more and bids him take a pick-axe
and go to such a palace of his sire and dig in such a place, where he
should find riches;—in the Turkish story the water-carrier having
returned to his own house, the shaykh comes to him three times more and
bids him search near to where he is and he should find wealth. The
discovery by Zayn al-Asnam of his father’s hidden treasure, after he had
recklessly squandered all his means, bears some analogy to the
well-known ballad of the “Heir of Linne,” who, when reduced to utter
poverty, in obedience to his dying father’s injunction, should such be
his hap, went to hang himself in the “lonely lodge” and found there
concealed a store of gold.
With regard to the second part of the tale of Zayn al-Asnam—the Quest of
the Ninth Image—and the Turkish version of which my friend Mr. Gibb has
kindly furnished us with a translation from the mystical work of ’Alí
’Azíz Efendi, the Cretan, although no other version has hitherto been
found,[131] I have little doubt that the story is of either Indian or
Persian extraction, images and pictures being abhorred by orthodox (or
sunni) Muslims generally; and such also, I think, should we consider all
the Arabian tales of young men becoming madly enamoured of beautiful
girls from seeing their portraits—though we can readily believe that an
Arab as well as a Persian or Indian youth might fall in love with a
pretty maid from a mere description of her personal charms, as we are
told of the Bedouin coxcomb Amarah in the Romance of Antar. If the
Turkish version, which recounts the adventures of the Prince Abd
es-Samed in quest of the lacking image (the tenth, not the ninth, as in
the Arabian) was adapted from Zayn al-Asnam, the author has made
considerable modifications in re-telling the fascinating story, and, in
my opinion, it is not inferior to the Arabian version. In the Turkish,
the Prince’s father appears to him in a vision of the night,[132] and
conducts him to the treasure-vault, where he sees the vacant pedestal
and on it the paper in which his father directs him to go to Cairo and
seek counsel of the Shaykh Mubarak, who would instruct him how to obtain
the lacking image; and the prince is commissioned by the shaykh to bring
him a spotless virgin who has never so much as longed for the pleasures
of love, when he should receive the image for his reward. The shaykh
gives him a mirror which should remain clear when held before such a
virgin, but become dimmed when reflecting the features of another sort
of girl; also a purse which should be always full of money.[133] In the
Arabian story the Shaykh Mubarak accompanies Zayn al-Asnam in his quest
of the image to the land of Jinnistán, the King whereof it is who
requires the prince to procure him a pure virgin and then he would give
him the lacking image. In the Turkish version the prince Abd es-Samed
proceeds on the adventure alone, and after visiting many places without
success he goes to Baghdad, where by means of the Imam he at last finds
the desiderated virgin, whom he conducts to Mubarak. In the Arabian
story the Imam, Abu Bakr (Haji Bakr in the Turkish), is at first
inimical towards the prince and the shaykh, but after being propitiated
by a present of money he is all complaisance, and, as in the Turkish,
introduces the prince to the fallen vazír, the father of the spotless
virgin. The sudden conversion of the Imam from a bitter enemy to an
obliging friend is related with much humour: one day denouncing the
strangers to the folk assembled in the mosque as cutpurses and brigands,
and the next day withdrawing his statement, which he says he had made on
the information of one of the prince’s enviers, and cautioning the
people against entertaining aught but reverence for the strangers. This
amusing episode is omitted in the Turkish version. In one point the tale
of Zayn al-Asnam has the advantage of that of Abd es-Samed: it is much
more natural, or congruous, that the King of the Genii should affect to
require the chaste maiden and give the prince a magical mirror which
would test her purity, and that the freed slave Mubarak should accompany
the prince in his quest.
_ALADDIN; OR, THE WONDERFUL LAMP—p. 52._
Those scholars who declared a number of the tales in Galland’s “Mille et
une Nuits” to be of his own invention, because they were not found in
any of the Arabic MS. texts of The Nights preserved in European
libraries, were unconsciously paying that learned and worthy man a very
high compliment, since the tales in question are among the best in his
work and have ever been, and probably will continue to be, among the
most popular favourites. But the fact that Galland seized the first
opportunity of intimating that two of those tales were not translated or
inserted by himself ought to have been alone amply sufficient
presumptive evidence of his good faith with regard to the others.
A friendly reviewer of my “Popular Tales and Fictions” etc. states that
modern collectors of European _Märchen_, though “working from 100 to 150
years after the appearance of the ‘Thousand and One Nights,’ in European
literature, have not found the special versions therein contained
distributed widely and profusely throughout Europe,” and that my chapter
on Aladdin is proof sufficient that they have not done so. The reviewer
goes on to say that I cite “numerous variants, but, save one from Rome,
variants of the _theme_, not of the _version_; some again, such as the
Mecklenburg and Danish forms, are more primitive in tone; and all lack
those effective and picturesque details which are the charm of the
Arabian story, and which a borrower only interested in the story as a
story might just be expected to retain.”[134]
But it is not contended that the folk-tales of Europe owe much, if
indeed anything at all, to the “Arabian Nights,” which is not only as it
now exists a comparatively modern work—Baron de Sacy has adduced good
reasons for placing the date of its composition in the middle of the 9th
century of the Hijra, or about 1446 A.D.—but was first made known in
Europe so late as the first quarter of the last century. Several of the
tales, and incidents of the tales, in the “Thousand and One Nights” were
current in Europe in the 12th century—imported by the Moors of Spain,
and by European travellers, pilgrims, and minstrels from the East. Thus
the Arabian tale of the Ebony (or Enchanted) Horse is virtually
identical with the Hispano-French romance of Cleomades and Claremonde;
that of Prince Kamar al-Zaman is fairly represented by the romance of
Peter of Provence and the Fair Maguelone. The episode of Astolphe and
Joconde in Ariosto’s “Orlando Furioso” is identical with the opening
story of The Nights which constitutes the frame of the collection.[135]
The Magnetic Rock (or rock of adamant) which figures in the adventures
of Sindbád occurs in the popular German story of “Herzog Ernst von
Baiern,” which is extant in a Latin poem that cannot be later than the
13th century and is probably a hundred years earlier.[136] The Valley of
Diamonds in the History of Sindbád is described by Marco Polo, who
travelled in the East in the 13th century; moreover, it had been known
in Europe from the 4th century, when the story connected with it was
related by Epiphanius, bishop of Salamis, who lays the scene in Scythia,
while Marco Polo and the author of Sindbád’s Voyages both place it in
India, where the fiction probably had its origin.
When we find a popular (_i.e._ oral) European tale reproduce the most
minute details of a story found in The Nights, we should conclude that
it has been derived therefrom and within quite recent times, and such I
am now disposed to think is the case of the Roman version of Aladdin
given by Miss Busk under the title of “How Cajusse was Married,”
notwithstanding the circumstance that the old woman from whom it was
obtained was almost wholly illiterate. A child who could read might have
told the story out of Galland to his or her nurse, through whom it would
afterwards assume local colour, with some modifications of the details.
But stories having all the essential features of the tale of Aladdin
were known throughout Europe long before Galland’s work was published,
and in forms strikingly resembling other Asiatic versions, from one of
which the Arabian tale must have been adapted. The incidents of the
Magician and Aladdin at the Cave, and the conveying of the Princess and
the vazír’s son three nights in succession to Aladdin’s house (which
occurs, in modified forms, in other tales in The Nights), I consider as
the work of the Arabian author. Stripped of these particulars, the
elements of the tale are identical in all versions, Eastern and Western:
a talisman, by means of which its possessor can command unlimited
wealth, &c.; its loss and the consequent disappearance of the
magnificent palace erected by supernatural agents who are subservient to
the owner of the talisman; and finally its recovery together with the
restoration of the palace to its original situation. The Arabian tale is
singular in the circumstance of the talisman (the Lamp) being recovered
by human means—by the devices of the hero himself, in fact; since in all
the European and the other Asiatic forms of the story it is recovered
by, as it was first obtained from, grateful animals. To my mind, this
latter is the pristine form of the tale, and points to a Buddhist
origin—mercy to all living creatures being one of the leading doctrines
of pure Buddhism.
The space at my disposal does not admit of the reproduction _in extenso_
of the numerous versions or variants of Aladdin: a brief outline of
their features will however serve my purpose. In the tale of Marúf the
Cobbler, which concludes the Búlák and Calcutta printed texts of The
Nights, we have an interesting version of Aladdin. The hero runs away
from his shrewish wife and under false pretences is married to a king’s
daughter. He confesses his imposture to the princess, who loves him
dearly, and she urges him to flee from her father’s vengeance and not to
return until his death should leave the throne vacant; and having
furnished him with money, he secretly quits the city at daybreak. After
riding some distance, he begins to feel hungry, and seeing a peasant
ploughing a field he goes up to him and asks for some food. The peasant
sets off to his house for eatables, and meanwhile Marúf begins to plough
a furrow, when presently the ploughshare strikes against something hard,
which he finds to be an iron ring. He tugs at the ring and raises a
slab, which discovers a number of steps, down which he goes and comes
into a cavern filled with gold and precious stones, and in a box made of
a single diamond he finds a talismanic ring, on placing which on his
finger a monstrous figure appears and expresses his readiness and
ability to obey all his commands. In brief, by means of this genie, the
hero obtains immense wealth in gold and jewels, and also rich
merchandise, which enable him to return to the city in the capacity of a
merchant, which he had professed himself when he married the princess.
The vazír, who had from the first believed him to be an arrant impostor,
lays a plot with the King to worm out of him the secret of his wealth,
and succeeds so well at a private supper, when Marúf is elevated with
wine, that he obtains possession of the ring, summons the genie, and
causes him to carry both the King and Marúf into a far distant desert.
He then compels the other ministers and the people to acknowledge him as
king, and resolves to marry the princess. She temporises with him;
invites him to sup with her; plies him with wine, induces him to throw
the ring into a corner of the room, pretending to be afraid of the demon
who is held captive in it; and when he has become insensible (in plain
English, dead drunk), she seizes the ring, summons the genie, and
commands him to secure the vazír and bring back her father and husband,
which he does “in less than no time.” The vazír is of course put to
death, and the princess takes charge of the ring for the future,
alleging that neither the King nor her husband is to be trusted with the
custody of such a treasure.
Another Arabian version is found—as Sir Richard Burton points out, note
2, p. 159—in “The Fisherman’s Son,” one of the tales translated by
Jonathan Scott from the Wortley-Montague MS. text of The Nights, where
the hero finds a magic ring inside a cock: like Aladdin, he marries the
King’s daughter and has a grand palace built for him by the genii. The
ring is afterwards disposed of to a Jew, in the same manner as was the
Lamp to the Magician, and the palace with the princess is conveyed to a
distant desert island. The fisherman’s son takes to flight. He purchases
of a man who offered them for sale a dog, a cat, and a rat, which turn
out to be well-disposed magicians, and they recover the ring from the
Jew’s mouth while he is asleep. The ring is dropped into the sea
accidentally while the animals are crossing it to rejoin their master,
but is brought to the hero by a fish which he had returned to the sea
out of pity in his fisherman days. The genie conveys the palace back
again, and so on.—In a Mongolian version (“Siddhí Kúr”) a young merchant
parts with all his wares to save a mouse, an ape, and a bear from being
tortured to death by boys. One of those creatures procures for him a
wishing-stone, by means of which he has a grand palace built and obtains
much treasure. He foolishly exchanges his talisman with the chief of a
caravan for all their gold and merchandise, and it is afterwards
restored to him by the grateful and ingenious animals.—In a Tamil
version—referred to by Sir Richard, p. 51, note 1—which occurs in the
“Madanakámarájankadai,” a poor wandering young prince buys a cat and a
serpent; at his mother’s suggestion, he sets the serpent at liberty and
receives from its father a wishing ring. He gets a city built in the
jungle—or rather where the jungle was—and marries a beautiful princess.
An old hag is employed by another King to procure him the princess for
his wife. She wheedles herself into the confidence of the unsuspecting
young lady, and learning from her the properties of the ring, induces
her to borrow it of her husband for a few minutes, in order that she
(the old trot) might apply it to her head to cure a severe headache. No
sooner has she got possession of the ring than she disappears, and
having delivered it to the other King, he “thought” of the princess, and
in the twinkling of an eye she is carried through the air and set down
before him. The ring is recovered by means of the cat which the hero had
fostered, and so on.
Sir Richard has referred to a number of Italian versions (p. 51, note
1), which will be found epitomised in a most valuable and interesting
paper, by my late friend Mr. H. C. Coote, on the sources of some of M.
Galland’s Tales, in the First Part of the Folk-Lore Record for 1880;
and, in conclusion, I may briefly glance at a few other European
variants. Among those which not only bear a close analogy one to another
but also to the Asiatic versions cited above are the following: No. 15
of M. Leger’s French collection of Slav Tales is a Bohemian version, in
which the hero, Jenik, saves a dog, a cat, and a serpent from being
killed. From the serpent’s father he gets an enchanted watch (evidently
a modern substitute for a talismanic stone, or ring), which procures him
a splendid palace and the King’s daughter for his bride. But the young
lady, unlike the Princess Badr al-Badúr with Aladdin, does not love
Jenik, and having learned from him the secret of his great wealth, she
steals the talisman and causes a palace to be built in the middle of the
sea, where she goes to live, after making Jenik’s palace disappear.
Jenik’s faithful dog and cat recover the talisman, which, as in the
Arabian story of the Fisherman’s Son, is dropped in the sea while they
are swimming back and restored by a fish.—In No. 9 of M. Dozon’s “Contes
Albanais” the hero saves a serpent’s life and gets in return a
wishing-stone and so on. The talisman is stolen by a rascally Jew on the
night of the wedding, and the palace with the princess is transported to
the distant sea-shore. The hero buys a cat and feeds it well. He and his
cat arrive at the spot where the palace now stands, and the cat compels
the chief of a colony of mice to steal the talisman from the Jew while
he is asleep.—A popular Greek version in Hahn’s collection combines
incidents found in Aladdin and in the versions in which grateful animals
play prominent parts: The hero rescues a snake which some boys are about
to kill and gets in reward from the snake’s father a sealring, which he
has only to lick and a black man will present himself, ready to obey his
orders. As in Aladdin, the first use he makes of the talisman is to have
his mother’s cupboard filled with dainty food. Then he bids his mother
“go to the King, and tell him he must give me his daughter in marriage.”
After many objections, she goes to deliver her message to the King, who
replies that if her son build a castle larger than his, he shall have
the princess to wife. The castle is built that same night, and when the
mother goes next morning to require the King’s performance of his
promise, he makes a farther stipulation that her son should first pave
the way between the two castles with gold. This is done at once, and the
King gives the hero his daughter. Here the resemblance to the Aladdin
story ceases and what follows (as well as what precedes) is analogous to
the other Asiatic forms. The princess has a black servant of whom she is
enamoured. She steals the ring and elopes with her sable paramour to an
island in the sea, where she has a castle erected by the power of the
ring. The black man sleeps with the ring under his tongue, but the
hero’s dog takes the cat on his back and swims to the island; and the
cat contrives to get the ring and deliver it to her master, who
straightway causes the castle to be removed from the island, then kills
the black man, and afterwards lives happily with the princess.—In a
Danish version (Prof. Grundtvig’s “Danske Folkeäventyr”) a peasant gets
from an aged man a wishing-box, and henceforward lives in grand style.
After his death the steward and servants cheat his son and heir, so that
in ten years he is ruined and turned out of house and home. All the
property he takes with him is an old sheepskin jacket, in which he finds
the wishing-box, which had been, unknown to him, the cause of his
father’s prosperity. When the “slave” of the box appears, the hero
merely asks for a fiddle that when played upon makes everybody who hears
it to dance.[137] He hires himself to the King, whose daughter gives
him, in jest, a written promise to marry him, in exchange for the
fiddle. The King, when the hero claims the princess, insists on her
keeping her promise, and they are married. Then follows the loss of the
wishing-box, as in the Greek version, only in place of a black man it is
a handsome cavalier who is the lady’s paramour. The recovery of the box
is accomplished by very different means, and may be passed over, as
belonging to another cycle of tales.[138]
It is perhaps hardly worth while to make a critical analysis of the tale
of Aladdin, since with all its gross inconsistencies it has such a hold
of the popular fancy that one would not wish it to be otherwise than it
is. But it must have occurred to many readers that the author has
blundered in representing the Magician as closing the Cave upon Aladdin
because he refused to give up the Lamp before he had been helped out. As
the lad was not aware of the properties of the Lamp, he could have had
no object in retaining it for himself, while the Magician in any case
was perfectly able to take it by force from him. And if he wished to do
away with Aladdin, yet incur no “blood-guiltiness” (see _ante_, p. 78
and note), he might surely have contrived to send him down into the Cave
again and then close it upon him. As to the Magician giving his ring to
Aladdin, I can’t agree with Sir Richard in thinking (p. 72, note 3) that
he had mistaken its powers; this seems to me quite impossible. The ring
was evidently a charm against personal injury as well as a talisman to
summon an all-powerful and obedient genie. It was only as a charm that
the Magician placed it on Aladdin’s finger, and, as the Hindustani
Version explains, he had in his rage and vexation forgot about the ring
when he closed the entrance to the Cave. It appears to me also
incongruous that the Lamp, which Aladdin found burning, should
afterwards only require to be rubbed in order to cause the genie to
appear. One should have supposed that the _lighting_ of it would have
been more natural or appropriate; and it is possible that such was in
the original form of the Aladdin version before it was reduced to
writing, since we find something of the kind in a Mecklenburg version
given in Grimm, under the title of “Das blaue Licht.” A soldier who had
long served his King is at last discharged without any pay. In the
course of his wanderings he comes to the hut of an old woman, who proves
to be a witch, and makes him work for her in return for his board and
lodging. One day she takes him to the edge of a dry well, and bids him
go down and get her the Blue Light which he would find at the bottom. He
consents, and she lets him down by a rope. When he has secured the Light
he signals to the old witch to draw him up, and when she has pulled him
within her reach, she bids him give her the Light; he refuses to do so
until he is quite out of the well, upon which she lets him fall to the
bottom again. After ruminating his condition for some time he bethinks
him of his pipe, which is in his pocket—he may as well have a smoke if
he is to perish. So he lights his pipe at the Blue Light, when instantly
there appears before him a black dwarf, with a hump on his back and a
feather in his cap, who demands to know what he wants, for he must obey
the possessor of the Blue Light. The soldier first requires to be taken
out of the well, and next the destruction of the old witch, after which
he helps himself to the treasures in the hag’s cottage, and goes off to
the nearest town, where he puts up at the best inn and gets himself fine
clothes. Then he determines to requite the King, who had sent him away
penniless, so he summons the Dwarf[139] and orders him to bring the
King’s daughter to his room that night, which the Dwarf does, and very
early in the morning he carries her back to her own chamber in the
palace. The princess tells her father that she has had a strange dream
of being borne through the air during the night to an old soldier’s
house. The King says that if it was not a dream, she should make a hole
in her pocket and put peas into it, and by their dropping out the place
where she was taken to could be easily traced. But the Dwarf when he
transports her the second night discovers the trick, and strews peas
through all the other streets, and the only result was the pigeons had a
rare feast. Then the King bids the princess hide one of her shoes in the
soldier’s room, if she is carried there again. A search is made for the
shoe in every house the next day, and when it is found in the soldier’s
room he runs off, but is soon caught and thrown into prison. In his
haste to escape he forgot to take the Blue Light with him. He finds only
a ducat in his pocket, and with this he bribes an old comrade whom he
sees passing to go and fetch him a parcel he had left at the inn, and so
he gets the Blue Light once more. He summons the Dwarf, who tells him to
be of good cheer, for all will yet be well, only he must take the Blue
Light with him when his trial comes on. He is found guilty and sentenced
to be hung upon the gallows-tree. On his way to execution he asks as a
last favour to be allowed to smoke, which being granted, he lights his
pipe and the Dwarf appears. “Send,” says the soldier—“send all these
people to the right about; as for the King, cut him into three pieces.”
The Dwarf lays about him with a will, and soon makes the crowd scuttle
off. The King begs hard for his life, and agrees to let the soldier have
the princess for his wife and the kingdom afterwards.
Thus, it will be seen, popular tales containing all the essential
elements of the story of Aladdin are spread over Europe, though hardly
any of the versions was probably derived from it; and the conclusion at
which I have arrived is that those elements, or incidents, have been
time out of mind the common property of European and Asiatic peoples,
and that the tale of Aladdin may be considered as an almost unique
version. The Mecklenburg legend is the only variant which has the
incident of the Magician requiring the Lamp before helping the hero out
of the Cave and that of the transporting of the princess from her palace
to the hero’s house during the night, but these are not, I think,
sufficient evidence that it was adapted from Galland.
The royal command that all shops are to be closed and everybody must
keep within doors while the Princess Badr al-Badúr proceeds to the bath
and Aladdin’s playing the part of Peeping Tom of Coventry occur in many
Eastern stories and find a curious analogue in the Adventures of
Kurroglú, the celebrated robber-poet, as translated by Dr. Alexander
Chodzko in his “Popular Poetry of Persia,” printed for the Oriental
Translation Fund, and copies of that work being somewhat scarce, I
daresay the story will be new to most of my readers:
Listen now to the tale about the Princess Nighara, daughter of the
Turkish sultan Murád. In the neighbourhood of Constantinople lived a man
who was known there under the name of Belli Ahmad. One day the Princess
Nighara went out for a walk through the bazárs of Constantinople. At the
same time Kurroglú’s fame spread over all Turkey; everybody was telling
stories about him, and all were struck with wonder. The Princess
Nighara’s fond heart particularly was filled with an ardent wish of
seeing this extraordinary hero, and she often thought in her mind, “O my
God, when will you allow me to behold Kurroglú?” It happened that while
Belli Ahmad was taking a walk in the bazars of Istambúl, he looked and
beheld on the platform of the building daroghs beating drums, whilst all
the inmates of the bazár, the workmen as well as the merchants, were
flying in a great hurry after having left their shops ajar. “Why are
they thus running?” inquired Belli Ahmad of a Turk. “Dost thou know
nothing? Then listen: Our king, Sultan Murad, is gone on a pilgrimage to
Mecca. His son Burji Sultan reigns until his father’s return. He has a
sister whose name is the Princess Nighara. Every Friday she goes to pray
in the great mosque. The Sultan’s will is that during the passage of the
princess through the bazárs, no man should remain there, but that all
the shops be left open. This is the reason of this panic and flight. As
soon as the princess has passed, the merchants and workmen will return
to their shops again.”
Belli Ahmad said in his heart, “Thy name is Belli Ahmad, and shalt thou
not see this beautiful Princess Nighara? If not, thou art unworthy of
the name of Belli[140] Ahmad.” He then looked to the right and left and
entered stealthily into a greengrocer’s shop enclosed within a few
boards. The train of the princess now appeared. First passed with their
whips farashes and yassáls, who led the procession and were followed by
eunuchs with canes of office (_chogan_) in their hands. At last appeared
the Princess Nighara, surrounded by a score of waiting-women. She walked
with a downcast countenance in front of them, and bending her head
towards the ground said to herself, “O thou earth on which my foot is
treading, I beseech thee, receive my prayer!”[141] Belli Ahmad saw and
heard her through the chinks of the boards behind which he sat
concealed. When Nighara saw the shop with vegetables she wondered why it
should be the only shop enclosed with boards whilst all the other shops
were standing open. She then said to her waiting-women, “What is the
reason of this? Whilst goldsmiths who possess a capital of a hundred
thousand tomans have left their shops open, how is it that this petty
merchant of vegetables, whose poor shop used always to be open, has shut
it up to-day? There must be something extraordinary in all this. Break
down the enclosure, my girls, and throw the boards aside.”
Belli Ahmad heard, and his soul was on the point of making its exit. He
threw himself with his face downwards as if he was prostrated by a
severe illness. When her orders had been executed Nighara entered the
shop. Perceiving a fellow stretched out his whole length and embracing
the floor with both hands, she kicked him with her foot,[142]
exclaiming, “Who art thou that wallowest in the dirt?” Belli Ahmad
sprang to his feet and bowing to the Princess said, “Lady, I am a
stranger here. God preserve you from being in a strange land anywhere! I
saw that the merchants of the bazár were beaten and driven away, and I
was frightened. But what was I to do? If I should hide myself in some
rich shop I might be taken for a thief. I have therefore chosen this
miserable hovel, where nothing can be found except greens, onions, and
mouldy biscuits. And even if there were in it a few copper pieces, the
owner at his departure must have taken them away. Pardon me, Princess;
my soul was at stake and I hid myself.”
Nighara inquired, “Stranger, what countryman art thou?” “I am a native
of Erzerúm.” “Hast thou seen in those parts the Castle of
Chamley-bill?”[143] “Yes, lady, I have seen it.” “In that valley lives a
man named Kurroglú: didst thou see him?” “O my Princess, I am one of his
servants; I am a slave purchased with his gold.” “Canst thou deliver him
a letter from me?” “And wherefore not, fairest? Thou hast only to write
and entrust it to me.” The Princess Nighara immediately wrote a letter
to Kurroglú with her own hand. And what did she write? Here it is: “O
thou who art called Kurroglú, the glory of thy name has thrown a spell
over the countries of Turkey. I have heard that thou hast carried away
Ayvaz from the town of Orfah. My name is Princess Nighara, Sultan
Murad’s daughter. I tell thee, that thou mayest learn if thou dost not
know it, that for a long time I have felt an ardent desire of seeing
thee. If thou art distinguished by courage, come to Istambúl and carry
me away.”
And the bold Kurroglú, when he read the lady’s billet, assumed the dress
of a Haji, gained access to the seraglio gardens on the pretence that he
was entrusted with a private message to the Princess Nighara from her
father the Sultan, whom he had met on the road to Mecca, and carried the
amorous young lady to his fortress of Chamley-bill.—The story, together
with the scene between the princess and Kurroglú in the gardens and the
palace, is, no doubt, a true picture of the “ways” of Turkish ladies of
high degree in former times, and confirms much that Sir Richard has
stated regarding Eastern women in his notes to The Nights and his
Terminal Essay.