that of the Aryan and Semitic Races,” p. 134, cites a legend of the cave
Kwang-sio-foo in Kiang-si, which reflects part of the tale of Ali Baba:
There was in the neighbourhood a poor herdsman named Chang, his sole
surviving relative being a grandmother with whom he lived. One day,
happening to pass near the cave, he overheard some one using the
following words: “Shih mun kai, Kwai Ku hsen shêng lai,” Stone door,
open; Mr. Kwai Ku is coming. Upon this the door of the cave opened and
the speaker entered. Having remained there for some time he came out,
and saying, “Stone door, close; Mr. Kwai Ku is going,” the door again
closed and the visitor departed. Chang’s curiosity was naturally
excited, and having several times heard the formula repeated, he waited
one day until the genie (for such he was) had taken his departure and
essayed to obtain an entrance. To his great delight the door yielded,
and having gone inside he found himself in a romantic grotto of immense
extent. Nothing however in the shape of treasure met his eye, so having
fully explored the place he returned to the door, which shut at his
bidding, and went home. Upon telling his grandmother of his adventure
she expressed a strong wish to see the wonderful cavern; and thither
they accordingly went together the next day. Wandering about in
admiration of the scenery, they became separated, and Chang at length,
supposing that his grandmother had left, passed out of the door and
ordered it to shut. Reaching home, he found to his dismay that she had
not yet arrived. She must of course have been locked up in the cave, so
back he sped and before long was using the magic sentence to obtain
access. But alas! the talisman had failed, and poor Chang fell into an
agony of apprehension as he reflected that his grandmother would either
be starved to death or killed by the enraged genie. While in this
perplexity the genie appeared and asked him what was amiss. Chang
frankly told him the truth and implored him to open the door. This the
genie refused to do, but told him that his grandmother’s disappearance
was a matter of fate. The cave demanded a victim. Had it been a male,
every succeeding generation of his family would have seen one of its
members arrive at princely rank. In the case of a woman her descendants
would in a similar way possess power over demons. Somewhat comforted to
know that he was not exactly responsible for his grandmother’s death,
Chang returned home and in process of time married. His first son duly
became Chang tien shih (Chang, the Master of Heaven), who about A.D. 25
was the first holder of an office which has existed uninterruptedly to
the present day.
_ALI KHWAJAH AND THE MERCHANT OF BAGHDAD—p. 405._
_Precocious Children._—See note at end of the Tale, p. 416.—In the
(apocryphal) Arabic Gospel of the Saviour’s Infancy is the following
passage:
“Now in the month of Adar, Jesus, after the manner of a King, assembled
the boys together. They spread their clothes on the ground and he sat
down upon them. Then they put on his head a crown made of flowers, and
like chamber-servants stood in his presence, on the right and on the
left, as if he was a king. And whoever passed by that way was forcibly
dragged by the boys, saying, ‘Come hither and adore the king; then go
away.’”
A striking parallel to this is found in the beginning of the Mongolian
Tales of Ardshi Bordshi—_i.e._, the celebrated Indian monarch, Rájá
Bhoja, as given in Miss Busk’s “Sagas from the Far East,” p. 252.
“Long ages ago there lived a mighty king called Ardshi Bordshi.[160] In
the neighbourhood of his residence was a hill where the boys who were
tending the calves were wont to pass the time by running up and down.
But they had also another custom, and it was that whichever of them won
the race was king for the day—an ordinary game enough, only that when it
was played in this place the Boy-King thus constituted was at once
endowed with such extraordinary importance and majesty that everyone was
constrained to treat him as a real king. He had not only ministers and
dignitaries among his playfellows, who prostrated themselves before him,
and fulfilled all his behests, but whoever passed that way could not
choose but pay him homage also.”[161]
This is followed by an analogous story to that of Alí Khwajah and the
Merchant of Baghdad, under the title of “The False Friend,” in which a
merchant on a trading journey entrusts a friend with a valuable jewel to
give to his wife on his return home, and the friend retaining it for his
own use suborns two men to bear witness that they saw him deliver it to
the merchant’s wife, so the King dismisses the suit. But the Boy-King
undertakes to try the case _de novo_; causes the two witnesses to be
confined in separate places, each with a piece of clay which he is
required to make into the form of the jewel, and the models are found to
be different one from the other, and both from the shape of the jewel as
described by the false friend. A similar story occurs in several Indian
collections, with a Kází instead of the Boy-King.
A curious instance of precocity is related in the Third Book of the
“Masnaví” (see _ante_, p. 556), of which Mr. E. H. Whinfield gives an
outline in his admirable and most useful abridgment of that work: The
boys wished to obtain a holiday, and the sharpest of them suggested that
when the master came into school each boy should condole with him on his
alleged sickly appearance. Accordingly, when he entered, one said, “O
master, how pale you are looking!” and another said, “You are looking
very ill to-day,” and so on. The master at first answered that there was
nothing the matter with him, but as one boy after another continued
assuring him that he looked very ill, he was at length deluded into
imagining that he must really be ill. So he returned to his house,
making the boys follow him here, and told his wife that he was not well,
bidding her mark how pale he was. His wife assured him he was not
looking pale, and offered to convince him by bringing a mirror; but he
refused to look at it, and took to his bed. He then ordered the boys to
begin their lessons; but they assured him that the noise made his head
ache, and he believed them, and dismissed them to their homes, to the
annoyance of their mothers.
Another example of juvenile cleverness is found in a Persian collection
of anecdotes entitled “Latá’yif At-Taw’áyif”, by ’Alí ibn Husain
Al-Va’iz Al-Káshifí: One day Núrshírván saw in a dream that he was
drinking with a frog out of the same cup. When he awoke he told this
dream to his vazír, but he knew not the interpretation of it. The king
grew angry and said, “How long have I maintained thee, that if any
difficulty should arise thou mightest unloose the knot of it, and if any
matter weighed on my heart thou shouldst lighten it? Now I give thee
three days, that thou mayest find out the meaning of this dream, and
remove the trouble of my mind; and if, within that space, thou art not
successful, I will kill thee.” The vazír went from the presence of
Núrshírván confounded and much in trouble. He gathered together all the
sages and interpreters of dreams, and told the matter to them, but they
were unable to explain it; and the vazír resigned his soul to death. But
this story was told in the city, and on the third day he heard that
there was a mountain, ten farsangs distant from the city, in which was a
cave, and in this cave a sage who had chosen the path of seclusion, and
lived apart from mankind, and had turned his face to the wall. The vazír
set out for his place of retirement, saying to himself, “Perhaps he will
be able to lay a plaster on my wound, and relieve it from the throbbings
of care.” So he mounted his horse, and went to find the sage. At the
moment he arrived at the hill a company of boys were playing together.
One of them cried out with a loud voice, “The vazír is running
everywhere in search of an interpreter, and all avails him nothing; now
the interpretation of the dream is with me, and the truth of it is clear
to me.” When these words reached the ears of the vazír he drew in the
reins, and calling the boy to him asked him, “What is thy name?” He
replied, “Buzurjmihr.” The vazír said, “All the sages and interpreters
have failed in loosing the knot of this difficulty—how dost thou, so
young in years, pretend to be able to do it.” He replied, “All the world
is not given to every one.” The vazír said, “If thou speakest truth,
explain.” Said the boy, “Take me to the monarch, that I may there
unloose the knot of this difficulty.” The vazír said, “If thou shouldst
fail, what then will come of it?” The boy replied, “I will give up my
own blood to the king, that they may slay me instead of thee.” The vazír
took the boy with him, returned, and told the whole matter to the king
and produced the boy in his presence. The king was very angry, and said,
“All the wise men and dream-interpreters of the court were unable to
satisfy me, and thou bringest me a child, and expectest that he shall
loose the knot of the difficulty.” The vazír bowed his head. And
Buzurjmihr said, “Look not upon his youth, but see whether he is able to
expound the mystery or not.” The king then said, “Speak.” He replied, “I
cannot speak in this multitude.” So those who were present retired, and
the monarch and the youth were left alone. Then said the youth, “A
stranger has found entrance into thy seraglio, and is dishonouring thee,
along with a girl who is one of thy concubines.” The king was much moved
at this interpretation, and looked from one of the wise men to another,
and at length said to the boy, “This is a serious matter thou hast
asserted; how shall this matter be proceeded in, and in what way fully
known?” The boy replied, “Command that every beautiful woman in thy
seraglio pass before thee unveiled, that the truth of this matter may be
made apparent.” The king ordered them to pass before him as the boy had
said, and considered the face of each one attentively. Among them came a
young girl extremely beautiful, whom the king much regarded. When she
came opposite to him, a shuddering as of palsy, fell upon her, and she
shook from head to foot, so that she was hardly able to stand. The king
called her to him, and threatening her greatly, bade her speak the
truth. She confessed that she loved a handsome slave and had privately
introduced him into the seraglio. The king ordered them both to be
impaled, and turning to the rewarding of Buzurjmihr, he made him the
object of his special bounty.
This story has been imported into the “History of the Seven Wise Masters
of Rome,” the European form of the Book of Sindibád, where the prince
discovers to his father the paramour of his stepmother, the empress, in
the person of a young man disguised as one of her maid-servants, and its
presence in the work is quite inconsistent with the lady’s violent lust
after the young prince. There is a similar tale in the Hebrew version,
“Mishlé Sandabar,” but the disguised youth is not detected. Vatsyayana,
in his “Káma Sutra” (or Aphorisms of Love), speaks of it as a common
practice in India thus to smuggle men into the women’s apartments in
female attire. In the Introduction to the “Kathá Sarit Ságara,”
Vararuchi relates how King Yogananda saw his queen leaning out of a
window and asking questions of a Bráhman guest that was looking up. That
trivial circumstance threw the king into a passion, and he gave orders
that the Bráhman should be put to death; for jealousy interferes with
discernment. Then as that Bráhman was being led off to the place of
execution in order that he should be put to death, a fish in the market
laughed aloud, though it was dead. The king hearing it immediately
prohibited for the present the execution of the Bráhman, and asked
Vararuchi the reason why the fish laughed. He desired time to think over
the matter and learned from the conversation of a rákshasí with her
children that the fish said to himself, “All the king’s wives are
dissolute, for in every part of his harem there are men dressed up as
women, and nevertheless while those escape, an innocent Bráhman is to be
put to death”; and this tickled the fish so that he laughed. Mr. Tawney
says that Dr. Liebrecht, in “Orient und Occident,” vol. i. p. 341,
compares this story with one in the old French romance of Merlin. There
Merlin laughs because the wife of Julius Cæsar had twelve young men
disguised as ladies-in-waiting. Benfey, in a note on Liebrecht’s
article, compares with the story of Merlin one by the Countess
d’Aulnois, No. 36 of Basile’s “Pentamerone,” Straparola, iv. 1, and a
story in the “Suka Saptatí.” In this some cooked fish laugh so that the
whole town hears them; the reason being the same as in the above story
and in that of Merlin. In a Kashmírí version, which has several other
incidents and bears a close resemblance to No. 4 of M. Legrand’s
“Recueil de Contes Populaires Grecs,” to the story of “The Clever Girl”
in Professor T. F. Crane’s “Italian Popular Tales,” and to a fable in
the Talmud, the king requires his vazír to inform him within six months
why the fish laughed in presence of the queen. The vazír sends his son
abroad until the king’s anger had somewhat cooled—for himself he expects
nothing but death. The vazír’s son learns from the clever daughter of a
farmer that the laughing of the fish indicates that there is a man in
the palace unknown to the king. He hastens home and tells his father the
secret, who at once communicates it to the king. All the female
attendants in the palace are called together and ordered to jump across
the mouth of a pit which he has caused to be dug: the man would betray
his sex in the trial. Only one person succeeded and he was found to be a
man.[162] Thus was the queen satisfied, and the faithful old vazír
saved, and his son, of course, married the farmer’s clever daughter.
_PRINCE AHMAD AND THE PERI-BANU—p. 419._
How, in the name of all that is wonderful—how has it happened that this
ever-delightful tale is not found in any text of The Nights? And how
could it be supposed for a moment that Galland was capable of conceiving
such a tale—redolent, as it is, of the East and of Fairyland? Not that
Fairyland where “True Thomas,” otherwise ycleped Thomas the Rymer,
otherwise Thomas of Erceldoune, passed several years in the bewitching
society of the Fairy Queen, years which appeared to him as only so many
moments: but Eastern Fairyland, with all its enchanting scenes; where
priceless gems are as plentiful as “autumnal leaves which strow the
brooks in Vallombrosa”; where, in the royal banqueting-hall, illuminated
with hundreds of wax candles, in candelabra of the finest amber and the
purest crystal, are bands of charming damsels, fairest of form and
feature, who play on sweet-toned instruments which discourse
heart-ravishing strains of melody;—meanwhile the beauteous Perí Bánú is
seated on a throne adorned with diamonds and rubies and emeralds, and
pearls and other gems, and by her side is the thrice-happy Prince Ahmad,
who feels himself amply indemnified for the loss of his fair cousin
Princess Núr-en-Nihár. Auspicious was that day when he shot the arrow
which the enamoured Perí Bánú caused to be wafted through the air much
farther than arm of flesh could ever send the feathered messenger! And
when the Prince feels a natural longing to visit his father in the land
of mortals from time to time, behold the splendid cavalcade issue from
the portals of the fairy palace—the gallant jinn-born cavaliers, mounted
on superb steeds with gorgeous housings, who accompany him to his
father’s capital! But alas! the brightest sky is sooner or later
overcast—human felicity is—etc., etc. The old king’s mind is poisoned
against his noble son by the whisperings of a malignant and envious
minister—a snake in the grass—a fly in the ointment of Prince Ahmad’s
beatitude! And to think of the old witch gaining access to the fairy
palace—it was nothing less than an atrocity! And the tasks which she
induces the king to set Prince Ahmad to perform—but they are all
accomplished for him by his fairy bride. The only thing to regret—the
_fatal_ blemish in the tale—is the slaughter of the old king. Shabbar
did right well to dash into the smallest pieces the wicked vazír and the
foul witch and all who aided and abetted them, but “to kill a king!” and
a well-meaning if soft-headed king, who was, like many better men, led
astray by evil counsellors!
Having thus blown off the steam—I mean to say, having thus ventilated
the enthusiasm engendered by again reading the tale of Prince Ahmad and
the Perí Bánú, I am now in a fitter frame of mind for the business of
examining some versions and variants of it; for though the tale has not
yet been found in Arabic, it is known from the banks of Ganga to the
snow-clad hills and vales of Iceland—that strange land whose heart is
full of the fiercest fires. This tale, like that of Zayn al-Asnám,
comprises two distinct stories, which have no necessary connection, to
wit, (1) the adventures of the Three Princes, each in quest of the
rarest treasure, wherewith to win the beautiful Princess Núr-en-Nihár;
and (2) the subsequent history of the third Prince and the Perí Bánú.
The oldest known form of the story concludes with the recovery of the
lady—not from death’s door, but from a giant who had carried her off,
and the rival claims of the heroes to the hand of the lady are left
undecided: certainly a most unsatisfactory ending, though it must be
confessed the case was, as the priest found that of Paddy and the stolen
pullet, somewhat “abstruse.” In the “Vetálapanchavinsati,” or
Twenty-five Tales of a Vampyre (concerning which collection see Appendix
to the preceding volumes, p. 320), the fifth recital is to this purpose:
There was a Bráhman in Ajjayini (Oojein) whose name was Harisvamin; he
had a son named Devasvamin and a daughter far famed for her wondrous
beauty and rightly called Somaprabha (Moonlight). When the maiden had
attained marriageable age, she declared to her parents that she was only
to be married to a man who possessed heroism, or knowledge, or magic
power. It happened soon after this that Harisvamin was sent by the king
on state business to the Dekkan, and while there a young Brahman, who
had heard the report of Somaprabha’s beauty, came to him as a suitor for
the hand of his daughter. Harisvamin informed him of the qualifications
which her husband must possess, and the Bráhman answered that he was
endowed with magic power, and having shown this to the father’s
satisfaction, he promised to give him his daughter on the seventh day
from that time. In like manner, at home, the son and the wife of
Harisvamin had, unknown to each other, promised Somaprabha to a young
man who was skilled in the use of missile weapons and was very brave,
and to a youth who possessed knowledge of the past, the present, and the
future; and the marriage was also fixed to take place on the seventh
day. When Harisvamin returned home he at once told his wife and son of
the contract he had entered into with the young Bráhman, and they in
their turn acquainted him of their separate engagements, and all were
much perplexed what course to adopt in the circumstances.
On the seventh day the three suitors arrived, but Somaprabha was found
to have disappeared in some inexplicable manner. The father then
appealed to the man of knowledge, saying, “Tell me where my daughter is
gone?” He replied, “She has been carried off by a rákshasa to his
habitation in the Vindhya forest.” Then quoth the man of magic power,
“Be of good cheer, for I will take you in a moment where the possessor
of knowledge says she is.” And forthwith he prepared a magic chariot
that could fly through the air, provided all sorts of weapons, and made
Harisvamin, the man of knowledge, and the brave man enter it along with
himself, and in a moment carried them to the dwelling of the rákshasa.
Then followed a wonderful fight between the brave man and the rákshasa,
and in a short time the hero cut off his head, after which they took
Somaprabha into the chariot and quickly returned to Harisvamin’s house.
And now arose a great dispute between the three suitors. Said the man of
knowledge, “If I had not known where the maiden was, how could she have
been discovered?” The man of magic argued, “If I had not made this
chariot that can fly through the air, how could you all have come and
returned in a moment?” Then the brave man said, “If I had not slain the
rákshasa, how could the maiden have been rescued?” While they were thus
wrangling Harisvamin remained silent, perplexed in mind. The Vampyre,
having told this story to the King, demanded to know to whom the maiden
should have been given. The King replied, “She ought to have been given
to the brave man; for he won her by the might of his arm and at the risk
of his life, slaying that rakshasa in combat.” But the man of knowledge
and the man of magic power were appointed by the Creator to serve as his
instruments. The perplexed Harisvamin would have been glad, no doubt,
could he have had such a logical solution of the question as this of the
sagacious King Trivikramasena—such was his six-syllabled name.
The Hindí version (“Baytâl Pachísí”) corresponds with the Sanskrit, but
in the Tamil version the father, after hearing from each of the three
suitors an account of his accomplishments, promises to give his daughter
to “one of them.” Meanwhile a giant comes and carries off the damsel.
There is no difference in the rest of the story.
In the Persian Parrot-Book (“Tútí Náma”) where the tale is also
found[163]—it is the 34th recital of the loquacious bird in the India
Office MS. No. 2573, the 6th in B. Gerrans’ partial translation, 1792,
and the 22nd in Káderi’s abridgment—the first suitor says that his art
is to discover anything lost and to predict future events; the second
can make a horse of wood which would fly through the air; and the third
was an unerring archer.
In the Persian “Sindibád Náma,” a princess, while amusing herself in a
garden with her maidens, is carried away by a demon to his cave in the
mountains. The king proclaims that he will give his daughter in marriage
to whoever should bring her back. Four brothers offer themselves for the
undertaking: one is a guide who has travelled over the world; the second
is a daring robber, who would take the prey even from the lion’s mouth;
the third is a brave warrior; and the fourth is a skilful physician. The
guide leads the three others to the demon’s cave; the robber steals the
damsel while the demon is absent; the physician, finding her at death’s
door, restores her to perfect health; while the warrior puts to flight a
host of demons who sallied out of the cave.
The Sanskrit story has undergone a curious transformation among the
Kalmuks. In the 9th Relation of Siddhí Kúr (a Mongolian version of the
Vampyre Tales) six youths are companions: an astrologer, a smith, a
doctor, a mechanic, a painter, and a rich man’s son. At the mouth of a
great river each plants a tree of life and separates, taking different
roads, having agreed to meet again at the same spot, when if the tree of
any of them is found to be withered it will be a token that he is dead.
The rich man’s son marries a beautiful girl, who is taken from him by
the Khan, and the youth is at the same time put to death by the Khan’s
soldiers and buried under a great rock. When the five other young men
meet at the time and place appointed they find the tree of the rich
youth withered. Thereupon the astrologer by his art discovers where the
youth is buried; the smith breaks the rock asunder; the physician
restores the youth to life, and he tells them how the Khan had robbed
him of his wife and killed him. The mechanic then constructs a flying
chariot in the form of Garuda—the bird of Vishnu; the counterpart of the
Arabian rukh—which the painter decorates, and when it is finished the
rich youth enters it and is swiftly borne through the air to the roof of
the Khan’s dwelling, where he alights. The Khan, supposing the machine
to be a real Garuda, sends the rich youth’s own wife to the roof with
some food for it. Could anything have been more fortunate? The youth
takes her into the wooden Garuda and they quickly arrive at the place
where his companions waited for his return. When they beheld the
marvellous beauty of the lady the five skilful men instantly fell in
love with her, and began to quarrel among themselves, each claiming the
lady as his by right, and drawing their knives they fought and slew one
another. So the rich youth was left in undisputed possession of his
beautiful bride.
Coming back to Europe we find the primitive form of the story partly
preserved in a Greek popular version given in Hahn’s collection: Three
young men are in love with the same girl, and agree to go away and meet
again at a given time, when he who shall have learned the best craft
shall marry the girl. They meet after three years’ absence. One has
become a famous astronomer; the second is so skilful a physician that he
can raise the dead; and the third can run faster than the wind. The
astronomer looks at the girl’s star and knows from its trembling that
she is on the point of death. The physician prepares a medicine, which
the third runs off with at the top of his speed, and pours it down the
girl’s throat just in time to save her life—though, for the matter of
that, she might as well have died, since the second suitor was able to
resuscitate the dead!
But the German tale of the Four Clever Brothers, divested of the
preliminary incidents which have been brought into it from different
folk-tales, more nearly approaches the form of the original, as we may
term the Sanskrit story for convenience’ sake: A poor man sends his four
sons into the world, each to learn some craft by which he might gain his
own livelihood. After travelling together for some time they came to a
place where four roads branched off and there they separated, each going
along one of the roads, having agreed to meet at the same spot that day
four years. One learns to be an excellent astronomer and, on quitting,
his master gives him a telescope,[164] saying, “With this thou canst see
whatever takes place either on earth or in heaven, and nothing can
remain concealed from thee.” Another becomes a most expert thief. The
third learns to be a sharpshooter and gets from his master a _gun_ which
would never fail him: whatever he aimed at he was sure to hit. And the
youngest becomes a very clever tailor and is presented by his master
with a needle, which could sew anything together, hard or soft. At the
end of the four years they met according to agreement, and returning
together to their father’s house, they satisfied the old man with a
display of their abilities. Soon after this the king’s daughter was
carried off by a dragon, and the king proclaimed that whoever brought
her back should have her to wife. This the four clever brothers thought
was a fine chance for them, and they resolved to liberate the king’s
daughter. The astronomer looked through his telescope and saw the
princess far away on a rock in the sea and the dragon watching beside
her. Then they went and got a ship from the king, and sailed over the
sea till they came to the rock, where the princess was sitting and the
dragon was asleep with his head in her lap. The hunter feared to shoot
lest he should kill the princess. Then the thief crept up the rock and
stole her from under the dragon so cleverly that the monster did not
awake. Full of joy, they hurried off with her and sailed away. But
presently the dragon awoke and missing the princess flew after them
through the air. Just as he was hovering above the ship to swoop down
upon it, the hunter shot him through the heart and he tumbled down dead,
but falling on the vessel his carcass smashed it into pieces. They laid
hold of two planks and drifted about till the tailor with his wonderful
needle sewed the planks together, and then they collected the fragments
of the ship which the tailor also sewed together so skilfully that their
ship was again seaworthy, and they soon got home in safety. The king was
right glad to see his daughter and told the four brothers they must
settle among themselves which of them should have her to wife. Upon this
they began to wrangle with one another. The astronomer said, “If I had
not seen the princess, all your arts would have been useless, so she is
mine.” The thief claimed her, because he had rescued her from the
dragon; the hunter, because he had shot the monster; and the tailor,
because he had sewn the ship together and saved them all from drowning.
Then the king decreed: “Each of you has an equal right, and as all of
you cannot have her, none of you shall; but I will give to each as a
reward half a kingdom,” with which the four clever brothers were well
contented.
The story has assumed a droll form among the Albanians, in which no
fewer than seven remarkably endowed youths play their parts in rescuing
a king’s daughter from the Devil, who had stolen her out of the palace.
One of the heroes could hear far off; the second could make the earth
open; the third could steal from any one without his knowing it; the
fourth could throw an object to the end of the world; the fifth could
erect an impregnable tower; the sixth could bring down anything however
high it might be in the air; and the seventh could catch whatever fell
from any height. So they set off together, and after travelling a long
way, the first lays his ear to the ground. “I hear him,” he says. Then
the second causes the earth to open, and down they go, and find the
Devil sound asleep, snoring like thunder, with the princess clasped to
his breast. The third youth steals her without waking the fiend. Then
the fourth takes off the Devil’s shoes and flings them to the end of the
world, and off they all go with the princess. The Devil wakes and goes
after them, but first he must find his shoes—though what need he could
have for shoes it is not easy to say; but mayhap the Devil of the
Albanians is _minus_ horns, hoof, and tail! This gives the fifth hero
time to erect his impregnable tower before the fiend returns from the
end of the world. When he comes to the tower he finds all his skill is
naught, so he has recourse to artifice, which indeed has always been his
_forte_. He begs piteously to be allowed one last look of his beloved
princess. They can’t refuse him so slight a favour, and make a tiny hole
in the tower wall, but, tiny as it is, the Devil is able to pull the
princess through it and instantly mounts on high with her. Now is the
marksman’s opportunity: he shoots at the fiend and down he comes, “like
a hundred of bricks” (as we _don’t_ say in the classics), at the same
time letting go the princess, who is cleverly caught by the seventh
hero, and is none the worse for her aerial journey. The princess chooses
the seventh for her husband, as he is the youngest and best looking, but
her father the king rewards his companions handsomely and all are
satisfied.
The charming history of Prince Ahmad and his fairy bride is “conspicuous
from its absence” in all these versions, but it reappears in the Italian
collection of Nerucci: “Novelle Popolari Montalesi,” No. xl., p. 335,
with some variations from Galland’s story:
A certain king had three daughters, and a neighbouring king had three
sons, who were much devoted to the chase. They arrived at the city of
the first king, and all fell in love with his daughter[165] and wanted
to marry her. Her father said it was impossible to content them all, but
if one of them would ask her, and if he pleased her, he would not oppose
the marriage. They could not agree which it was to be, and her father
proposed that they should all travel, and the one who at the end of six
months brought the most beautiful and wonderful present should marry
her. They set out in different directions and at the end of six months
they meet by appointment at a certain inn. The eldest brings a magic
carpet on which he is wafted whithersoever he will. (It goes a hundred
miles in a day.) The second brings a telescope which shows whatever is
happening a hundred miles away. The youngest brings three stones of a
grape, one of which put into the mouth of a person who is dying restores
him to life. They at once test the telescope by wishing to see the
princess, and they find her dying—at the last gasp indeed. By means of
the carpet they reach the palace in time to save her life with one of
the grape-stones. Each claims the victory. Her father, almost at his
wits’ end to decide the question, decrees that they shall shoot with the
crossbow, and he who shoots farthest shall win the princess. The second
brother shoots farther than the first; but the youngest shoots so far
that they cannot find where his arrow has fallen. He persists in the
search and falls down a deep hole, from the bottom of which he can
scarcely see a speck of the sky. There an ogre (_mago_) appears to him
and also a bevy of young fairy maidens of extreme beauty. They lead him
to a marvellous palace, give him refreshments and provide him with a
room and a bed, where every night one of the fairies bears him company.
He spends his days in pleasure until the king’s daughter is almost
forgotten. At last he begins to think he ought to learn what has become
of his brothers, his father, and the lady. The chief fairy however,
tries to dissuade him, warning him that evil will befall him if he
return to his brothers. He persists, and she tells him that the princess
is given to his eldest brother, who reigns in his father-in-law’s stead,
the latter having died, and that his own father is also dead; and she
warns him again not to go. But he goes. His eldest brother says that he
thought he was dead “in that hole.” The hero replies that, on the
contrary, he fares so well with a bevy of young and beautiful fairies
that he does not even envy him, and would not change places with him for
all the treasures in the world. His brother, devoured by rage, demands
that the hero bring him within eight days a pavilion of silk which will
lodge three hundred soldiers, otherwise he will destroy his palace of
delights. The hero, affrighted, returns to the fairies and relates his
brother’s threats. The chief fairy says, “Didn’t I tell you so? You
deserve that I should leave you to your fate; but, out of pity for your
youth, I will help you.” And he returns to his brother within eight days
with the required pavilion. But his brother is not satisfied: he demands
another silk pavilion for 600 soldiers, else he will lay waste the abode
of the fairies. This pavilion he also receives from the fairies, and it
was much finer and richer than the first. His brother’s demands rise
when he sees that the hero does not find any difficulty in satisfying
him. He now commands that a column of iron 12 cubits (_braccia_) high be
erected in the midst of a piazza. The chief of the fairies also complies
with this requirement. The column is ready in a moment, and as the hero
cannot carry it himself, she gives it to the guardian ogre, who carries
it upon his shoulders, and presents himself, along with the hero, before
the eldest brother. As soon as the latter comes to see the column set in
the piazza the ogre knocks him down and reduces him to pulp
(_cofaccino_, lit., a cake), and the hero marries his brother’s widow
and becomes king in his stead.
Almost suspiciously like the story in Galland in many of the details is
an Icelandic version in Powell and Magnússon’s collection, yet I cannot
conceive how the peasantry of that country could have got it out of “Les
Mille et une Nuits.” There are two ways by which the story might have
reached them independently of Galland’s work: the Arabs and Persians
traded extensively in former times with Scandinavia, through Russia, and
this as well as other Norse tales of undoubtedly Eastern extraction may
have been communicated by the same channel[166]; or the Norsemen may
have taken it back with them from the South of Europe. But however this
may be, the Icelandic version is so quaint in its diction, has such a
fresh aroma about it, and such novel particulars, that I feel justified
in giving it here in full:
It is said that once, in the days of old, there was a good and wealthy
king who ruled over a great and powerful realm; but neither his name nor
that of his kingdom is given, nor the latter’s whereabouts in the world.
He had a queen, and by her three sons, who were all fine youths and
hopeful, and the king loved them well. The king had taken, too, a king’s
daughter from a neighbouring kingdom, to foster her, and she was brought
up with his sons. She was of the same age as they, and the most
beautiful and accomplished lady that had ever been seen in those days,
and the king loved her in no way less than his own sons. When the
princess was of age, all the king’s sons fell in love with her, and
things even went so far that they all of them engaged her at once, each
in his own name. Their father, being the princess’s foster-father, had
the right of bestowing her in marriage, as her own father was dead. But
as he was fond of all his sons equally the answer he gave them was, that
he left it to the lady’s own choice to take for a husband whichever of
the brothers she loved the most. On a certain day he had the princess
called up to him and declared his will to her, telling her that she
might choose for a husband whichever she liked best of his sons. The
princess answered, “Bound I am in duty to obey your words. But as to
this choice of one of your sons to be my husband I am in the greatest
perplexity; for I must confess they are all equally dear to me, and I
cannot choose one before the other.” When the king heard this answer of
the princess he found himself in a new embarrassment, and thought a long
while what he could do that should be equally agreeable to all parties,
and at last hit upon the following decision of the matter: that all his
sons should after a year’s travel return each with a precious thing, and
that he who had the finest thing should be the princess’s husband. This
decision the king’s sons found to be a just one and they agreed to meet
after one year at a certain castle in the country, whence they should go
all together, to the town, in order to lay their gifts before the
princess. And now their departure from the country was arranged as well
as could be.
First the tale tells of the eldest, that he went from one land to
another, and from one city to another, in search of a precious thing,
but found nowhere anything that at all suited his ideas. At last the
news came to his ears that there was a princess who had so fine a
spy-glass that nothing so marvellous had ever been seen or heard of
before. In it one could see all over the world, every place, every city,
every man, and every living being that moved on the face of the earth,
and what every living thing in the world was doing. Now the prince
thought that surely there could be no more precious thing at all likely
to turn up for him than this telescope; he therefore went to the
princess, in order to buy the spy-glass if possible. But by no means
could he prevail upon the king’s daughter to part with her spy-glass,
till he had told her his whole story and why he wanted it, and used all
his powers of entreaty. As might be expected, he paid for it well.
Having got it he returned home, glad at his luck, and hoping to wed the
king’s daughter.
The story next turns to the second son. He had to struggle with the same
difficulties as his elder brother. He travelled for a long while over
the wide world without finding anything at all suitable, and thus for a
time he saw no chance of his wishes being fulfilled. Once he came into a
very well-peopled city; and went about in search of precious things
among the merchants, but neither did he find nor even see what he
wanted. He heard that there lived a short way from the town a dwarf, the
cleverest maker of curious and cunning things. He therefore resolved to
go to the dwarf in order to try whether he could be persuaded to make
him any costly thing. The dwarf said that he had ceased to make things
of that sort now and he must beg to be excused from making anything of
the kind for the prince. But he said that he had a piece of cloth, made
in his younger days, with which, however, he was very unwilling to part.
The king’s son asked the nature and use of the cloth. The dwarf
answered, “On this cloth one can go all over the world, as well through
the air as on the water. Runes are on it, which must be understood by
him who uses it.” Now the prince saw that a more precious thing than
this could scarcely be found, and therefore asked the dwarf by all means
to let him have the cloth. And although the dwarf would not at first
part with his cloth at all, yet at last, hearing what would happen if
the king’s son did not get it, he sold it to him at a mighty high price.
The prince was truly glad to have got the cloth, for it was not only a
cloth of great value, but also the greatest of treasures in other
respects, having gold-seams and jewel-embroidery. After this he returned
home, hoping to get the best of his brothers in the contest for the
damsel.
The youngest prince left home last of all the three brethren.[167] First
he travelled from one village to another in his own country, and went
about asking for precious things of every merchant he met on his way, as
also on all sides where there was the slightest hope of his getting what
he wanted. But all his endeavours were in vain, and the greater part of
the year was spent in fruitless search till at last he waxed sad in mind
at his lot. At this time he came into a well-peopled city, whereto
people were gathered from all parts of the world. He went from one
merchant to another till at last he came to one who sold apples.[168]
This merchant said he had an apple that was of so strange a nature that
if it was put into the arm-hole of a dying man he would at once return
to life. He declared that it was the property of his family and had
always been used in the family as a medicine. As soon as the king’s son
heard this he would by all means have the apple, deeming that he would
never be able to find a thing more acceptable to the king’s daughter
than this. He therefore asked the merchant to sell him the apple and
told him all the story of his search, and that his earthly welfare was
based upon his being in no way inferior to his brethren in his choice of
precious things for the princess. The merchant felt pity for the prince
when he had told him his story, so much so that he sold him the apple,
and the prince returned home, glad and comforted at his happy luck.
Now nothing more is related of the three brothers till they met together
at the place before appointed. When they were all together each related
the striking points in his travelling. All being here, the eldest
brother thought that he would be the first to see the princess and find
out how she was; and therefore he took forth his spy-glass and turned it
towards the city. But what saw he? The beloved princess lying in her
bed, in the very jaws of death! The king, his father, and all the
highest nobles of the court were standing round the bed in the blackness
of sorrow, sad in their minds, and ready to receive the last sigh of the
fair princess. When the prince saw this lamentable sight he was grieved
beyond measure. He told his brothers what he had seen and they were no
less struck with sorrow than himself. They began bewailing loudly,
saying that they would give all they had never to have undertaken this
journey, for then at least they would have been able to perform the last
offices for the fair princess. But in the midst of these bewailings the
second brother bethought him of his cloth, and remembered that he could
get to the town on it in a moment. He told this to his brothers and they
were glad at such good and unexpected news. Now the cloth was unfolded
and they all stepped on to it, and in one moment it was high in the air
and in the next inside the town. When they were there they made all
haste to reach the room of the princess, where everybody wore an air of
deep sadness. They were told that the princess’s every breath was her
last. Then the youngest brother remembered his wonderful apple, and
thought that it would never be more wanted to show its healing power
than now. He therefore went straight into the bed-room of the princess
and placed the apple under her right arm. And at the same moment it was
as if a new breath of life flushed through the whole body of the
princess; her eyes opened, and after a little while she began to speak
to the folk around her. This and the return of the king’s sons caused
great joy at the court of the king.
Now some time went by until the princess was fully recovered. Then a
large meeting was called together, at which the brothers were bidden to
show their treasures. First the eldest made his appearance, and showing
his spy-glass told what a wonderful thing it was, and also how it was
due to this glass that the life of the fair princess had ever been
saved, as he had seen through it how matters stood in the town. He
therefore did not doubt for a moment that his gift was the one which
would secure him the fair princess.
Next stepped forward the second brother with the cloth. Having described
its powers, he said, “I am of opinion that my brother’s having seen the
princess first would have proved of little avail had I not had the
cloth, for thereupon we came so quickly to the place to save the
princess: and I must declare that to my mind, the cloth is the chief
cause of the king’s daughter’s recovery.”
Next stepped forward the youngest prince and said, as he laid the apple
before the people, “Little would the glass and the cloth have availed to
save the princess’s life had I not had the apple. What could we brothers
have profited in being only witnesses of the beloved damsel’s death?
What would this have done, but awaken our grief and regret? It is due
alone to the apple that the princess is yet alive; wherefore I find
myself the most deserving of her.”
Then a long discussion arose in the meeting, and the decision at last
came out, that all the three things had worked equally towards the
princess’s recovery, as might be seen from the fact that if one had been
wanting the others would have been worthless. It was therefore declared
that, as all gifts had equal claim to the prize, no one could decide to
whom the princess should belong.
After this the king planned another contrivance in order to come to some
end of the matter. He soon should try their skill in shooting, and he
who proved to be the ablest shooter of them should have the princess. So
a mark was raised and the eldest brother stepped forward with his bow
and quiver. He shot, and no great distance from the mark fell his arrow.
After that stepped forward the second brother, and his arrow well-nigh
reached the mark. Last of all stepped forward the third and youngest
brother, and his arrow seemed to go farther than the others, but in
spite of continued search for many days it could not be found. The king
decided in this matter that his second son should marry the princess.
They were married accordingly, and as the king, the father of the
princess, was dead, his daughter now succeeded him, and her husband
became king over his wife’s inheritance. They are now out this tale, as
is also the eldest brother, who settled in life abroad.
The youngest brother stayed at home with his father, highly displeased
at the decision the latter had given concerning the marriage of the
princess. He was wont to wander about every day where he fancied his
arrow had fallen, and at last he found it fixed in an oak in the forest,
and saw that it had by far outstripped the mark. He now called together
witnesses to the place where the arrow was, with the intention of
bringing about some justice in his case. But of this there was no
chance, for the king said he could by no means alter his decision. At
this the king’s son was so grieved that he went well-nigh out of his
wits. One day he busked for a journey, with the full intention of never
again setting foot in his country. He took with him all he possessed of
fine and precious things, nobody knowing his rede, not even his father,
the king.
He went into a great forest and wandered about there many days, without
knowing whither he was going, and at last, yielding to hunger and
weariness, he found himself no longer equal to travelling; so he sat
down under a tree, thinking that his sad and sorrowful life would here
come to a close. But after he had sat thus awhile he saw ten people, all
in fine attire and bright armour, come riding towards the stone. On
arriving there they dismounted, and having greeted the king’s son begged
him to go with them, and mount the spare horse they had with them,
saddled and bridled in royal fashion. He accepted this offer and mounted
the horse, and after this they rode on their way till they came to a
large city. The riders dismounted and led the prince into the town,
which was governed by a young and beautiful maiden-queen. The riders led
the king’s son at once to the virgin-queen, who received him with great
kindness. She told him that she had heard of all the ill-luck that had
befallen him and also that he had fled from his father. “Then,” quoth
she, “a burning love for you was kindled in my breast and a longing to
heal your wounds. You must know that it was I who sent the ten riders to
find you out and bring you hither. I give you the chance of staying
here; I offer you the rule of my whole kingdom, and I will try to
sweeten your embittered life;—this is all that I am able to do.”
Although the prince was in a sad and gloomy state of mind, he saw
nothing better than to accept this generous offer and agree to the
marriage with the maiden-queen. A grand feast was made ready, and they
were married according to the ways of that country. And the young king
took at once in hand the government, which he managed with much ability.
Now the story turns homewards, to the old king. After the disappearance
of his son he became sad and weary of life, being, as he was, sinking in
age. His queen also had died sometime since. One day it happened that a
wayfaring woman came to the palace. She had much knowledge about many
things and knew how to tell many tales.[169] The king was greatly
delighted with her storytelling and she got soon into his favour. Thus
some time passed. But in course of time the king fell deeply in love
with this woman, and at last married her and made her his queen, in
spite of strong dissent from the court. Shortly this new queen began
meddling in the affairs of the government, and it soon turned out that
she was spoiling everything by her redes, whenever she had the chance.
Once it happened that the queen spoke to the king and said, “Strange
indeed it seems to me that you make no inquiry about your youngest son’s
running away: smaller faults have been often chastised than that. You
must have heard that he has become king in one of the neighbouring
kingdoms, and that it is a common tale that he is going to invade your
dominions with a great army whenever he gets the wished-for opportunity,
in order to avenge the injustice he thinks he has suffered in that
bygone bridal question. Now I want you to be the first in throwing this
danger off-hand.” The king showed little interest in the matter and paid
to his wife’s chattering but little attention. But she contrived at
length so to speak to him as to make him place faith in her words, and
he asked her to give him good redes, that this matter might be arranged
in such a way as to be least observed by other folk. The queen said,
“You must send men with gifts to him and pray him to come to you for an
interview, in order to arrange certain political matters before your
death, as also to strengthen your friendship with an interchange of
marks of kindred. And then I will give you further advice as to what to
do.” The king was satisfied with this and equipped his messengers
royally.
Then the messengers came before the young king, saying they were sent by
his father, who wished his son to come and see him without delay. To
this the young king answered well, and lost no time in busking his men
and himself. But when his queen knew this she said he would assuredly
rue this journey. The king went off, however, and nothing is said of his
travels till he came to the town where his father lived. His father
received him rather coldly, much to the wonder and amazement of his son.
And when he had been there a short while his father gave him a good
chiding for having run away. “Thereby,” said the old king, “you have
shown full contempt of myself and caused me such sorrow as well-nigh
brought me to the grave. Therefore, according to the law, you have
deserved to die; but as you have delivered yourself up into my power and
are, on the other hand, my son, I have no mind to have you killed. But I
have three tasks for you which you must have performed within a year, on
pain of death. The first is that you bring me a tent which will hold one
hundred men but can yet be hidden in the closed hand;[170] the second,
that you shall bring me water that cures all ailments;[171] and the
third, that you shall bring me hither a man who has not his like in the
whole world.” “Show me whither I shall go to obtain these things,” said
the young king. “That you must find out for yourself,” replied the
other.
Then the old king turned his back upon his son and went off. Away went
also the young king, no farewells being said, and nothing is told of his
travels till he came home to his realm. He was then very sad and
heavy-minded, and the queen seeing this asked him earnestly what had
befallen him and what caused the gloom on his mind. He declared that
this did not regard her. The queen answered, “I know that tasks must
have been set you which it will not prove easy to perform. But what will
it avail you to sit sullen and sad on account of such things? Behave as
a man, and try if these tasks may not indeed be accomplished.”
Now the king thought it best tell the queen all that had happened and
how matters stood. “All this,” said the queen, “is the rede of your
stepmother, and it would be well indeed if she could do you no more harm
by it than she has already tried to do. She has chosen such difficulties
as she thought you would not easily get over, but I can do something
here. The tent is in my possession, so there is that difficulty over.
The water you have to get is a short way hence but very hard of
approach. It is in a well and the well is in a cave hellishly dark. The
well is watched by seven lions and three serpents, and from these
monsters nobody has ever returned alive; and the nature of the water is
that it has no healing power whatever unless it be drawn when all these
monsters are awake. Now I will risk the undertaking of drawing the
water.” So the queen made herself ready to go to the cave, taking with
her seven oxen and three pigs. When she came before the cave she ordered
the oxen to be killed and thrown before the lions and the pigs before
the serpents. And while these monsters tore and devoured the carcases
the queen stepped down into the well and drew as much water as she
wanted. And she left the cave just in time, as the beasts finished
devouring their bait. After this the queen went home to the palace,
having thus got over the second trial.
Then she came to her husband and said, “Now two of the tasks are done,
but the third and indeed the hardest, of them is left. Moreover, this is
one you must perform yourself, but I can give you some hints as to
whither to go for it. I have got a half brother who rules over an island
not far from hence. He is three feet high, and has one eye in the middle
of his forehead. He has a beard thirty ells long, stiff and hard as a
hog’s bristles. He has a dog’s snout and cat’s ears, and I should
scarcely fancy he has his like in the whole world. When he travels he
flings himself forward on a staff of fifty ells’ length, with a pace as
swift as a bird’s flight. Once when my father was out hunting he was
charmed by an ogress who lived in a cave under a waterfall, and with her
he begat this bugbear. The island is one-third of my father’s realm, but
his son finds it too small for him. My father had a ring, the greatest
gem, which each of us would have, sister and brother, but I got it,
wherefore he has been my enemy ever since. Now I will write him a letter
and send him the ring, in the hope that that will soften him and turn
him in our favour. You shall make ready to go to him, with a splendid
suite, and when you come to his palace-door you shall take off your
crown and creep bareheaded over the floor up to his throne. Then you
shall kiss his right foot and give him the letter and the ring. And if
he orders you to stand up, you have succeeded in your task, if not, you
have failed.”
So he did everything that he was bidden by the queen, and when he
appeared before the one-eyed king he was stupefied at his tremendous
ugliness and his bugbear appearance; but he plucked up courage as best
he could and gave him the letter and the ring. When the king saw the
letter and the ring his face brightened up, and he said, “Surely my
sister finds herself in straits now, as she sends me this ring.” And
when he had read the letter he bade the king, his brother-in-law, stand
up, and declared that he was ready to comply with his sister’s wish and
to go off at once without delay. He seized his staff and started away,
but stopped now and then for his brother-in-law and his suite, to whom
he gave a good chiding for their slowness.[172] They continued thus
their march until they came to the palace of the queen, the ugly king’s
sister; but when they arrived there the one-eyed king cried with a
roaring voice to his sister, and asked her what she wished, as she had
troubled him to come so far from home. She then told him all the matter
as it really was and begged him to help her husband out of the trial put
before him. He said he was ready to do so, but would brook no delay.
Now both kings went off, and nothing is told of their journey until they
came to the old king. The young king announced to his father his coming
and that he brought with him what he had ordered last year. He wished
his father to call together a _ting_,[173] in order that he might show
openly how he had performed his tasks. This was done, and the king and
the queen and other great folk were assembled. First the tent was put
forward and nobody could find fault with it. Secondly the young king
gave the wondrous healing water to his father. The queen was prayed to
taste it and see if it was the right water, taken at the right time. She
said that both things were as they should be. Then said the old king,
“Now the third and heaviest of all the tasks is left: come, and have it
off your hands quickly.” Then the young king summoned the king with one
eye, and as he appeared on the _ting_ he waxed so hideous that all the
people were struck with fright and horror, and most of all the king.
When this ugly monarch had shown himself for a while there he thrust his
staff against the breast of the queen and tilted her up into the air on
the top of it, and then thrust her against the ground with such force
that every bone in her body was broken. She turned at once into the most
monstrous troll ever beheld. After this the one-eyed king rushed away
from the _ting_ and the people thronged round the old king in order to
help him, for he was in the very jaws of death from fright. The healing
water was sprinkled on him and refreshed him.
After the death of the queen, who was killed of course when she turned
into a troll, the king confessed that all the tasks which he had given
his son to perform were undeserved and that he had acted thus, egged on
by the queen. He called his son to him and humbly begged his forgiveness
for what he had done against him. He declared he would atone for it by
giving into his hand all that kingdom, while he himself only wished to
live in peace and quiet for the rest of his days. So the young king sent
for his queen and for the courtiers whom he loved most. And, to make a
long story short, they gave up their former kingdom to the king with one
eye, as a reward, for his lifetime, but governed the realm of the old
king to a high age, in great glee and happiness.
_THE TWO SISTERS WHO ENVIED THEIR CADETTE—p. 491._
Legends of castaway infants are common to the folk-lore of almost all
countries and date far back into antiquity. The most usual mode of
exposing them—to perish or be rescued, as chance might direct—is placing
them in a box and launching them into a river. The story of Moses in the
bulrushes, which must of course be familiar to everybody, is not only
paralleled in ancient Greek and Roman legends (_e.g._ Perseus, Cyrus,
Romulus), but finds its analogue in Babylonian folk-lore.[174] The
leading idea of the tale of the Envious Sisters, who substituted a
puppy, a kitten, and a rat for the three babes their young sister the
queen had borne and sent the little innocents away to be destroyed,
appealing, as it does, to the strongest of human instincts, is the theme
of many popular fictions from India to Iceland. With a malignant
mother-in-law in place of the two sisters, it is the basis of a mediæval
European romance entitled “The Knight of the Swan,” and of a similar
tale which occurs in “Dolopathus,” the oldest version of the “Seven Wise
Masters,” written in Latin prose about the year 1180: A king while
hunting loses his way in a forest and coming to a fountain perceives a
beautiful lady, whom he carries home and duly espouses, much against the
will of his mother, Matabrun. Some time after, having to lead his
knights and men-at-arms against an enemy, he commits the queen, now far
advanced in pregnancy, to the care of his mother, who undertakes that no
harm shall befall her during his absence. The queen is delivered at one
birth of seven lovely children, six boys and one girl, each of whom has
a silver chain round its neck.[175] The king’s mother plots with the
midwife to do away with the babes and place seven little dogs in bed
beside the poor queen. She gives the children to one of her squires,
charging him either to slay them or cast them into the river. But when
the squire enters a forest his heart relents and laying the infants,
wrapped in his mantle, on the ground, he returns and tells his mistress
that he has done her behest. When the king returns, the wicked Matabrun
accuses his wife to him of having had unnatural commerce with a dog, and
shows him the seven puppies. The scene which follows presents a striking
likeness to that in the Arabian story after the birth of the third
child. King Oriant is full of wrath, and at once assembles his
counsellors, “dukes, earls, knights and other lords of the realm, with
the bishop and prelate of the church,” and having stated the case, the
bishop pleads in favour of the queen, and finally induces him not to put
her to death, but confine her in prison for the rest of her life.
Meanwhile the children are discovered by an aged hermit, who takes them
to his dwelling, baptises them, and brings them up. After some years it
happens that a yeoman in the service of the king’s mother, while hunting
in the forest, perceives the seven children with silver chains round
their necks seated under a tree. He reports this to Matabrun, who
forthwith sends him back to kill the children and bring her their silver
chains. He finds but six of them, one being absent with the hermit, who
was gone alms-seeking; and, touched by their innocent looks, he merely
takes off the silver chains, whereupon they become transformed into
pretty white swans and fly away. How the innocence of the queen is
afterwards vindicated by her son Helyas—he who escaped being changed
into a swan—and how his brethren and sister are restored to their proper
forms would take too long to tell, and indeed the rest of the romance
has no bearing on the Arabian tale.[176]
In another mediæval work, from which Chaucer derived his Man of Law’s
Tale, the Life of Constance, by Nicholas Trivet, an English Dominican
monk, the saintly heroine is married to a king, in whose absence at the
wars his mother plots against her daughter-in-law. When Constance gives
birth to a son, the old queen causes letters to be written to the king,
in which his wife is declared to be an evil spirit in the form of a
woman and that she had borne, not a human child, but a hideous monster.
The king, in reply, commands Constance to be tended carefully until his
return. But the traitress contrives by means of letters forged in the
king’s name to have Constance and her son sent to sea in a ship, where
she meets with strange adventures. Needless to say, the old queen’s
wicked devices ultimately come to naught.
The story of the Envious Sisters as told by Galland was known in Italy
(as Dr. W. Grimm points out in the valuable notes to his _K. u. H. M._)
many generations before the learned Frenchman was born, through the
“Pleasant Nights” of Straparola. That Galland took his story from the
Italian novelist it is impossible to believe, since, as Mr. Coote has
observed, Straparola’s work “was already known in France for a couple of
centuries through a popular French translation” and Galland would at
once have been an easily convicted copyist. Moreover, the story,
imitated from Straparola, by Madame d’Aulnois, under the title of “La
Belle Etoile et Le Prince Cheri,” had been published before Galland’s
last two volumes appeared, and both those writers had the same
publisher. It is clear, therefore, that Galland neither invented the
story nor borrowed it from Straparola or Madame d’Aulnois. Whence, then,
did he obtain it?—that is the question. His Arabic source has not yet
been discovered, but a variant of the world-wide story is at the present
day orally current in Egypt and forms No. xi. of “Contes Arabes
Modernes. Recueillis et Traduits par Guillaume Spitta Bey” (Paris,
1883), of which the following is a translation: