climbed the neighbouring heights; they called the name of the lost one
in all directions; but no sound was heard in reply. At noon they went
home, and asked all they met if they had seen a young man, whom they
accurately described. Nobody could give them any information about
him. El Kattab now sent out his messengers in all directions;
promising a rich reward to the one who should lead his lost son back
to his arms. The messengers returned on the tenth day, and reported
that all their researches had been without success. At this the
parent's grief knew no bounds. His friend Salek remained almost
constantly with him, comforting him; and all his friends held a
consultation on the possible means of gaining tidings of Medjeddin.
They agreed that he could not have been killed, for then his corpse
would have been found: that he had no cause to conceal himself: that
he could not have been attacked by enemies, as he had none: might he,
they suggested, in the pursuit of the bird, have been led to the brink
of the river, and have thrown himself in, and been carried away by
the stream? scarcely had this idea presented itself, ere two
messengers were despatched to each side of the river to search, from
its junction with the Euphrates above Balsora to the spot where it
flows into the Arabian Sea, and ascertain if the corpse of Medjeddin
had been washed ashore. But these messengers also returned to the
anxious parent, without having found what they sought. The parent and
his friend now gave up Medjeddin for lost; El Kattab's spirit was
broken; grief for his lost son shortened his life; he soon became old:
all joy fled from his mind; and his sorrow was only a little
alleviated when his faithful friend Salek sat by him in the evening,
talking with him of his son, relating the virtues by which he had been
distinguished, and telling him how it had been his darling wish that
this excellent young man should marry his daughter Maryam.
A few days afterwards the caliph Haroun al Raschid went, as he was
accustomed, in disguise, with his grand vizier Giafar, and Mesrur his
chamberlain, through the streets of Bagdad, to see with his own eyes
and to hear with his own ears how justice and order were maintained by
his servants, and whether his people were happy and prosperous. He
had, as usual, chosen the last hour of the evening for this walk,
because he thought that at this time he could look deeper into the
joys and pleasures of his subjects, as they had then ended their daily
toils, and were seeking comfort and repose in the bosoms of their
families. In the course of his progress he came to a street remarkable
for its peculiar quiet. As he approached a house, before the door of
which two men were standing whispering, Haroun al Raschid addressed
them with these words: "Why do you whisper, as if you were concerting
a crime? is not this street lonely enough, that you cannot hold your
discourse aloud? Can you tell me why this street is so quiet, as
though every inhabitant were dead?"
"I can easily tell you, my lord," answered one of the whisperers;
"here, in the next house, lives the unfortunate El Kattab; and, as
usual at this hour, his friend Salek is sitting with him to console
him. Now all the inhabitants of this street respect this man, and wish
not to remind him, by any outburst of joy, that happier men than
himself live in his neighbourhood."
Before the caliph could answer him, the man turned away, and entered
the house, and the other followed him.
"Have you ever heard of this unfortunate El Kattab before?" asked
Haroun al Raschid of his grand vizier; and as he answered in the
negative, the caliph proceeded, "Let us make an inspection of the
house where this El Kattab dwells; perhaps we may discover the cause
of his sorrow."
They drew near, and saw the light from the inner court shining through
a crevice. The caliph applied his eye to the aperture, and after he
had watched for some time, beckoned his followers to him, and said,
"Two grey-headed men are sitting in this court by the light of a lamp,
and one seems to be comforting the other; but this latter continues to
weep all the more bitterly, the more his companion endeavours to
console him: both appear to be of the same rank. I am desirous of
knowing what sorrow oppresses the unfortunate El Kattab: order him to
appear at my palace early to-morrow morning; perhaps it may be in my
power to lighten his calamity."
The next day the grand vizier executed his commission. El Kattab was
alarmed when he heard that his presence was required at the palace. He
was led into the great hall where the divan usually assembled; but
there the attendants left him quite alone. He reviewed the whole of
his past life, to see if he had sinned in any way, so as to bring on
him the displeasure of the caliph; for he knew that Haroun al Raschid
often, in a mysterious manner, discovered the faults of his subjects,
and punished them accordingly. But he could not call to mind any deed
of which he felt ashamed, nor any that deserved punishment. Whilst he
was thus meditating, a curtain was drawn back, and the caliph entered,
followed by his vizier and his chamberlain. El Kattab rose from the
ground, and bowed his head down to the carpet on which the caliph
stood.
"El Kattab," said the caliph, "a heavy weight of grief seems to
oppress you; and by the anxiety which your neighbours manifest to show
respect for your sorrow, I must consider you as a man of worth: I wish
then to know the cause of your despondency; have you any objection to
inform me of it before these two witnesses, or would you rather
confide to me alone the reason of your tears?"
"Ruler of the faithful," answered El Kattab, "sorrow is great and deep
in my soul; but still the cause of it is unworthy to distract for a
moment the attention of the caliph from the cares of his kingdom."
The caliph replied, "That which fills the heart of the meanest of my
subjects with such grief that it consumes his life, is not unworthy of
my care. If I am careful for my whole kingdom, this care none the less
extends to each individual; and, if I am careful for one, this one is
a member of the whole, and thus my care is not lost. But speak, what
is the cause of your affliction?"
El Kattab then recounted the mysterious disappearance of his son; how
he had sought for him every where, and how all his messengers had
returned home without the least trace of him. "I must therefore weep
for him as one that is dead,"--thus he ended his relation; "and in
tears perhaps my sorrow might expend itself, if at the same time a
spark of hope did not live in my heart, that possibly he is still
alive: but ah! where? This spark of hope keeps the wound in the
father's heart always open."
"You have, indeed, real cause for grief," answered the caliph, "and I
comprehend that the uncertainty of your son's fate must be as terrible
to bear, as would be the mournful certainty of his death. You did
wrong in not applying to me before; my power extends not only over
believers, but also into foreign lands: other kings and rulers I have
as my servants, whose eyes see for me, whose ears hear for me, and
whose hands perform what is necessary in order to do my pleasure. That
which was not possible to yourself, your friends, and your servants to
accomplish, may perhaps prove easy for me. Now go home, and believe
that you shall obtain news of your son, if he live on the earth, in
any land where my power can reach."
With these words he dismissed him, after he had first inquired the
marks by which his lost son might be recognised.
When El Kattab was sitting again with his friend Salek in the evening,
he related to him the gracious and comforting words of the caliph.
Salek perceived that hope was revived in his friend's heart, and that
he confidently trusted to find his son. He thought it his duty,
therefore, to damp somewhat this hope, and said, "Beloved friend, I
have once heard a speech, which sunk deeply in my memory: it is,
'Trust not in princes; they are but men.' In truth, the mightiest on
earth are subject to destiny. If the caliph have influence in distant
lands, it must still be within a comparatively confined and narrow
limit; whilst what is in the farthest regions of the earth, as well as
what is but a span distant, are all equally under the control of
all-governing fate, even from the meanest slave to the ruler of the
faithful."
Haroun al Raschid meanwhile resolved to do all he could to fulfil the
hope he had raised in El Kattab's heart. He gave a commission to all
his servants in the kingdom, high and low, and to his ambassadors in
the neighbouring kingdoms, and even sent into distant lands, with the
princes of which he was on terms of friendship, at the same time
despatching messengers with the charge to search for Medjeddin with
all diligence, giving them a description by which they might recognise
him if they found him. But week after week, and month after month
passed away; even a whole year elapsed, without any intelligence being
received either of the life or death of the lost one. So that all hope
of finding him deserted the father for ever.
Medjeddin, meantime, had not perished--none of the accidents suggested
by his father's advisers had befallen him; he still lived, but in such
complete concealment that it was impossible for any one to discover
him. He had followed the snow-white bird till evening, without clearly
knowing why: he was induced to think he could catch the curious
creature, particularly as it flew at such a moderate height from the
ground, and at the same time so slowly. The tardiness of its flight
made him conjecture that it must have hurt one of its wings; several
times he succeeded in getting quite close to it, but just as he
stretched out his hand to seize it, the bird again raised its wings,
and flew a little in advance. Medjeddin now felt himself tired, and
would have given up the pursuit, but the bird also seemed fatigued; he
approached it, but again the bird flew a little farther off. In this
chase he climbed a hill, and soon after found himself in a narrow
meadow-valley, down which he ran; twilight came, but the snow-white
colour of the bird still lighted him on. At last the pursued bird
perched in a thicket; he hastened to it, but when he closed his hand
to seize his prisoner, it flew away, leaving only one of its
tail-feathers tightly grasped in his hand: still he saw it through the
twilight flying before him, and still he hastened after it. The bird
seemed now to quicken its pace; but as he had so nearly caught it
once, he continued the pursuit with more eagerness; he ran through the
high grass, with his strained sight fixed on this glimmering white
object, he saw nothing else. Thus he came unexpectedly on a small but
deep pool of water, which lay across his path; he jumped in, swam
across, and tried to climb the other side, but it was so steep that he
fell in with some of the crumbling earth: the water closed over his
head, and he lost all consciousness. When he came to himself, he found
himself lying on the turf, and a tall, grey-headed man of strange
appearance by him, clothed in a long black robe reaching to his
ancles, and fastened by a glittering girdle of a fiery colour. Instead
of a turban, he wore a high pointed cap on his head, with a tassel of
the same hue as the girdle.
"Has your life returned to you?" he asked: "you deserved to be
suffocated in the mud. Come, we must go farther before daylight quite
leaves us."
With these words the stranger raised him from the ground, passed his
left arm round his body, and flew with him through the air with the
speed of an arrow. Medjeddin again soon lost recollection, and did not
know how long he remained in this condition. He awoke at last as from
a deep sleep; and looking around, the first thing he observed was a
cage of gold wire, hanging from the ceiling by a long golden chain,
and within was the snow-white bird he had so long followed. He found
himself alone with this bird in a hall, the roof of which was
supported on pillars of white marble, and the walls were built of
smooth pale-green stones. The openings which served as windows were
protected by lattices so skilfully contrived with winding tracery,
that even the white bird could have found no space to pass through,
even if it had escaped from the cage. Beside one wall stood a crystal
urn; and from this fell a stream of clear water, which passing over
the curved brim of the urn, was received in a white basin beneath,
from which it disappeared unseen. Whilst he was observing this, and
wondering what had happened to him, and how he came there, suddenly
the old man in the black robe entered from behind a curtain. He
carried a small golden box in his hand, and approached him with these
words: "You have now caught the white bird, and have it safe in a
cage; in this box is food for it, and there is water; take diligent
care of it, and mind that it does not escape."
As he said this he disappeared. Medjeddin now arose and walked round
the hall: he looked through the windows, and ascertained that he must
be in a foreign land, as the forms of the mountains and trees were
quite different from any he had before seen. The hall seemed to be
high in the air, as if it were the upper story of a lofty tower. No
other edifice was to be seen, and from the windows he could not
distinguish what shrubs and plants bloomed beneath. He drew the
curtain aside, and discovered a doorway; but there was a thick metal
door which he could not open. He was now very much embarrassed, for he
began to feel hungry, and could find nothing that would serve him for
food. He examined the walls to see if he could discover any concealed
outlet; he tried to open the lattices, that he might put his head out,
and see if there were any body beneath, to whom he might cry out.
There was no door; he could not open the lattices; and as far as he
could strain his sight in every direction, he could see nobody: he
threw himself in despair on the pillow, wrung his hands, and wept, and
cried: "I am then imprisoned--imprisoned in a dungeon where splendour
and riches are lavished around! Of what avail is it that these walls
are built of precious stones? that this lattice is of fine gold, that
this cage is of gold, and hangs on a golden chain? I am as much a
prisoner behind golden lattices as I should be behind a grating of
iron." Then he rose and shouted through the lattices, in hopes that
his voice might be heard, and aid brought; but nobody appeared, and no
one answered him. When he again threw himself weeping on his couch,
after these useless efforts, he observed that the white bird
fluttered restlessly in its prison, and pecked at the golden dish for
its food, without finding any.
"Poor brother in misfortune," said Medjeddin, "you shall not suffer
want; I will take care of you; come, I will bring you what you want."
He took the pans from the cage, filling one with water from the urn,
and the other with grain from the gold box which the old man had given
him. Scarcely had he hung the last on the cage, when, on turning
round, he saw a table behind him covered with costly viands. He was
astonished, and could not understand how this had happened; still it
was not long before he attacked the meats with the zest of a young man
who had fasted nearly all day. Although these viands were altogether
different from those he had been accustomed to taste in his father's
house, they all appeared excellent. He ate till he was fully
satisfied, and then took from the table a golden cup, and quenched his
thirst with pure water from the urn. After this he threw himself on a
couch and fell asleep. When he awoke he felt strong and well. He arose
and began to make another tour of the hall, and he then observed that
the table with the meats had disappeared. This was a disappointment,
as he had thought to make a good supper of the remainder. He did not
allow this, however, to trouble him much, as he now felt pretty sure
that he was not to die of hunger. He next proceeded to scrutinise his
prison more closely: he examined all anew, pillars, walls, and floor;
but could no where find a crevice or a fissure: all was fast and
whole. His view from the windows did not allow him to make any further
discovery; he only saw that he was very far above the earth, and in a
spacious valley; mountains were to be seen in the distance, with
curiously-pointed summits. As soon as he had completed this
examination, and found there was nothing to occupy him, he turned his
attention to the white bird in the cage. Here was still life; and if
the cage was narrow, yet the prisoner could hop about on the different
perches. Soon it remained still and gazed at him with its bright eyes,
which seemed as if sense and speech lay in them, the interpretation
only was wanting.
Night put an end to these reflections. Next morning he observed that
the bird again wanted food. He filled its seed-pan with grain from his
golden box, and gave it fresh water from the urn. Scarcely had he done
this, when the table covered with meats again stood in the same place
as the day before. This day passed like the former, and the following
in the same manner; Medjeddin wept and mourned, took care of the
little bird, fed it, and was every time rewarded in the same manner
with the table covered with dishes as soon as he had filled the bird's
seed-pan. He could not perceive who brought the table, nor how it
disappeared. It always came whilst he stood beside the cage with his
back turned, and without any noise. On the ninth day the old man
suddenly appeared to him, and said, "To-day is a day of rest for you;
you have performed your duty during the preceding days in giving the
bird its food, you may now amuse yourself in the garden till evening."
He led him through a door into a narrow passage, at the end of which
they descended twenty steps; he then opened a small metal trap-door,
and then Medjeddin descended twenty steps more: they next came to a
similar door, and descended twenty more steps to a third, and so on,
till, after passing the ninth door, they found themselves in the open
air.
"Remain here till you are called," said the old man, who went back
into the building through the same doors, which he shut after him.
Medjeddin was very curious to examine more closely the building in
which he had been imprisoned: he therefore went round it, and narrowly
observed it. It was a tower of nine stories, each about fifteen feet
in height. The tower was nine-sided, with a window in the third side
of each story, so arranged that no window was directly over another,
and that consequently only three altogether appeared in each side of
the tower from bottom to top. This distribution of regularity and
order reigned throughout the whole building. The walls were made of
large pieces of gold, quite as smooth as glass; and these were so
skilfully put together that, even when closely looked at, the joints
could not be discovered. The lattices of the windows were all of gold,
like those in the upper hall, and the lower doors through which he had
passed were of a yellow metal, inclining to green. All these
considerations were not calculated to lessen his conviction that no
man could possibly find him out in such a prison. Suddenly a new hope
awoke in him: "I am no longer shut up in the tower," said he to
himself; "here I am in the open air, in a garden: I can clamber and
jump like a monkey; I may possibly find some outlet from this garden,
by which I can escape." He immediately turned from the tower, and
hastened through the gardens, seeking freedom; but he soon discovered
that this hope was vain. He found the gardens surrounded on all sides
by a lofty wall, constructed of the same materials, and quite as
glassy, as the tower. After making the whole circuit of the garden, he
at length found a gate, consisting of a grating of strong iron bars,
polished to the highest degree of smoothness, and so close together,
that he could scarcely pass his arm through. He tried to climb it by
holding by the upper bars with his hands; but his feet slipped on the
smooth iron, and he hurt his knee so much, that he lost his hold and
fell backwards on the earth. He next examined the grating closely to
see if there were no means of escape; but all was in vain: every where
the bars were high, thick, and like polished glass. Sorrowfully he
wandered round the garden; the sun's rays darting down scorched up the
grass, and he sought some shade where he might screen himself from
their influence. He lay down on a mossy bank, and meditated anew on
his fate. Besides his own grief at his imprisonment, the thought of
his father's sorrow at his loss pained him. The exhaustion consequent
on tears and loud lamentations, joined with the noontide heat, at last
caused him to fall into a deep sleep. When he awoke, the table covered
with meats was again before him; he ate, and wandered again mournfully
through the garden, meditating whether he could not make a ladder from
the trees around him, to aid him in his escape over the grating. But
there was something wanting for this work; he had not even a dagger or
a knife. As he thus thought, the old man appeared, and said, "Evening
is drawing on; follow me in." He led him again to the upper room of
the tower, and locked the metal door upon him.
There was no change observable in his prison, only the bird seemed
harassed and mournful; it sat quiet and still on the lowest perch, its
plumage was rough, and its eyes dull. "Poor creature," said Medjeddin,
"what is the matter? are you ill?" It seemed as if the bird was
affected by these sympathising questions, but it soon sank again into
its former dejection. He mused long upon this. The next day and the
following ones passed like the former; but on the ninth the old man
again appeared, led him into the garden, and at night conducted him
back into the hall. He took care of the bird; and as soon as he had
given it food and water, he always found the table covered with meats
behind him. In the intervals he stood at the lattice of one of the
three windows looking on the plain below, earnestly hoping to catch
sight of some person to free him from his captivity. In such
monotonous employment many months passed away: every ninth day the old
man appeared, and gave him leave to walk in the garden; but he did not
derive much amusement from his strolls in this narrow enclosure. In
the mean time he asked the old man many times the reason of his
imprisonment, and how long it was to last. No answer was vouchsafed
but these words: "Every man has his own fate; this is thine."
One day the old man appeared and led him into the garden as usual; but
he had not been there more than a quarter of an hour, when he
returned, called him in, and then quickly retired with marks of
disquietude. Medjeddin also remarked that the white bird, which he had
learnt to love more every day, sat at the bottom of its cage, more
mournful than it usually was after the old man's visit. He drew near,
and observed a little door in the cage which he had never before seen.
He examined it closely, and found a fine bolt which passed into a ring
of gold wire. These were made so skilfully, and worked into the
ornamental parts of the cage so cunningly, that nobody could have
discovered them if his attention had not been drawn to them by design
or accident. Medjeddin pushed back the bolt and opened the door; the
bird started up as if some sudden joy had seized it, hopped out, and
as soon as it touched the floor was transformed, and in its stead a
young maiden stood before Medjeddin, clothed in a white silk robe;
beautiful dark locks streamed over her neck and shoulders, and a thin
fragrant veil fell over them, confined by a fillet set with precious
stones; her finely-formed countenance was as white as ivory, relieved
by the softest shade of the rose. Surprised and astonished, Medjeddin
started back and said, "By the beard of the prophet, I conjure you to
tell me whether you are of human race, or whether you belong to the
genii?"
"I am a helpless maiden," said she, "and implore you to deliver me
from the hands of this cruel magician; I will reward you handsomely
for it: know, I am the only daughter of Omar, king of Zanguebar; and
this wicked enchanter has cunningly carried me off from my father's
palace, and shut me up in this cage. He has one son, as ugly as night,
whom he wishes me to take for my husband. Every ninth day he comes,
brings his son with him, and praises his excellent qualities. This he
has done regularly for many months past, tormenting me at every visit
for my consent to this odious union; and he now threatens me with
cruel tortures if I give it not by the next new moon. On that day he
will have kept me a year in imprisonment, and longer than a year he
says he will not continue to entreat: then will the time of my
punishment begin; I conjure you therefore to help me." At these words
she burst into a flood of tears.
"Noble maiden," answered Medjeddin, "how willingly would I free you!
but, alas, I am as helpless as yourself, and cannot even free myself.
But tell me how is it? you say the enchanter brings his hateful son
with him--why, then, have I never seen him?"
"He always sends you away when he comes," answered the princess.
"But even then," pursued Medjeddin, "the son could not conceal himself
from me on the stairs, or in the narrow passage."
"Quite true," she answered, "but he carries him in his pocket."