Love and Marriage—THE KNIGHT AND THE THREE QUESTIONS—Racing for a
Wife—JONATHAN AND THE THREE TALISMANS—Tale of the Dwarf and the
Three Soldiers—Conclusion.
“I have been very much surprised at the almost entire absence of
compulsory marriages from your tales; marriage, indeed, is the
staple incident of the story, but the course of love seems to be
allowed to run almost too smooth.”
“Why, Herbert,” said Frederick Thompson, with a smile, “were it not
rank heresy to suppose that power, and wealth, and policy influenced
marriages in those romantic days, when knights performed
impossibilities, and ladies sang love ditties from high towers?”
“You must not delude yourselves that ladies were married in the
tenth and eleventh centuries on principles very widely differing
from those now prevailing. I could give you far worse examples than
the wondrous nineteenth century furnishes.”
“What!” exclaimed Herbert, “worse examples than eighty linked to
eighteen because their properties adjoined? or a spendthrift title
propped up by a youthful heiress, because the one wanted money and
the other rank?”
“Hilloa, Master Reginald Herbert, methinks we speak feelingly; is
there not something of the accepted lover and disappointed
son-in-law in that exalted burst of indignation, eh, Lathom? can it
be true that
“‘The lady she was willing.
But the baron he say NO’?”
“Be it as it may,” said Lathom, “we will solace our friend with an
example or two of the approved ways of lady-winning in the tenth
century. Which shall it be, the case of a successful racer or a
clever resolver of riddles?”
“Oh, I will answer for Reginald; pray leave Miss Atalanta for the
present, and favor us with the resolver of hard questions.”
Here begins the tale of
THE KNIGHT AND THE THREE QUESTIONS.
A certain emperor had a very beautiful, but wilful daughter, and he much
wished to marry her, for she was his heir, but to all his wishes she was
deaf. At last she agreed to marry that person who should answer
succinctly these three questions. The first question was: “What is the
length, breadth, and depth of the four elements?” The second required a
means of changing the north wind; and the third demanded by what means
fire might be carried to the bosom without injury to the person.
Many and many were the nobles, knights, and princes that endeavored to
answer the princess’s questions. It was all in vain: some answered one,
some another, but no one resolved all three, and each reserved his
secret from his competitor, in the hopes of another and more successful
trial. The emperor began to grow angry with his daughter, but she still
persisted in her intentions, and her father did not like to compel her.
At length, after many years, came a soldier from a foreign land, and
when he heard of the questions of the princess, he volunteered for the
trial. On the appointed day, the soldier entered the court of the palace
accompanied by one attendant, who led an extremely fiery horse by the
bridle. The king descended to the gate of the inner court-yard, and
demanded the soldier’s wishes.
“I come, my lord, to win thy daughter, by rightly answering her three
questions; I pray thee propose them to me.”
“Right willingly,” rejoined the emperor. “If thou succeedest, my
daughter and the succession to my throne are thine; but mark me, if thou
failest, a sound whipping awaits thee as an impudent adventurer. Shall I
propose the questions?”
“Even so, my lord—I am ready; a crown and a wife, or the whipping-post.”
“Tell me, then, succinctly, how many feet there are in the length,
breadth, and depth of the elements.”
“Launcelot,” said the soldier to his servant, “give the horse to a
groom, and lie down on the ground.”
The servant obeyed his master’s orders, and the soldier carefully
measured his length, his breadth, and the thickness of his body.
“My lord,” said the soldier, as soon as the measuring was complete, “the
length of the elements is scarcely seven feet, the breadth is nearly
three, and the depth does not exceed one.”
“How mean you, sir; what has this to do with the elements?”
“My lord,” rejoined the soldier, “man is made of the four elements; I
have given you the measure of man, and therefore of those parts of which
he is composed.”
“You have answered well, sir soldier; now resolve this difficulty—how
can the north wind be changed?”
“Launcelot, bring up Niger.”
The servant brought up the horse at his master’s command, and the
soldier placed it with its head to the north; after a few minutes he
administered to it a potion, and at the same moment turned its head to
the east; the horse that before had breathed fiercely now became quiet,
and its breathing was soft and quiet.
“See, my lord, the wind is changed.”
“How, sir soldier?” asked the emperor, “What has this to do with the
wind?”
“My lord,” rejoined the soldier, “who knows not that the life of every
animal is in its breath, and that breath is air? When my horse looked
northward, he breathed fiercely and snorted excessively. Lo, I gave him
a potion and turned his head to the east, and now the same breath comes
softly and quietly, for the wind is changed.”
“Well done—well done, soldier! for these two answers thou shalt escape
the whipping-post. Now resolve me this difficulty: How can fire be
carried in the bosom without injury to the person?”
“Look and see, my lord.”
With these words, the soldier stooped towards a fire that burned in the
court-yard, and hastily seizing some of the burning wood, placed it in
his bosom. Every one expected to see him injured, but after the fire had
burned out the soldier threw the wood from his breast and there was
neither scar nor burn on his breast.
“Well hast thou performed thy task, O soldier,” said the king. “My
daughter is thine according to promise—the inheritance of my kingdom is
also thine and hers; now tell me the secret whereby thou didst prevent
the fire from burning thee.”
“This stone is the talisman,” replied the soldier, showing a small
bright stone that he carried in his right hand. “Whosoever bears this
about him shall be able to resist the hottest fire that man can light.”
Loaded with riches and honors, the soldier married the princess, and
they succeeded to the throne and the wealth of her father.
“Your princess, Lathom, seems to have been one of those young
ladies, who never dream that husbands and wives are born for each
other, but regard the former as especially provided for the benefit
of the latter.”
“I suspect the old monk, Thompson, thought very little about love
matters, but rather looked to the appropriateness of his story for a
religious application.”
“Exactly so, Herbert,” remarked Lathom, “the moral is decidedly the
best part of this tale. The emperor is our Saviour; the daughter,
the human soul. Measuring the elements, is typical of subduing the
lust of the flesh. The fiery horse is a sinner changed by
repentance; and the small bright stone, that conquers the power of
fire, is a true and lively faith in our Saviour, utterly subjugating
the fire of pride, luxury, and avarice.”
“What is the tale of the marriage by racing?” asked Thompson.
“Hardly worth relating at length.”
“Except as a hint to our poor friend Reginald.”
“The lady is to be won by no one who cannot outrun her. After many
failures, comes one called Abibas, a poor, but shrewd fellow.
Knowing the failings of the young lady, he prepares a garland of
roses, a beautiful silken girdle, and a golden ball, on which was
written, ‘whosoever plays with me, shall never be tired.’ The race
begins, and the lady is just passing her competitor, when he
skilfully jerks the rose garland on to her head. Attracted by the
smell of the flowers, and despising the slow pace of Abibas, the
lady stops to admire, and Abibas gets well ahead. She soon throws
away the garland, and is off again after her competitor; nearer and
nearer she comes, when Abibas slily drops the embroidered girdle in
her path. She stops—admires—takes it up, and again loses ground.
Again she throws away the tempting bait, and renews the race; the
distance between her and her suitor is soon lessened, and the race
draws towards its end. As a last resource, he casts the golden ball
before her. She stops—reads the inscription—determines to try it for
a moment—goes on and on with her pleasure, and is only awakened from
her folly by the cries that hail Abibas as the winner of the race
and the lady.”
“What makes you look so solemn, Herbert? Can you not persuade the
repudiating father in your case, to run a race with you for the
lady.”
“Tut-tut, Thompson; I was thinking whether any of those persons who
promote or sanction what the world calls marriages of convenience,
in which every one admits that love, or identity of feelings, has
nothing at all to do, ever read the commencement of the exhortation
in the marriage service. Surely it can never occur to them, that we
are there told that marriage signifies unto us the mystical union
between our Saviour and his Church.”
“It were charity to suppose they were ignorant,” replied Lathom;
“but let us leave these speculations; we are by no means in a proper
tone of mind for them, and are more ready to laugh than to reason.”
“Let us then return to our sorcerers and witches,” said Thompson.
“Nay, rather let me demand your attention for a tale of some length,
but not less interest, and which combines just sufficient magic in
its incidents to satisfy Herbert’s love of the marvellous. I will
read you the story of
“JONATHAN AND THE THREE TALISMANS.”
Darius was a wise and prudent king; he had three sons whom he loved
much, and amongst whom he divided his possessions. To the eldest he gave
his kingdom; to the second, his personal wealth; to the third, a ring, a
necklace, and a valuable carpet. These three gifts were charmed. The
ring rendered any one who wore it beloved, and obtained for him
whatsoever he desired. The necklace, if worn on the breast, enabled the
wearer to realize every wish; whilst the cloth had such virtue that
whosoever sat upon it, and thought where he would be carried, found
himself there almost before his thought was expressed. These three
precious gifts the king conferred upon Jonathan, his youngest son, to
aid him in his studies; but his mother retained them during the earlier
years of his youth; after a time his mother delivered to him the ring.
“Jonathan,” she said, “take the first of thy father’s bequests—this
ring; guard it as a treasure. So long as you wear it, every one shall
love you, and whatsoever you wish shall be obtained by you; of one thing
beware—an artful woman.”
Jonathan, with many thanks and protestations, took the ring. Its magic
effects were soon evident. Every one sought his society, and every one
loved him. Though he had neither silver nor gold, house nor fields, he
had but to wish for them, and lo, one gave him fields, and another
houses, a third gold, a fourth merchandise. Walking one day in the
streets of Rome, he met a lady so beautiful to look at that he could not
restrain himself from following her, and eventually he had no happiness
but in her society. She loved Jonathan, and Jonathan loved her.
“Dearest,” said the lady one day, as Jonathan was enjoying her society,
“how comes it that you immediately obtain every thing you but wish for,
and yet the good king did not leave thee his wealth, or his power?”
“It is a secret, Subtilia; a secret that I may not reveal, lest it lose
its value.”
“And do you profess to love me, Jonathan, and yet keep from me the
secret of your power, your wealth, and your life?”
“Ask me not, dearest, for it may not be.”
“Farewell, then, Jonathan—thou lovest me not—never more will I love thee
again.”
“Nay, Subtilia, but thou canst not prevent thyself loving me as long as
I wear this ring.”
“Ah, Jonathan, the secret, the secret! you wear a magic ring.”
“Fool that I was,” exclaimed Jonathan, “in my haste I forgot my
discretion; well, you know my secret—be honest, and keep it yourself.”
“You have not told me all the properties of the ring; I must know all if
thou wouldst have it kept a secret.”
Subtilia at length elicited the secret from her lover. The source of his
power once known to her, the next object of her plans was to obtain that
power for herself.
“Thou art very wrong, Jonathan,” said she, looking up into his face,
with her dark black eyes; “surely thou art wrong to wear so precious a
jewel on thy finger; some day, in the hurry of your occupation, you will
lose the ring, and then your power is gone.”
“There is some sense in what you say, Subtilia,” replied Jonathan; “yet
where shall I place it in security?”
“Let me be its guardian, dearest,” said Subtilia, with a look of deep
affection. “No one will seek such a treasure of me; and whensoever you
wish for it, it will be ready to your hand; among the rest of my jewels
it will be perfectly secure.”
Jonathan acceded to her request, and placed the ring in her possession.
For a time all went well; the ring was safe, and ready to his use, and
the lady’s love did not decrease. One day, when he came to visit her as
usual, he found Subtilia sitting on a couch, bathed in tears.
“Oh, my dear, dear lord!” exclaimed she, casting herself at his feet;
“how can I dare to approach my lord?”
“Why this anxiety, this sorrow, Subtilia?” said Jonathan, as he raised
her from the ground, and strove to kiss away her tears.
“Oh, my lord! pardon me—the ring,” ejaculated Subtilia.
“Ah! the ring—what of the ring?”
“It is gone, my lord—stolen.”
“Gone! how gone, woman?” rejoined Jonathan, in anger.
“Ah, my good lord; this morning I went to my jewel-box to take out such
ornaments as might best please my lord, and lo, the ring was not there;
and now where it is I know not.”
“Farewell, Subtilia—I am ruined.”
With these words Jonathan left the lady. It was all in vain that he
searched everywhere for the ring; it was of but a common form, and he
dared not to reveal its secret, as once known no one would dream of
resigning such a treasure. In his distress he returned to his mother,
and told her all his misfortunes.
“My son,” said his lady mother, “did I not warn thee of this very
danger? by the subtlety of this woman thou hast lost thy charmed jewel.
Receive now thy father’s second bequest—this necklace; so long as you
wear this on your breast, every wish of yours shall be fulfilled; go in
peace, and, once more, beware of female subtlety.”
Overjoyed with his new acquisition, and unable to believe that Subtilia
had deceived him about the loss of the ring, Jonathan returned to the
city, and to the society of that fair but deceitful lady. For a time his
secret remained within his own breast; at length, however, he yielded to
the blandishments of his lady-love, and disclosed to her the source of
his prosperity. Long and subtle were the means by which Subtilia gained
the knowledge of the secret of the necklace, and longer and more subtle
the plans by which she at last gained it to her own possession. This too
was lost, as the ring; and Jonathan returned a second time to his
mother.
“My son,” said she, “these two times you have fallen a victim to female
subtlety, the ring and the necklace are not lost; Subtilia has them
both, and if you would succeed, you must regain them from her. Receive
this, the third and last bequest of your royal father; seated on this
carpet, you have but to wish to find yourself forthwith in whatever
place you desire; go in peace, my son—for the third time, beware of
female subtlety.”
“I will be revenged on this faithless woman,” muttered Jonathan, as he
entered Subtilia’s house bearing the last bequest of Darius. “Subtilia,”
he said, “come, see the third bequest of the good king: this splendid
carpet—here sit down with me on it.”
Subtilia was hardly seated on the carpet, ere Jonathan wished that they
were in a desert place, far, far from the abode of man. His wish was
hardly complete before they were both in a drear solitude, many hundreds
of miles from a human abode, and where wild beasts and deadly serpents
abounded.
“Subtilia!” exclaimed Jonathan, “thou art now in my power: restore the
ring and the necklace, or die by the mouths of beasts, or the slow
torture of famine; no human footstep ever treads these solitudes.”
“We perish together, Jonathan.”
“Delude not thyself so, false woman,” rejoined Jonathan, in anger; “I
have but to wish myself away, and find my wish accomplished; choose
therefore—death, or the restoration of the ring and the necklace.”
“I have his secret,” muttered Subtilia to herself; and then, with a most
piteous voice, “my dear lord, I pray thee give me time—but an hour, or
even less—before I decide.”
“As you wish; until the sun touches the top of yonder pine tree,
consider your choice.”
Whilst the time was passing away, the heat of the day seduced Jonathan
into a slight sleep. Subtilia saw the advantage; slowly, and softly, she
drew away the carpet from beneath him, and as, awakened by her last
efforts, he would have regained the magic carpet, she wished herself
again at Rome, and passed from his sight. He was alone in the desert,
whilst she revelled in every luxury that could be obtained through the
means of the three gifts of his royal father.
Jonathan meditated on his situation, and upbraided himself for his own
foolishness: whether to bend his steps from that dreadful wilderness he
knew not, but committing himself by prayer to God’s especial protection,
he followed a narrow path, and at length reached the banks of a large
river. The river was not deep, and Jonathan essayed to pass it. Though
the water was so hot that it burnt the flesh off his bones, he
persevered, and at length reached the opposite bank. He essayed to taste
of the stream, but it was sore bitter, and burned the roof of his mouth
as he drank of it. Astonished at the properties of the river, Jonathan
placed a small quantity of it in a glass vessel, and proceeded, with
great pain, on his journey.
Hunger soon succeeded to thirst, and the solitary wanderer wist not how
to assuage his bitter craving. As he wandered on, limping with pain, he
suddenly cast his eyes on a fair and tempting tree, abounding in fruit
of a rich and golden hue. Without one thought of thanks to God, Jonathan
limped to the tree, and plucked eagerly of the fruit. The fair meal had
hardly concluded, ere he was a leper from head to foot, the foul disease
broke out over his body. Weeping and mourning for his misfortunes, he
gathered of the hurtful fruit, and renewed his miserable wanderings.
Another hour of painful travel brought Jonathan to the bank of a
troubled, turbid stream, whose depth appeared unfathomable, and whose
waters were repugnant even to the thirsty man. Careless of his life,
with one prayer to God, the wanderer stept into the river, unconscious
of its depth. It was shallow, and offered little resistance to his
passage, though its stream seemed to roll onward with headlong violence.
His burnt flesh, too, came again in all its original purity. Jonathan
reached the bank, and on his bended knees gave thanks to God for his
great kindness in relieving him from his pains. Of this stream, also, he
took a small vase full, as a treasured medicine.
Still the wanderer continued his journey, hungry and a leper. No tree on
either side of him gave any promise of sustenance, and he despaired of
sustaining his fast-fleeting strength. Anon he came to a low, crooked,
cankerous-looking bush, with two or three withered, and apparently
rotten, apples on one of its branches. Desperate with hunger, he seized
one of the wretched fruits and ate it. His hunger was assuaged; his
leprosy was departed from him. Strength, health, and a free spirit
seemed renewed in him, and plucking another of the withered fruits, he
went on his way rejoicing.
By the virtue of that food he wandered on without feeling hunger; by the
virtue of that water his flesh suffered not from his journey, and he
knew not what fatigue was. After many days he neared the gates of a
walled city, and made as though he would have entered.
“Ho! sir traveller,” said the gatekeeper, “whence comest thou—what art
thou—and whither goest thou?”
“From Rome, good porter—a physician—”
“Stay,” interrupted the porter; “a physician—you are in good
fortune—canst cure a leprosy?”
“I can but try my skill.”
“If you succeed with this case your fortune is made, friend; our king is
ill of a leprosy. Whoever will cure him will receive great rewards, but
death if he fails.”
“I will undertake the cure,” replied Jonathan; “lead me to the king.”
Jonathan entered the palace, and was led to the chamber of the king,
where lie lay on his couch, wasted with disease, and covered from head
to foot with a leprosy of the most virulent kind.
“A physician, my lord the king,” said the attendant, “who would try to
cure your disease.”
“What, another victim?” rejoined the royal leper; “does he know the
alternative?”
“My lord,” said Jonathan, “I am aware of the terms, and accept them
freely; by God’s help I will cure my lord, or perish in the attempt. I
pray my lord the king to eat of this fruit.”
“What, this withered, rotten apple?” exclaimed the king.
“Even this, my lord.”
The king took the fruit of the second tree, and ate it as Jonathan
advised. In a moment his leprosy began to disappear, and the pimples to
sink and become hardly visible.
“Thou art, indeed, a physician,” exclaimed the king; “the promised
reward is thine.”
“Stay, my lord,” said Jonathan, “we must restore the flesh to its
original state.”
With these words, he touched every mark on the king’s body with the
water of the second river, and the flesh returned fair and white as
before the leprosy.
“Blessed physician, thy reward is doubled; stay, I pray thee, in our
country.”
“Nay, my lord, I may not. I must seek my own land, and all I ask is that
my lord will divide the half of my reward amongst the poor of this
city.”
Soon after this Jonathan sailed from this city for Rome; arrived there,
he circulated a report that a great physician had arrived. Now it
happened that Subtilia, in despite of all the talismans, lay grievously
sick, and nigh unto death. The report of the arrival of the great
physician comforted her, and she sent for Jonathan. He knew her again,
but she knew him not, for he was greatly altered and disguised.
“Great master,” said she, in a faint voice, “I die.”
“Death, lady, comes ever to those who confess not their sins against God
and man, and defraud their friends; if thou hast done this my help is
vain, without confession and restoration.”
Then did Subtilia confess all her treachery against Jonathan, and how
she had deprived him by her subtlety, of the three talismans, and left
him to die in a desert place.
“Woman,” said Jonathan, “thy ill-used lover yet lives, and is
prosperous; the talismans must be restored to him—where be they?”
“In yonder chest; here, take the keys, restore them to Jonathan, and
give me of your medicine.”
“Take this fruit—drink of this water.”
“Mercy, mercy!” exclaimed Subtilia, “I am a leper—the flesh is burning
away from my bones—I die—I die.”
“Subtilia, thou hast met with thy reward—thou diest—and Jonathan is thy
physician.”
With one fearful look at Jonathan, and one agonized scream, the wretched
woman fell back a corpse, her diseased flesh already mouldering to
destruction.
Jonathan regained his father’s bequests, and returned to his mother; the
whole kingdom rejoiced at his return. Until his life’s end he remembered
the lessons he had learnt in his prosperity and his poverty, and he
lived and died in peace with God and with man.
“Your tale, of course, boasts of a moral?”
“Yes; a moral far from unreasonable. The Emperor Darius is typical
of our Saviour, as is generally the case in these tales; and the
queen-mother is the Church. The two sons are the men of this world;
the third son typifies the good Christian. The lady, his great
temptation and source of all his evils, is the flesh. She first
obtains from him the ring of faith, and after that deprives him, by
her devices, of the necklace of hope; and in despite of these
warnings, steals front him, at last, the cloth of charity. The
bitter water, that burneth away the flesh from the bouts, is
repentance, and the first fruit is heartfelt remorse; the second
river is repentance before God, and the unpromising fruit represents
the deeds of faith, prayer, self-denial, and charity.”
“You have left the leprous king and the ship still unexplained.”
“The former is but a type of a sinful man, the other is intended to
represent the Divine command, but the application seems forced and
inappropriate.”
“You have another link between the East and West in this tale,”
remarked Herbert. “The talisman of the magic cloth may be found in
the ‘Arabian Nights,’ in the story of Prince Ahmed, and the Fairy
Pari Banou.”
“All the three talismans proclaim the Eastern origin of the story,”
remarked Lathom; “and besides this, its entire structure resembles
the tale of Fortunatus, to which few have hesitated to assign an
Eastern origin.”
“Many of the incidents of your story are to be found in the old
German nursery tale of The Dwarf and the Three Soldiers.”
“Not unlikely; but the tale in question is so little known to me
that I cannot trace the likeness.”
“The tale, in a few words, is this,” replied Thompson. “Three poor
soldiers obtain from a dwarf three gifts: a cloak, a purse, and a
horse—one and all equally useful in promoting their worldly
advantage. A crafty princess steals all these gifts, and the
soldiers are once more poor. Driven by hunger, one of the three eats
of an apple-tree by the road-side, and forthwith his nose grows, not
by inches, but by miles. The friendly dwarf, in pity of his misery,
cures him by administering another kind of apple; and the nose
shrinks as quickly as it had grown.
“Now comes the revenge on the princess. The old soldier offers some
of the fatal apples for sale; the princess buys and eats; her nose
grows without ceasing. Under pretence of curing her, the old
soldier, disguised as a doctor, makes her nose grow more and more,
and at length, having terrified her into restoring the dwarf’s
gifts, kindly gives her a piece of the second kind of apples, and
cures her of the nasal protuberance.”
“And now that we have concluded our criticisms,” said Herbert, “let
us give all due praise to the admirable instruction contained in
this last narrative.”
“May we not extend our praise to all the tales?”
“As critics, well intentioned towards the writers, and especially
towards this translation, we must not set much store on our
criticism. We need not, however, fear to give our own opinions, and
therefore I agree with you that great praise may with reason be
given to all the tales we have heard, and to no one more than that
with which our last evening, I fear, must now conclude. One thing I
would ask you, Lathom; you spoke of the want of the usual
accessories in these old monks’ stories. One or two slips have not
escaped me; but unless you have re-produced many of the tales, the
credit of great experience in writing fictions must be allowed to
the authors of the Gesta.”
“I do not mean to deny that I have re-written many of these tales,
and in some places introduced a little embroidery, but nowhere have
I done more than re-set the old jewels, and put old pictures into
new frames.”
“This, then, is our last evening with the old story-tellers,” said
Thompson; “to-morrow Herbert and I are off for a week of home,
whilst you are left here to——”
“To re-set some more old jewels, should these, through your report,
obtain favor and acceptance with my friends.”
THE END.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE STORIES OF THE AGES.
TALES FROM THE GESTA ROMANORUM.
HEADLONG HALL AND NIGHTMARE ABBEY.
BY THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK.
CRANFORD. BY MRS. GASKELL.
TALES BY HEINRICH ZSCHOKKE.
THE ROSE AND THE RING.
BY W. M. THACKERAY.
UNDINE AND SINTRAM. BY FOUQUÉ.
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Moved Advertising page from the beginning to the end.
2. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
3. Retained anachronistic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as
printed.
4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
End of Project Gutenberg's Tales from the Gesta Romanorum, by Anonymous