[Transcriber's Note: Bold text is surrounded by =equal signs= and
italic text is surrounded by _underscores_.]
[Illustration: ASENATH]
EDMUND DULAC'S PICTURE-BOOK FOR THE FRENCH RED CROSS
[Illustration]
PUBLISHED FOR THE DAILY TELEGRAPH
BY HODDER AND STOUGHTON
LONDON · NEW YORK · TORONTO
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE STORY OF THE BIRD FENG A FAIRY TALE FROM CHINA 1
YOUNG ROUSSELLE: A FRENCH SONG OF THE OLDEN TIME 5
LAYLÁ AND MAJNÚN: A PERSIAN LOVE STORY 9
THE NIGHTINGALE: AFTER A FAIRY TALE BY HANS ANDERSEN 29
THREE KINGS OF ORIENT: A CAROL 41
SINDBAD THE SAILOR: A TALE FROM THE THOUSAND AND ONE NIGHTS 43
THE LITTLE SEAMSTRESS: A FRENCH SONG OF THE OLDEN TIME 55
THE REAL PRINCESS: AFTER A FAIRY TALE BY HANS ANDERSEN 57
MY LISETTE: AN OLD FRENCH SONG 61
CINDERELLA: A FAIRY TALE FROM THE FRENCH 65
THE CHILLY LOVER: A SONG FROM THE FRENCH 79
THE STORY OF AUCASSIN AND NICOLETTE: AN OLD WORLD IDYLL 81
BLUE BEARD: AN OLD TALE FROM THE FRENCH 85
CERBERUS, THE BLACK DOG OF HADES 99
THE LADY BADOURA: A TALE FROM THE THOUSAND AND ONE NIGHTS 102
THE SLEEPER AWAKENED: A TALE FROM THE THOUSAND AND ONE NIGHTS 110
JUSEF AND ASENATH: A LOVE STORY OF EGYPT 124
ILLUSTRATIONS
JUSEF AND ASENATH
Asenath _Frontispiece_
PAGE
THE STORY OF THE BIRD FENG
The wonderful bird, like a fire of many colours come down
from heaven, alighted before the princess, dropping at
her feet the portrait 1
YOUNG ROUSSELLE
What do you think of Young Rousselle? 8
LAYLÁ AND MAJNÚN
In a high chamber of the palace--it was as wondrous as that
of a Sultan 16
If the desert were my home--then would I let the world go by 18
She would sit for hours, with the bird perched on the back of
her hand, listening to its soft intonation of that one word
'Majnún' 22
THE NIGHTINGALE
Even the poor fisherman would pause in his work to listen 32
THREE KINGS OF ORIENT
O Star of Wonder, Star of Night 41
SINDBAD THE SAILOR
Knowest thou that my name is also Sindbad? 50
THE LITTLE SEAMSTRESS
I never at all
Saw sewing so small! 55
THE REAL PRINCESS
Not a wink the whole night long 58
MY LISETTE
'Tis Lisette whom I adore,
And with reason, more and more! 62
CINDERELLA
'There,' said her godmother, pointing with her wand, ...
'pick it and bring it along' 72
THE CHILLY LOVER
O Ursula, for thee
My heart is burning,--
But I'm so cold! 80
THE STORY OF AUCASSIN AND NICOLETTE
But Nicolette one night escaped 82
BLUE BEARD
Seven and one are _eight_, madam! 86
CERBERUS
Cerberus, the black dog of Hades 99
THE LADY BADOURA
Nay, nay; I will not marry him 102
THE SLEEPER AWAKENED
Behold the reward of those who meddle in other people's
affairs 120
EDMUND DULAC 128
EDMUND DULAC'S PICTURE BOOK
PUBLISHED ON BEHALF OF THE
CROIX ROUGE FRANÇAISE
_COMITÉ DE LONDRES_
9 KNIGHTSBRIDGE, LONDON, S.W.
=_Président d'honneur_= =_Présidente_=
S. E. MONSIEUR PAUL CAMBON VICOMTESSE DE LA PANOUSE
=Under the Patronage of=
H.M. QUEEN ALEXANDRA
The work of the FRENCH RED CROSS is done almost entirely by the willing
sacrifice of patriotic people who give little or much out of their
means. The Comité is pleased to give the fullest possible particulars
of its methods and needs. It is sufficient here to say that every one
who gives even a shilling gives a wounded French soldier more than a
shilling's worth of ease or pleasure.
The actual work is enormous. The number of men doctored, nursed,
housed, fed, kept from the worries of illness, is great, increasing,
and will increase.
You must remember that everything to do with sick and wounded has to be
kept up to a daily standard. It is you who give who provide the drugs,
medicines, bandages, ambulances, coal, comfort for those who fight, get
wounded, or die to keep you safe. Remember that besides fighting for
France, they are fighting for the civilised world, and that you owe
your security and civilisation to them as much as to your own men and
the men of other Allied Countries.
There is not one penny that goes out of your pockets in this cause that
does not bind France and Britain closer together. From the millionaire
we need his thousands; from the poor man his store of pence. We do not
beg, we insist, that these brave wounded men shall lack for nothing. We
do not ask of you, we demand of you, the help that must be given.
There is nothing too small and nothing too large but we need it.
Day after day we send out great bales of goods to these our devoted
soldiers, and we must go on.
Imagine yourself ill, wounded, sick, in an hospital, with the smash and
shriek of the guns still dinning in your ears, and imagine the man or
woman who would hold back their purse from helping you.
Times are not easy, we know, but being wounded is less easy, and being
left alone because nothing is forthcoming is terrible. You have calls
upon you everywhere, you say; well, these men have answered their call,
and in the length and breadth of France they wait your reply.
What is it to be?
=Will you please send anything you can afford to
EDMUND DULAC, c/o "THE DAILY TELEGRAPH," LONDON, E.C.=
[Illustration: THE WONDERFUL BIRD, LIKE A FIRE OF MANY COLOURS COME
DOWN FROM HEAVEN, ALIGHTED BEFORE THE PRINCESS, DROPPING AT HER FEET
THE PORTRAIT p. 3]
THE STORY OF THE BIRD FENG
A FAIRY TALE FROM CHINA
IN the Book of the Ten Thousand Wonders there are three hundred and
thirty-three stories about the bird called _Feng_, and this is one of
them.
Ta-Khai, Prince of Tartary, dreamt one night that he saw in a place
where he had never been before an enchantingly beautiful young maiden
who could only be a princess. He fell desperately in love with her,
but before he could either move or speak, she had vanished. When he
awoke he called for his ink and brushes, and, in the most accomplished
willow-leaf style, he drew her image on a piece of precious silk, and
in one corner he wrote these lines:
The flowers of the pæony
Will they ever bloom?
A day without her
Is like a hundred years.
He then summoned his ministers, and, showing them the portrait, asked
if any one could tell him the name of the beautiful maiden; but they
all shook their heads and stroked their beards. They knew not who she
was.
So displeased was the prince that he sent them away in disgrace to the
most remote provinces of his kingdom. All the courtiers, the generals,
the officers, and every man and woman, high and low, who lived in the
palace came in turn to look at the picture. But they all had to confess
their ignorance. Ta-Khai then called upon the magicians of the kingdom
to find out by their art the name of the princess of his dreams, but
their answers were so widely different that the prince, suspecting
their ability, condemned them all to have their noses cut off. The
portrait was shown in the outer court of the palace from sunrise till
sunset, and exalted travellers came in every day, gazed upon the
beautiful face, and came out again. None could tell who she was.
Meanwhile the days were weighing heavily upon the shoulders of Ta-Khai,
and his sufferings cannot be described; he ate no more, he drank no
more, and ended by forgetting which was day and which was night, what
was in and what was out, what was left and what was right. He spent his
time roaming over the mountains and through the woods crying aloud to
the gods to end his life and his sorrow.
It was thus, one day, that he came to the edge of a precipice. The
valley below was strewn with rocks, and the thought came to his mind
that he had been led to this place to put a term to his misery. He was
about to throw himself into the depths below when suddenly the bird
_Feng_ flew across the valley and appeared before him, saying:
'Why is Ta-Khai, the mighty Prince of Tartary, standing in this place
of desolation with a shadow on his brow?'
Ta-Khai replied: 'The pine tree finds its nourishment where it stands,
the tiger can run after the deer in the forests, the eagle can fly over
the mountains and the plains, but how can I find the one for whom my
heart is thirsting?'
And he told the bird his story.
The _Feng_, which in reality was a _Feng-Hwang_, that is, a female
_Feng_, rejoined:
'Without the help of Supreme Heaven it is not easy to acquire wisdom,
but it is a sign of the benevolence of the spiritual beings that I
should have come between you and destruction. I can make myself large
enough to carry the largest town upon my back, or small enough to pass
through the smallest keyhole, and I know all the princesses in all
the palaces of the earth. I have taught them the six intonations of my
voice, and I am their friend. Therefore show me the picture, O Ta-Khai,
and I will tell you the name of her whom you saw in your dream.'
They went to the palace, and, when the portrait was shown, the bird
became as large as an elephant, and exclaimed, 'Sit on my back, O
Ta-Khai, and I will carry you to the place of your dream. There you
will find her of the transparent face with the drooping eyelids under
the crown of dark hair such as you have depicted, for these are the
features of Sai-Jen, the daughter of the King of China, and alone can
be likened to the full moon rising under a black cloud.'
At nightfall they were flying over the palace of the king just above a
magnificent garden. And in the garden sat Sai-Jen, singing and playing
upon the lute. The _Feng-Hwang_ deposited the prince outside the wall
near a place where bamboos were growing and showed him how to cut
twelve bamboos between the knots to make the flute which is called
Pai-Siao and has a sound sweeter than the evening breeze on the forest
stream.
And as he blew gently across the pipes, they echoed the sound of the
princess's voice so harmoniously that she cried:
'I hear the distant notes of the song that comes from my own lips, and
I can see nothing but the flowers and the trees; it is the melody the
heart alone can sing that has suffered sorrow on sorrow, and to which
alone the heart can listen that is full of longing.'
At that moment the wonderful bird, like a fire of many colours come
down from heaven, alighted before the princess, dropping at her feet
the portrait. She opened her eyes in utter astonishment at the sight of
her own image. And when she had read the lines inscribed in the corner,
she asked, trembling:
'Tell me, O _Feng-Hwang_, who is he, so near, but whom I cannot see,
that knows the sound of my voice and has never heard me, and can
remember my face and has never seen me?'
Then the bird spoke and told her the story of Ta-Khai's dream, adding:
'I come from him with this message; I brought him here on my wings. For
many days he has longed for this hour, let him now behold the image of
his dream and heal the wound in his heart.'
Swift and overpowering is the rush of the waves on the pebbles of the
shore, and like a little pebble felt Sai-Jen when Ta-Khai stood before
her....
The _Feng-Hwang_ illuminated the garden sumptuously, and a breath of
love was stirring the flowers under the stars.
It was in the palace of the King of China that were celebrated in the
most ancient and magnificent style the nuptials of Sai-Jen and Ta-Khai,
Prince of Tartary.
And this is one of the three hundred and thirty-three stories about the
bird _Feng_ as it is told in the Book of the Ten Thousand Wonders.
YOUNG ROUSSELLE
A FRENCH SONG OF THE OLDEN TIME
YOUNG Rousselle has three houses got,
Never a roof to all the lot,--
For swallows' nests they will serve quite well--
What do you think of Young Rousselle?
Ah! ah! ah! truth to tell,
A jolly good chap is Young Rousselle.
Young Rousselle, he has three top-coats;
Two are of cloth as yellow as oats;
The third, which is made of paper brown,
He wears if it freezes or rain comes down.
Ah! ah! ah! truth to tell,
A jolly good chap is Young Rousselle.
Young Rousselle, he has three old hats;
Two are as round as butter-pats;
The third has two little horns, 'tis said,
Because it has taken the shape of his head.
Ah! ah! ah! truth to tell,
A jolly good chap is Young Rousselle.
Young Rousselle, he has three fine eyes;
Each is quite of a different size;
One looks east and one looks west,
The third, his eye-glass, is much the best.
Ah! ah! ah! truth to tell,
A jolly good chap is Young Rousselle.
Young Rousselle, he has three black shoes
Two on his feet he likes to use;
The third has neither sole nor side:
That will do when he weds his bride.
Ah! ah! ah! truth to tell,
A jolly good chap is Young Rousselle.
Young Rousselle three hairs can find:
Two in front and one behind;
And, when he goes to see his girl,
He puts all three of them in curl.
Ah! ah! ah! truth to tell,
A jolly good chap is Young Rousselle.
Young Rousselle, three boys he has got:
Two are nothing but trick and plot;
The third can cheat and swindle well,--
He greatly resembles Young Rousselle.
Ah! ah! ah! truth to tell,
A jolly good chap is Young Rousselle.
Young Rousselle, he has three good tykes;
One hunts rabbits just as he likes,
One chivies hares,--and, as for the third,
He bolts whenever his name is heard.
Ah! ah! ah! truth to tell,
A jolly good chap is Young Rousselle.
Young Rousselle, he has three big cats,
Who never attempt to catch the rats;
The third is blind, and without a light
He goes to the granary every night.
Ah! ah! ah! truth to tell,
A jolly good chap is Young Rousselle.
Young Rousselle, he has daughters three,
Married as well as you'd wish to see;
Two, one could scarcely beauties call,
And the third, she has just no brains at all.
Ah! ah! ah! truth to tell,
A jolly good chap is Young Rousselle.
Young Rousselle, he has farthings three,--
To pay his creditors these must be;
And, when he has shown these riches vast,
He puts them back in his purse at last.
Ah! ah! ah! truth to tell,
A jolly good chap is Young Rousselle.
Young Rousselle, he will run his rig
A long while yet ere he hops the twig,
For, so they say, he must learn to spell
To write his own epitaph,--Young Rousselle!
Ah! ah! ah! truth to tell,
A jolly good chap is Young Rousselle.
[Illustration: WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUNG ROUSSELLE? p. 5]
LAYLA AND MAJNÚN
A PERSIAN LOVE STORY
_Laylá_, Pearl of the Night!
She was beautiful as the moon on the horizon, graceful as the cypress
that sways in the night wind and glistens in the sheen of a myriad
stars. Her hair was bright with depths of darkness; her eyes were dark
with excess of light; her glance was shadowed by excess of light. Her
smile and the parting of her lips were like the coming of the rosy
dawn, and, when love came to her--as he did with a load of sorrow
hidden in his sack--she was as a rose plucked from Paradise to be
crushed against her lover's breast; a rose to wither, droop, and die as
Ormazd snatched it from the hand of Ahriman.
Out of the night came _Laylá_, clothed with all its wondrous beauties:
into the night she returned, and, while the wind told the tale of her
love to the cypress above her grave, the stars, with an added lustre,
looked down as if to say, '_Laylá_ is not lost: she was born of us; she
hath returned to us. Look up! look up! there is brightness in the night
where _Laylá_ sits; there is splendour in the sphere where _Laylá_ sits.
As the moon looks down on all rivers, though they reflect but one
moon,--so the beauty of _Laylá_, which smote all hearts to love. Her
father was a great chief, and even the wealthiest princes of other
lands visited him, attracted by the fame of _Laylá's_ loveliness. But
none could win her heart. Wealth and royal splendour could not claim
it, yet it was given to the young Qays, son of the mighty chief of
Yemen. Freely was it given to Qays, son of the chief of Yemen.
Now _Laylá's_ father was not friendly to the chief of Yemen. Indeed,
the only path that led from the one to the other was a well-worn
warpath; for long, long ago their ancestors had quarrelled, and, though
there were rare occasions when the two peoples met at great festivals
and waived their differences for a time, it may truly be said that
there was always hate in their eyes when they saluted. Always? Not
always: there was one exception. It was at one of these festivals that
Qays first saw _Laylá_. Their eyes met, and, though no word was spoken,
love thrilled along a single glance.
From that moment Qays was a changed youth. He avoided the delights of
the chase; his tongue was silent at feast and in council; he sat apart
with a strange light in his eyes; no youth of his tribe could entice
him to sport, no maiden could comfort him. His heart was in another
house, and that was not the house of his fathers.
And _Laylá_--she sat silent among her maidens with eyes downcast. Once,
when a damsel, divining rightly, took her lute and sang a song of the
fountain in the forest, where lovers met beneath the silver moon, she
raised her head at the close of the song and bade the girl sing it
again--and again. And, after this, in the evenings when the sun was
setting, she would wander unattended in the gardens about her father's
palace, roaming night by night in ever widening circles, until, on a
night when the moon was brightest, she came to the confines of the
gardens where they adjoined the deep forest beyond;--but ever and ever
the moonlight beyond. And here, as she gazed adown the spaces between
the tree trunks, she saw, in an open space where the moonbeams fell, a
sparkling fountain, and knew it for that which had been immortalised
in the sweet song sung by her damsel with the lute. There, from time
immemorial, lovers had met and plighted their vows. A thrill shot
through her at the thought that she had wandered hither in search of
it. Her cheeks grew hot, and, with a wildly beating heart, she turned
and ran back to her father's palace. Ran back, ashamed.
Now, in a high chamber of the palace,--it was as wondrous as that of
a Sultan,--where _Laylá_ was wont to recline at the window looking
out above the tree-tops, there were two beautiful white doves; these
had long been her companions, perching on her shoulder and pecking
gently at her cheek with 'Coo, coo, coo';--preeking and preening on her
shoulder with 'Coo, coo, coo.' They would come at her call and feed
from her hand; and, when she threw one from the window, retaining the
other against her breast, the liberated one seemed to understand that
it might fly to yonder tree; and there it would sit cooing for its mate
until _Laylá_, having held her fluttering bird close for a time, would
set it free. 'Ah!' she would sigh to herself, as the bird flew swiftly
to its mate, 'when love hath wings it flies to the loved one, but alas!
I have no wings.' And yet it was by the wings of a dove that her lover
sent her a passionate message, which threw her into joy and fear, and
finally led her footsteps to the place of lovers' meeting.
Qays, in the lonely musings which had beset him of late, recalled the
story--well known among the people--of _Laylá's_ two white doves. As
he recalled it he raised himself upon his elbow on his couch and said
to himself, 'If I went to her father, saying, "Give me thy daughter to
wife!" how should I be met? If I sent a messenger, how would _he_ be
met? But the doves--if all tales be true, they fly in at her window and
nestle to her bosom.'
With his thought suddenly intent upon the doves, he called his servant
Zeyd, who came quickly, for he loved his master.
'Thou knowest, Zeyd,' said Qays, 'that in the palace of the chief of
Basráh there are two white doves, one of which flies forth at its
mistress's bidding, and cooes and cooes and cooes until its mate is
permitted to fly to it.'
'I know it well, my master. They are tame birds, and they come to their
mistress's hand.'
'Would they come, thinkest thou, to _thy_ hand?'
Zeyd, who was in his master's confidence, and knew what troubled him,
answered the question with another.
'Dost thou desire these doves, O my master? My father was a woodman
and I was brought up in the forests. Many a wilder bird than a dove
have I snared in the trees. I even know the secret art of taking a bird
with my hand.'
'Then bring me one of these doves, but be careful not to injure it--not
even one feather of its plumage.'
Zeyd was as clever as his word. On the third evening thereafter he
brought one of _Laylá's_ white doves to Qays and placed it in his hand.
Then Qays stroked the bird and calmed its fears, and, bidding Zeyd hold
it, he carefully wrapt and tied round its leg a small soft parchment on
which were written the following verses:--
Thy heart is as a pure white dove,
And it hath come to me;
And it hath brought me all thy love,
Flying from yonder tree.
Thou shalt not have thy heart again,
For it shall stay with me;
Yet thou shalt hear my own heart's pain
Sobbing in yonder tree.
There is a fount where lovers meet:
To-night I wait for thee.
Fly to me, love, as flies the dove
To dove in yonder tree.
Now _Laylá_, who had sent her dove into the warm night, sat listening
at her window to hear it coo to its mate held close in her bosom. But
it cooed not from its accustomed bough on yonder tree. Holding the
fluttering mate to her she leaned forth from the window, straining her
ears to catch the well-known note, but, hearing nothing, she said to
herself, 'What can have happened? Whither has it flown? Never was such
a thing before. Perchance the bird is sleeping on the bough.'
Then, as the moon rose higher and higher above the tree-tops, shedding
a glistening radiance over everything, she waited and waited, but there
came no doling of the dove, no coo from yonder tree. At last, unable
to account for it, she took the bird from her bosom and stroked it and
spoke to it; then she threw it gently in the air as if to send it in
search of its lost mate to bring it back.
The bird flew straight to the tree, and, perching there, cooed again
and again, but there was no answering coo of its mate. Finally _Laylá_
saw it rise from the tree and circle round the palace. Many times she
saw it flash by and heard the beating of its wings, until at last it
flew in at the window; and, when she took it and pressed it to her, she
felt that it was trembling. For sure, it was distressed and trembling.
'Alas! poor bird!' she said, stroking it gently. 'It is hard to lose
one's lover, but it is harder still never to have found him.'
But lo, as she was comforting the bird, the other dove suddenly
fluttered in and perched upon her shoulder. She gave a cry of delight,
and, taking it, held them both together in her arms. In fondling them
her fingers felt something rough on the leg of the one that had just
returned. Quickly she untied the fastenings, and, with beating heart,
unfolded the parchment and read the writing thereon. It was the message
from her lover. She knew not what to do. Should she go to the fountain
where lovers meet beneath the moon? In her doubt she snatched first
one dove and then the other, kissing each in turn. Then, setting them
down, she rose and swiftly clothed herself in a long cloak, and stole
quietly down the stairs and out of the palace by a side door. Love
found the way to the path through the forest that led to the fountain
where lovers meet. Like a shadow flitting across the bars of moonlight
that fell among the trees she sped on, and at last arrived at the edge
of the open space where the fountain played, its silvery, high-flung
column sparkling like jewelled silver ere it fell in tinkling spray
upon the shining moss.
_Laylá_ paused irresolute in the shadows, telling herself that if her
heart was beating so hard it was because she had been running. Where
was he who had stolen her dove and returned it with a message?
Wherever he was he had quick eyes, for he had discovered her in the
shadows, and now came past the fountain, hastening towards her.
She darted into the light of the moon.
'Who art thou?'
Their eyes met. The moonlight fell on their faces. No other word was
spoken, for they recognised each other in one glance.
'_Laylá!_ thou hast come to me. I love thee.'
'And I thee!'
And none but the old moon, who has looked down on many such things
before, saw their sudden embrace; and none but the spirit of the
fountain, who had recorded the words of lovers ever since the first
gush of the waters, heard what they said to one another.
And so _Laylá_ and Qays met many times by the fountain and plighted
their vows there in the depths of the forest. And once, as they
lingered over their farewells, Qays said to _Laylá_, 'And oh! my
beloved, if the desert were my home, and thou and I were free, even in
the wilderness, eating the herbs that grow in the waste, or a loaf of
thine own baking from the wild corn; drinking the water of the brook,
and reposing beneath the bough,--then would I let the world go by, and,
with no hate of thy people, live with thee and love thee for ever.'
'And I thee, beloved.'
'Then let us leave all, and fly to the wilderness--'
'Now?'
'No, not now. Thou must prepare. To-morrow, beloved, I will await thee
here at this hour with two fleet steeds; and then, as they spurn the
dust from their feet, so will we spurn the world--you and I.'
That night _Laylá_ dreamed that she was in the wilderness with her
lover, sitting beneath the bough, drinking from the waters of the
brook, eating a loaf of her own making from the wild corn, and, in her
lover's presence, happy to lose the luxury of palaces.
But alas! the dream was never to be realised. Some one at the
palace--some one with more than two ears, and with eyes both back and
front--some one, moreover, in the pay of Ibn Salám, a handsome young
chief who greatly desired _Laylá_ in marriage, breathed a word into the
ear of _Laylá's_ father. The following day the palace was deserted.
The old chief, with _Laylá_ and the whole of his retinue, had departed
to his estate in the mountains, where it was hoped that the keen, pure
air would be better for _Laylá's_ health;--at least so her father said,
though none could understand why, seeing that she had never looked
better in her life.
Qays, knowing nothing of this sudden departure for several days,
waited at the fountain at the appointed hour. At last one day, being
already sad at heart, he learned--for Ibn Salám had not been idle in
the matter--that _Laylá_ had gone to the mountains of her own accord
with her father's household, and that Ibn Salám, the favoured one, had
gone with her also. Believing this to be true--for lovers are prone
to credit what they fear--Qays ran forth from his abode like a man
distraught. In the agony of his despair he thought of nothing but to
search for, and find, _Laylá_. Setting his face towards the distant
mountains, he plunged into the desert, calling _'Laylá! Laylá!'_ Every
rock of the wilderness, every tree and thorny waste soon knew her name,
for it echoed thereamong all that day and the following night, until at
dawn he sank exhausted on a barren stretch of sand.
And here it was that his servant Zeyd and a party of his master's
friends found him as the sun was rising. He was distracted. Worn out
with fatigue and hunger and thirst, he wandered in his mind as he had
wandered in the desert. They took him back to his father's abode and
sought to restore him, but, when at last he was well, he still called
continually for his lost love _Laylá_, so that they thought his reason
was unhinged, and spoke of him as '_Majnún_'--that is to say, 'mad with
love'; and by this name he was called ever afterward.
His father came and pleaded with him to put away his infatuation for
the daughter of a chief no friend of his; but, finding him reasonable
in all things save his mad love, the chief said within himself: 'If
he can be healed of this one thing he will be whole.' Then, being
willing further to cement enmity or establish a bond with the chief of
Basráh, he decided to set the matter to the test. Collecting a splendid
retinue, he journeyed to the mountains on a mission to the chief, his
enemy, leaving _Majnún_ in the care of the faithful Zeyd.
[Illustration: IN A HIGH CHAMBER OF THE PALACE--IT WAS AS WONDROUS AS
THAT OF A SULTAN p. 12]
When, after many days' journey, he at last arrived at the estate of
_Laylá's_ father, he stood before that chief and haughtily demanded
the hand of his daughter in marriage with his son, setting forth the
clear meaning of consent on the one hand and refusal on the other. His
proposal was rejected as haughtily as it had been made. 'News travels
far,' said the chief of Basráh. 'Thy son is mad: cure him of his
madness first, and then seek my consent.'
Cyd, the chief of Yemen, was a proud man and fierce. He could not brook
this answer. He had proposed a bond of friendship, and it had been
turned into a barbed shaft of war. He withdrew from Basráh's presence
with the cloud of battle lowering on his brows. He returned to his own
place to come again in war, vowing vengeance on Basráh.
But Yemen's chief delayed his plans, for, on his return, he discovered
that his son, accompanied by the faithful Zeyd, had set out on the
yearly pilgrimage to Mecca, there to kneel before the holy shrine and
drink of the sacred well in the Kaába.
'Surely,' said he, 'that sacred well of water which sprang from the
parched desert to save Hagar and her son will restore my own son to his
health of mind. I will follow him and pray with him at the holy shrine;
I will drink also at the sacred well, and so, perchance, he will be
restored to me.'
But it so chanced that, when the chief, followed by a splendid retinue,
was but two days on his journey towards Mecca, he was met by a lordly
chief of the desert named Noufal, who, with a small band of warriors,
rode in advance of a cloud of dust to greet him in friendly fashion.
'I know thee,' said Noufal, reining in his magnificent horse so
suddenly that the sand and gravel scattered wide; 'thou art the chief
of Yemen and the father of _Majnún_, whom I have met in the desert.
Greetings to thee! I have succoured thy son, whom I found in sore
straits and nigh unto death. I have heard his story, and I will aid him
and thee against the chief of Basráh, if it be thy will, O chief of
Yemen.'
'Greetings to thee, O Noufal! I know thy name; thou art a wanderer of
the desert, but I have heard many brave tales of thy prowess and thy
generosity. Thou hast my son in thy keeping? But how comes it that he
failed of his pilgrimage to Mecca, whither I was following to join him
at the holy shrine?'
'Alas! he fell by the wayside in sight of my warriors; and, when they
came to him, his only cry was, "_Laylá! Laylá!_" They brought him to
me, and from his broken story and this oft-repeated cry of "_Laylá_"
I knew him for _Majnún_, thy son; for the tale of beauty and love, O
chief of Yemen, travels far in the silent desert.'
'What wouldst thou, then, Noufal?'
'I would that thou and I, for the sake of thy son, go up against the
chief of Basráh and demand his daughter. If he consent not, and we
conquer, I will extend thine interests and protect them through the
desert and beyond. If he consent, thou and I and he will be for ever
at peace, and will combine our territories on just terms of thine own
choosing.'
'Thou hast spoken well, O Noufal, and I trust thee. Go thou up against
the chief of Basráh and demand _Laylá_ in my name. I will follow thy
path, and, if thou returnest to meet me with _Laylá_ in thy protection,
all is well; but, if not, then we will proceed against Basráh together,
and thy terms shall be my terms. For the rest, thou hast swift
messengers, as have I.'
At the word Noufal wheeled his horse and gave commands to some of his
warriors, and presently six fleet-footed chargers were speeding towards
the horizon in six different directions to call the warriors of the
desert to converge on a point at the foot of the mountains. Meanwhile
similar messengers were hastening back to Yemen with orders from their
chief. Noufal and his band of warriors set out for the rendezvous, but
the chief of Yemen waited for the return of his messengers.
* * * * *
Meanwhile _Laylá_, on her father's estate among the mountains, lived
in the depths of misery. The young chief Ibn Salám, well favoured of
her father, was continually pleading for her hand in marriage, but
_Laylá's_ protestations and tears so moved her father that he was fain
to say to the handsome and wealthy suitor, 'She is not yet of age;
wait a little while and all will be well.' For Basráh looked with a
calculating eye on this young chief, who had splendid possessions and
many thousands of warriors. As for _Laylá_, she immured herself from
the light of day, communing only with the stars by night, and saying
within her heart, 'I will die a maiden rather than marry any but
_Majnún_, who is now, alas! distracted, even as I.'
[Illustration: IF THE DESERT WERE MY HOME--THEN WOULD I LET THE WORLD
GO BY p. 14]
Now _Laylá_, well knowing that her doves were nesting in 'yonder tree,'
had left them to the care of the attendants at the palace. They had
always been a solace to her, especially since one had been Love's
messenger, and she missed that solace now. A young tiger, obedient only
to an Ethiopian slave, could not speak to her of love as the doves had
done! But one day a slave-girl brought her a bird of paradise, saying,
'My boy lover caught this in the forests of the hills and bade me offer
it to thee for thy kindness to me.'
_Laylá_ treasured the bird in her solitude, and soon discovered that it
could imitate the sounds of her voice. On this she straightway taught
it one word, and one word only. Then she would sit for hours, with the
bird perched on the back of her hand, listening to its soft intonation
of that one word: '_Majnún_.' Again and again and again the bird would
speak softly in her ear that sweetest name in all the world: '_Majnún,
Majnún, Majnún_,' and her heart would leave her bosom and range through
the desolation of the desert, seeking always _Majnún_.
The affair of her heart stood in such case when, one day at dawn,
Noufal, with a large band of warriors, smote with his sword upon the
gates and demanded to see the chief of Basráh.
It was a short and pointed exchange of few words between Noufal and
Basráh as the broadening band of sunlight crept slowly down the
background of mountains; and, when it smote upon the gates as the sun
burst up, the talk was finished and Noufal and his band were galloping
towards the desert to meet the oncoming hosts of Yemen. The chief of
Basráh gazed upon the cloud of dust that rose between him and the sun,
and in it read the signs of sudden war.
Now Basráh's mountain estate adjoined the territory of Ibn Salám,
and, as soon as the latter learned that the chief had flouted Noufal
in favour of his own suit, and that the thunder-cloud of battle was
arising against the wind, he offered the aid of a thousand of his
warriors--an offer which was eagerly accepted. But the thousand he
offered were not a third part of the warriors at his call.
The way of war was paved. Before noon a host of Ibn Salám's warriors
came riding in. _Laylá_, from her window, noted their brave array.
Then, looking far out on to the desert, she saw the dust-cloud rising
from the hoofs of an advancing host. 'Alas!' she cried, 'the heart
that beats in my bosom is the cause of this. I love my father; I love
_Majnún_: Destiny must choose between them.'
Destiny hath strange reversals. The shock and clash of battle dinned
on her ears till near nightfall, when, with a heart divided between
hope and fear, she saw clearly that Ibn's hosts could not hold their
ground. The onslaughts of her father's foe were forcing them back.
They scattered, and rallied, and scattered again. Those that were left
retreated within the gates. The gates were battered down, and all was
lost--or won. A herald advanced, offering terms of surrender. _Laylá_
leaned from her window, listening. No word could she hear until her
father, still defiant in the face of defeat, spoke in ringing tones.
'And, if I deliver not up my daughter, you will take her. Yea, but you
will not take her alive. I have but to raise my hand and she will be
slain. I have lost all, but my servants will still obey me: if I give
the word, her dead body is yours for the asking.'
At this the chief of Yemen bade him hold his hand from committing this
terrible deed.
'O chief of Basráh,' he said, 'I give thee one day to think about this
matter. There are two sides to it: the one is that thou deliver up thy
daughter to be given to my son to wife, so that there may be a bond of
friendship between us; the other is that thou keep thy daughter and
surrender thy sovereignty, retaining thy territories only in vassalage
to me.'
With that the chief of Yemen and his ally, Noufal, withdrew, leaving
Basráh to decide before dawn the following day.
Now, among Ibn Salám's messengers that he had sent out was one whose
orders were to ride back, as if from Yemen, bringing word that he had
discovered _Majnún_, who, having fled from his attendants in the night,
was lying dead in the desert. This was not truth, but Ibn had reason to
believe that it soon would be, for he had sent out others to find him
and kill him. It was to his purpose that the false news should arrive
quickly, for, on that, and the offer of a further host of warriors at
his command, he hoped to gain _Laylá's_ promise and strengthen her
father's hand in the matter.
The victors had scarcely withdrawn when the messenger rode in, shouting
the news to victors and vanquished alike. The chief of Yemen heard it
and wept for his son. Noufal heard it and said, '_Laylá_ is nothing
to us now; at dawn we shall dictate our own terms.' Ibn Salám and
_Laylá's_ father heard the news without grief, and Ibn said, 'Now there
can be no obstacle to thy daughter's consent, for she is a woman, and
must know that the living is more desirable than the dead. I have
already helped thee, O Chief, and we have failed. But thy daughter has
only to speak the word and a further host of my warriors--more than
treble the number that fought to-day--will come out of the desert at my
call. Half will come to aid our defence, and half will attack the hosts
of Yemen from the desert. Thus your foes will be scattered like chaff
in the wind. Go to thy daughter and show her now how a word from her
will save thee from destruction and make thee great.'
The chief of Basráh went to his daughter, and, when Ibn heard sounds
of a woman wailing, he knew that the false news of _Majnún's_ death
was believed. Long time the chief pleaded with _Laylá_, urging the
uselessness of weeping for _Majnún_ when, by accepting Ibn in marriage,
she could save Basráh and make it a great kingdom. Then he spoke of her
duty to him, her father, in this terrible plight, from which her word
alone could save him; and _Laylá_ saw, through her tears, that for her
father's sake the sacrifice must be made; and through duty, not love,
she mournfully pledged herself to Ibn Salám.
As soon as Ibn knew this he called some of his warriors and questioned
them on the matter of his hosts in reserve.
'Four thousand,' he said, when he had heard their replies. 'The foe is
but three thousand, and we are little more than one thousand.'
Then he gave orders to some chosen messengers and bade them steal forth
secretly and deliver them to his generals. Half the four thousand was
to arrive by night under cover of the mountains and be ready for battle
at sunrise. The other half was to make a circuit of the desert and fall
upon the foe from behind when the battle was at its hottest. On this
sudden stroke he relied for complete victory.
And he was not wrong. When dawn broke over the desert, and the mountain
peaks were flushed with sunrise fire, the dark shadows at the base were
two thousand strong. There they waited hidden from the foe, while, as
the sun rose, a herald came to the gates. In the name of Yemen, he
dictated the terms of surrender without any condition in regard to
_Laylá_.
The chief of Basráh laughed him to scorn. 'Go tell the chief of Yemen
and his robber friend of the desert,' he said, 'that if they desire my
domains they must take them by force of arms. Tell them that Basráh
never surrenders: he prefers to live free, or to die fighting.'
[Illustration: SHE WOULD SIT FOR HOURS, WITH THE BIRD PERCHED ON THE
BACK OF HER HAND, LISTENING TO ITS SOFT INTONATION OF THAT ONE WORD
"MAJNÚN" p. 18]
The herald took back this proud answer of defiance. On hearing it Yemen
wondered and questioned, but Noufal, who was a man of the desert,
sudden in temper and quick to act, counselled an immediate attack.
The battle was joined. At the first shock came Ibn's two thousand
warriors from their concealment, and the invaders fell back in
astonishment. Yet they rallied again, and fiercely raged the fight
between the opposing hosts, now equally matched in numbers. _Laylá_
looked from her window in horror. She noted how the battle swayed this
way, then that. And now it seemed that the foe was steadily gaining
the mastery. But what was that in the distance of the desert? What was
that, thrust forward from the desert? A great cloud of dust, quickly
approaching. It drew near, its cause quickly outstripping it. A mighty
host of warriors now shook the earth with the thunder of their horses'
feet. They drew nearer. Now like a whirlwind they hurled themselves
upon the invaders and bore them down like trodden wheat--sweeping the
flying remainder of them like chaff to the four winds.
Yemen was slain. Noufal, flying from numbers on swifter steeds than
his, laughed back at his pursuers, then slew himself, dying, as he had
lived, at full gallop.
Basráh was victorious. That night _Laylá_ was given by her father to
Ibn Salám. That night, too, the chief of Basráh, having been previously
wounded in the battle, died. Ibn ruled now over three vast territories
welded into one. And, where he was king, _Laylá_ was queen.
* * * * *
Years passed by, and Ibn and _Laylá_ reigned in peace. The palace of
her fathers was their abode, and the bird of paradise and the two white
doves were often her companions, recalling to her heart a lost, but
never-to-be-forgotten, love. The faithful Zeyd, who had wandered long
in the desert searching in vain for his master, was now her servant.
One day news came secretly to Zeyd that _Majnún_, long mourned as
dead, had returned disguised as a merchant from distant parts, and
would be waiting for him at a certain spot on the outskirts of the
desert at sunset. Zeyd said nothing of this to his mistress, but,
unknown to her, he caught one of the doves and took it away with him to
the meeting-place, for he reasoned that what had happened once would
happen again with like result. Full of joy was the meeting between
_Majnún_ and Zeyd on the edge of the desert as the sun went down.
Now _Laylá_, when she repaired to her high chamber that evening,
was astonished to find one of her doves missing. She sent the other
forth to the great tree, thinking the two might return together, but
presently it returned alone. Then, wondering greatly, she sat by the
window, musing on the past: how, three years ago, the dove had returned
after an absence, bearing a love-message from _Majnún_, and how she had
met him again and again at the lovers' fountain in the forest. Alas!
all was changed: _Majnún_ was dead, and she was the wife of another.
Her eyes filled with tears, and, bowing her head on her arms upon the
window-sill, she wept silently.
For a long time she remained like this. Then, suddenly, she was aroused
from her weeping by a sound. It was the 'coo, coo, coo' of the missing
dove, and it came from the great tree. Immediately the other dove
fanned her hair as it sped past her to its mate. It made her long for
wings that she too might fly away and away to her lover.
Presently the two birds fluttered in at the window and came to her.
What strange thing was this? There, wrapped round the leg of one was a
small strip of soft parchment as on that night long ago. With trembling
fingers she unfastened and read what was written thereon. It was from
_Majnún_! He was alive and well! As before, the writing begged her to
come that very night to the lovers' fountain at moonrise.
In her sudden joy at learning that her lover was alive and near
at hand, _Laylá_ forgot all, and, as the gibbous moon was already
brightening the horizon, she arose and cloaked herself and stole down
the stairway of the palace. She reached the side door unobserved.
She passed out and closed it behind her. Her heart flew before her
to _Majnún_, but suddenly, as she hastened, it rebounded swiftly and
almost stopped beating. Her footsteps faltered and she clutched at a
bough of a tree for support. Her husband! Her duty! Once she had given
all for duty's sake: should she take it back now, and in this way?
What would it mean? With _Majnún's_ arms around her she would forget
all--husband, duty, her people: all, all would be forgotten, and the
step once taken could not be retraced. Alas! this was not the act of
a wife! It was not the act of a queen! She groaned as she grasped the
bough, and her body swayed with her spirit's woe as she then and there
rejected her purpose and accepted her sorrow.
Slowly _Laylá_ strengthened herself; then, like one in a dream, she
turned and retraced her steps to the palace, no sigh, no sob escaping
her. All that night she refused sleep or comfort, dry-eyed; and it was
only when the dawn came that tears came too, to save her reason on its
throne.
_Majnún_ waited long by the lovers' fountain, and, at last, learning
from Zeyd that his mistress had ventured forth and had returned, he
went away, treasuring to his heart a love that could not give one
glance without giving all; for, from Zeyd's story he knew this to be
so. As _Laylá_ had gone back to the palace, silent and strong, so
_Majnún_ set his face towards distant cities, praying ever that the
years might bring surcease of woe, if not the rapture of the love of
_Laylá_.
Two years passed by, and Fate stepped in. Ibn Salám fell stricken with
a fever and died. The news spread far, and one day _Majnún_, in a
distant city, looked up and heard that _Laylá_, the queen of Yemen and
Basráh, was free. Swift, then, were the steeds that bore him to Yemen.
But, remembering how she had twice sacrificed herself for duty, he
forbore to approach her until the expiration of the prescribed term of
widowhood--four moons and half a moon. This period he spent, alone and
unknown, in an abode from which he could see the lights of _Laylá's_
palace. His longing ate into his heart, and it was harder to bear than
his former distraction, by which he had earned his name of _Majnún_
('mad with love'). But as, in the first instance, his reason had borne
the strain, so now it bore the stress of all this weary waiting at the
gates of Paradise.
Zeyd bore tidings of _Laylá_ to _Majnún_, but from _Majnún_ to _Laylá_
no message passed until, on a day when the prescribed term had passed,
Zeyd took word to her that _Majnún_ would come to her at the palace at
noon, or, according to her choice, wait for her at the lovers' fountain
at two hours after sunset.
Zeyd brought back the delayed message: 'Noon has passed, but noon will
come again--after this eventide.' Which was not unlike the answer
_Majnún_ had expected.
The saddest part of the history of these ill-destined lovers is yet
to be told. Two hours after sunset _Majnún_ kept the tryst. Two
hours after sunset _Laylá_, her eyes smouldering with a pent-up
fire, cloaked herself as of old and went out by the side door of the
palace. There was no moon, but the stars shed a soft light upon the
gardens. She passed among the trees; her heart beat fast and her
breath came quick. The whole of her life seemed wrapped up in her two
feet, which ran a hot race with each other. She reached the edge of
the forest and paused, clasping her hands over her bosom. She must
regain her breath to show _Majnún_ how little she had hastened. Then,
before she had regained it, she ran on, losing it the more. There was
the fountain--the fountain where lovers had always met--she saw it
sparkling in the starlight through the trees. Now she stood on the edge
of the open space, the folds of her cloak parted, her masses of raven
hair fallen loose, her breast heaving.
A figure darted from the fountain's side. She faltered forward,
swaying. A moaning cry escaped her as _Majnún_ caught her in a wild
embrace.
Who knows if it was but a moment or a thousand years? Love has no dial.
But that time-moment two hours after sunset was their swift undoing. At
the touch of her lips upon his, _Majnún's_ reason was wrenched away.
At the touch of his lips upon hers, she swooned in his arms. He let
her fall, and ran, shrieking, out of the forest and into the desert;
shrieking her name, far into the desert.
'_Laylá! Laylá! Laylá!_'--his maniac cries echoed on and on until, in
the hopeless waste of wilderness, he fell exhausted. But Zeyd, who had
followed his voice, at last found him. Many a day and night he tended
his master, but to no purpose. Joy had done what grief had failed to
do: _he was mad!_
_Laylá_ awoke from her swoon, and, hearing her own name repeated again
and again,--that wild cry coming from farther and farther in the
desert,--divined the truth and returned, slowly and wringing her hands,
to the palace.