figures in a story which in the first part bears some analogy to the
celebrated Arabian tale, and which occurs in an interesting little work, now
apparently forgotten, entitled "The Orientalist, or, Letters of a Rabbi (see
Vol. 16, App. 4). With Notes by James Noble, Oriental Master in the Scottish
Naval and Military Academy," Edinburgh, 1831. The substance of the story is as
follows (p. 118 ff.):
An aged Dervish falls ill in the house of a poor widow, who tends him with
great care, with which he is so touched that he offers to take charge of her
only son Abdallah. The good woman gladly consents, and the Dervish sets out
accompanied by his young ward, having intimated to his mother that they must
perform a journey which would last about two years. One day they arrived at a
solitary place, and the Dervish said to Abdallah, "My son, we are now at the
end of our journey. I shall employ my prayers to obtain from Allah that the
earth shall open and make an entrance wide enough to permit thee to descend
into a place where thou shalt find one of the greatest treasures that the
earth contains. Hast thou courage to descend into the subterranean vault?"
Abdallah swore he might depend upon his obedience and zeal. Then the Dervish
lighted a small fire, into which he cast a perfume; he read and prayed for
some moments, after which the earth opened, and he said to the young man,
"Thou mayest now enter. Remember that it is in thy power to do me a great
service, and that this is perhaps the only opportunity thou shalt ever have of
testifying to me that thou art not ungrateful. Do not let thyself be dazzled
by all the riches that thou shalt find there: think only of seizing upon an
iron candlestick with twelve branches, which thou shalt find close to the
door. That is absolutely necessary to me; come up immediately and bring it to
me."
Abdallah descended, and, neglecting the advice of the Dervish, filled his vest
and sleeves with the gold and jewels which he found heaped up in the vault,
whereupon the opening by which he had entered closed of itself. He had,
however, sufficient presence of mind to seize the iron candlestick, and
endeavoured to find some other means of escape from the vault. At length he
discovers a narrow passage, which he follows until he reaches the surface of
the earth, and looking about for the Dervish saw him not, but to his surprise
found that he was close to his mother's house. On showing his wealth to his
mother it all suddenly vanished. But the candlestick remained. He lighted one
of the branches, upon which a dervish appeared, and after turning round for an
hour, he threw down an asper (about 3 farthings) and vanished. Next night he
put a light in each of the branches, when twelve dervishes appeared, and after
continuing their gyrations an hour, each threw down an asper and vanished.
Thus Abdallah and his mother contrived to live for a time, till at length he
resolved to carry the candlestick to the Dervish, hoping to obtain from him
the treasure which he had seen in the vault. He remembered his name and city,
and on reaching his dwelling he found the Dervish living in a magnificent
palace with fifty porters at the gate. Quoth the Dervish, when Abdallah
appeared before him, "Thou art an ungrateful wretch! Hadst thou known the
value of the candlestick, thou wouldst never have brought it to me. I will
show thee its true use." Then the Dervish placed a light in each branch,
whereupon twelve dervishes appeared and began to whirl, but on his giving each
a blow with a cane in an instant they were changed into twelve heaps of
sequins, diamonds and other precious stones.
Ungrateful as Abdallah had shown himself, yet the Dervish gave him two camels
laden with gold and a slave, telling him he must depart the next morning.
During the night Abdallah stole the candlestick and placed it at the bottom of
one of his sacks. In the morning he took his leave of the generous Dervish and
set off. When about half a day's journey from his own city he sold the slave,
that there should be no witness to his former poverty and bought another in
his stead. Arriving home, he carefully placed his loads of treasure in a
private chamber, and then put a light in each branch of the candlestick, and
when the twelve dervishes appeared, as usual, he dealt each a blow with a
cane. But he had not observed that the Dervish employed his left hand, and he
had naturally used his right in consequence of which the twelve dervishes each
drew from under their robes a heavy club and beat him till he was nearly dead,
and then vanished, as did also the treasure, the camels, the slave, and the
wonder-working candlestick.
It is to be regretted that the author has not stated the sources whence he
drew his stories, but that they are without exception of Eastern extraction
does not admit of any doubt: some are taken from the "Panchatantra,"
"Hitopadesa," or "Anvár-i-Suhaylí," and others are found in other Asiatic
story-books. I have however not met with the foregoing elsewhere than in
Noble's little volume. The beginning of the story is near akin to that of
Aladdin: for the wicked magician who pretends to take the tailor's son under
his care we have a dervish who in good faith takes charge of the son of a poor
widow who had nursed him through a severe illness. The cave scene is very
similar in both, only the magician performs diabolical incantations, while the
dervish practices "white magic" and prays to Allah for assistance. The
twelve-branched candlestick takes the place of the Wonderful Lamp. Like
Aladdin, young Abdallah is shut in the cavern, though not because he refused
to give up the candlestick until he was safe above ground again, but because
his cupidity induced him to pocket some of the treasures which filled the
cave.
There is a strong Indian--even Buddhistic--flavour in the story of Abdallah
and the Dervish, and the apparition of the twelve whirling fakirs, who when
struck with a cane held in the left hand fall into so many heaps of gold coin,
has its analogue in the "Hitopadesa" and also in the Persian Tales of a Parrot
("Tútí Náma"). The 10th Fable of Book iii. of the "Hitopadesa' goes thus: In
the city of Ayodhya (Oude) there was a soldier named Churamani, who, being
anxious for money, for a long time with pain of body worshipped the deity the
jewel of whose diadem is the lunar crescent.[FN#395] Being at length purified
from his sins, in his sleep he had a vision in which, through the favour of
the deity, he was directed by the lord of the Yakshas[FN#396] to do as
follows: 'Early in the morning, having been shaved, thou must stand, club in
hand, concealed behind the door of thy house; and the beggar whom thou seest
come into the court thou wilt put to death without mercy by blows of thy
staff. Instantly the beggar will become a pot full of gold, by which thou wilt
be comfortable the rest of thy life." These instructions being followed, it
came to pass accordingly. But the barber who had been brought to shave him,
having witnessed it all, said to himself, "O, is this the mode of gaining
treasure? Why, then, may not I also do the same?" From that day forward the
barber in like manner, with club in hand, day after day awaited the coming of
the beggar. One day a beggar being so caught was attacked by him and killed
with the stick, for which offence the barber himself was beaten by the King's
officers and died.
The same story is differently told, at greater length and with considerable
humour, in Nakhshabí's Parrot-Book, but the outline of it only can be given
here: A rich merchant named Abd-el-Malik resolved to give all his substance to
the poor and needy before he departed this life. At midnight an apparition
stood before him in the habit of a fakír and thus addressed him: "I am the
apparition of thy good fortune and the genius of thy future happiness.[FN#397]
When thou, with such unbounded generosity, didst bequeath all thy wealth to
the poor, I determined not to pass by thy door unnoticed, but to enrich thee
with an inexhaustible treasure, suitable to the greatness of thy capacious
soul. To accomplish which I will every morning in this shape appear to thee;
thou shalt strike me a few blows on the head, and I shall instantly fall at
thy feet, transformed into an image of gold. From this take as much as thou
shalt have occasion for; and every member that shall be separated from the
image shall instantly be replaced by another of the same precious
metal."[FN#398] In the morning a covetous neighbour named Hajm visited the
merchant, and soon after the apparition presented itself. Abd-el-Malik at once
arose and after striking it several blows on the head with a stick, it fell
down and was changed into an image of gold. He took what sufficed for the
day's needs and gave the larger portion to his visitor. When Hajm the covetous
returned to his own house he pondered what he had seen, and concluding it
would be as easy for him to convert fakírs into gold, invited to a feast at
his house all the fakírs of the province. When they had feasted to their
hearts' content, Hajm seized a heavy club and began to unmercifully belabour
his guests till he broke their heads and "the crimson torrent stained the
carpet of hospitality." The cries of the fakírs soon brought the police to
their assistance, and a great crowd of people gathered outside the house. Hajm
was immediately haled before the magistrate, and attempted to justify his
conduct by giving an account of what he had seen done in the house of
Abd-el-Malik. The merchant was sent for and declared Hajm to be mad, no better
proof of which could be desired than his treatment of the fakírs. So Hajm the
covetous was sent forthwith to the hospital for lunatics.
Khudadad and His Brothers--p. 145.
Readers of The Nights must have observed that a large number of the tales
begin with an account of a certain powerful king, whose dominions were almost
boundless, whose treasury overflowed, and whose reign was a blessing to his
people; but he had one all-absorbing care--he had no son. Thus in the tale of
Khudadad we read that in the city of Harrán there dwelt a sultan "of
illustrious lineage, a protector of the people, a lover of his lieges, a
friend of mankind, and renowned for being gifted with every good quality.
Allah Almighty had bestowed upon him all that his heart could desire, save the
boon of a child, for though he had lovely wives within his harem-door and
concubines galore [far too many, no doubt!], he had not been blessed with a
son," and so forth. This is the "regulation" opening of by far the greater
number of Asiatic stories, even as it was de rigueur for the old pagan Arab
poets to begin their kasídas with a lamentation for the departure of a fair
one, whether real or imaginary. The Sultan of our story is constantly
petitioning Heaven for the boon of a son (who among Easterns is considered as
the "light of the house"), and at length there appears to him in his slumbers
a comely man who bids him go on the morrow to his chief gardener and get from
him a pomegranate, of which he should eat as many seeds as he pleases, after
which his prayers for offspring should be granted. This remedy for barrenness
is very common in Indian fictions (to which I believe Khudadad belongs), only
it is usually the king's wives who eat the seeds or fruit.[FN#399] A few
parallels to the opening of our tale from Indian sources may prove somewhat
interesting, both to students of popular fictions and to those individuals who
are vaguely styled "general readers."
A Kashmiri tale, entitled "The Four Princes," translated by the Rev. J. Hinton
Knowles, in the "Indian Antiquary," 1886,[FN#400] thus begins: In days long
since gone by there lived a king most clever, most holy, and most wise, who
was a pattern king. His mind was always occupied with plans for the
improvement of his country and people; his darbár was open to all; his ear was
ever ready to listen to the petition of the humblest subject, he afforded
every facility for trade; he established hospitals for the sick, inns (sará'e)
for travellers, and large schools for those who wished to learn. These and
many other such things he did. Nothing was left undone that ought to be done,
and nothing was done that ought not to have been done. Under such a wise,
just, and beneficent ruler the people of course lived very happily. Few poor
or unenlightened or wicked persons were to be found in the country. But the
great and good king had not a son. This was an intense sorrow to him--the one
dark cloud that now and again overshadowed his otherwise happy and glorious
life. Every day he prayed earnestly to Siva to grant him an heir to sit upon
the throne after him. One day Siva appeared to him in the garb of a
yogi,[FN#401] and bade him ask a boon and it should be granted. "Take these
four fruits," said Siva, "and give them to your wife to eat on such a day
before sunrise. Then shall your wife give birth to four sons who will be
exceedingly clever and good." The king follows these instructions and in due
course his wife is delivered of four sons at one birth and thereupon dies. The
rest of the story is a variant of the Tamil romance "Alak⁄sa Kathà,''[FN#402]
and of "Strike, but hear!" in Rev. Lal Behari Day's "Folk-Tales of Bengal."
This is how the Tamil story of The Four Good Sisters begins ("Folk-Lore in
Southern India," Part iii., by Pandit S. M. Nat⁄sa Sástri[FN#403]): In the
town of Ta±jai there reigned a king named Hariji, who was a very good and
charitable sovereign. In his reign the tiger and the bull drank out of the
same pool, the serpent and the peacock amused themselves under the same tree;
and thus even birds and beasts of a quarrelsome and inimical disposition lived
together like sheep of the same flock. While the brute creation of the great
God was thus living in friendship and happiness, need it be said that this
king's subjects led a life of peace and prosperity unknown in any other
country under the canopy of heaven? But for all the peace which his subjects
enjoyed, Hariji himself had no joy: his face was always drooping, his lips
never moved in laughter, and he was as sad as sad could be because he had no
son.--After trying in vain the distribution of charitable gifts which his
ministers and the priests recommended, the king resolves to retire into the
wilderness and there endeavour to propitiate Mah⁄svara [i.e. Siva], hoping
thus to have his desire fulfilled. He appoints his ministers to order the
realm during his absence, and doffing his royal robes clothes himself in the
bark of trees and takes up his abode in the desert. After practising the most
severe austerities for the space of three years, Siva, mounted on his bull,
with his spouse Párvatí by his side, appears before the hermit, who is
overjoyed at the sight of the deity. Siva bids him ask any boon and it should
be granted. The royal ascetic desires to have a son. Then says Siva: "For thy
long penance we grant thy request. Choose then--a son who shall always be with
thee till death, but shall be the greatest fool in the whole world, or four
daughters who shall live with thee for a short time, then leave thee and
return before thy death, but who shall be the incarnation of learning. To thee
is left to choose which thou wilt have," and so saying, the deity gives him a
mango fruit for his wife to eat, and then disappears. The king elects to have
the four learned daughters, whose history is very entertaining.
Another tale in the Pandit's collection (No. 4) informs us that once upon a
time in a town named Va±jaimánagar there ruled a king named Siváchar. He was a
most just king and ruled so well that no stone thrown up fell down, no crow
pecked at the new-drawn milk, the lion and the bull drank water from the same
pond, and peace and prosperity reigned throughout the kingdom. Notwithstanding
all these blessings, care always sat on his face. His days and nights he spent
in praying that God might bless him with a son. Wherever he saw pípal trees he
ordered Brahmans to circumambulate them.[FN#404] Whatever medicines the
doctors recommended he was ever ready to swallow, however bitter they might
be. At last fortune favoured Siváchár; for what religious man fails to obtain
his desire? The king in his sixtieth year had a son, and his joy knew no
bounds.
In like fashion does the Persian "Sindibád Náma" begin: There reigned in India
a sage and mighty monarch, the bricks of whose palace were not of stone or
marble but of gold; the fuel of whose kitchen was fresh wood of aloes; who had
brought under the signet of his authority the kingdoms of Rúm and Abyssinia;
and to whom were alike tributary the Ethiop Maharáj and the Roman Kaysar. He
was distinguished above all monarchs for his virtue clemency, and justice. But
although he was the refuge of the Khalífate, he was not blessed with an heir:
life and the world appeared profitless to him, because he had no fruit of the
heart in the garden of his soul. One night, while reclining on his couch, sad
and thoughtful, consumed with grief like a morning taper, he heaved a deep
sigh upon which one of his favourite wives (he had a hundred in his harem),
advancing towards him and kissing the ground, inquired the cause of his
distress. He discloses it. His wife consoles him, encourages him to hope, and
assures him that if he prayed, his prayers would be answered, but that at all
events it was his duty to be resigned to the will of God. "Prayer is the only
key that will open the door of difficulty." The king fasted for a whole week
and was assiduous in his devotions. One night he prayed with peculiar
earnestness and self-abasement till morning. The companion of his couch was
one of his wives, fairer than the sun and the envy of a pert. He clasped her
in his embrace, exclaiming, "There is no strength, no power, save in God!" and
he felt assured in his heart that his prayer was granted. In due time a son
was born to him, and, eager to show his gratitude, he bestowed munificent
gifts and lavished his treasures on all his subjects.
The seventh of Lal Behari Day's "Folk-Tales of Bengal" opens as follows: Once
on a time there reigned a king who had seven queens. He was very sad, for the
seven queens were all barren. A holy mendicant, however, one day told the king
that in a certain forest there grew a tree, on a branch of which hung seven
mangoes; if the king himself plucked those mangoes and gave one to each of the
queens they would all become mothers. So the king went to the forest, plucked
the seven mangoes that grew upon one branch, and gave a mango to each of the
queens to eat. In a short time the king's heart was filled with joy as he
heard that the seven queens were pregnant.--In Miss Stokes' "Indian Fairy
Tales,' p. 91, Rájá Barbál receives from an ascetic 160 lichí fruits, one of
which he is to give to each of his 160 wives, who would have each a son.--
Similar instances occur in Steel and Temple's "Wide Awake Stories," from the
Panjáb and Kashmír, pp. 47 and 290, and in Nat⁄sa Sástrí's "Dravidian Nights'
Entertainments" (a translation of the Tamil romance entitled
"Madanakámarájankadai"), pp. 55, 56.--Among biblical instances of women having
offspring after being long barren are: Sarah, the wife of Abraham (Gen. ch.
xv. 2 4, xxi. 1, 2); Rachel, the wife of Jacob (Gen. ch. xxx., 1, 22, 23); and
Elisabeth, the wife of Zacharias, the high-priest, who were the parents of
John the Baptist (Luke, ch. i.). Whether children be a "blessing,"
notwithstanding all that has been said and sung about the exquisite joys of
paternity and maternity, is perhaps doubtful, generally speaking: one thing is
certain, that many an honest fellow has had too much cause to "wonder why the
devil he got an heir!"[FN#405]
Although no version or variant of the story of Khudadad and his Brothers has
yet been found besides the one in the Turkish collection "Al-Faráj ba'd
al-Shiddah," yet the elements of which it is composed occur in many European
and Asiatic tales. As we have in Galland a story of sisters who envied their
cadette, so, by way of justice to the "fair sex," we have likewise this tale
of envious brothers, which is a favourite theme of popular fictions, only in
the story of Khudadad, the brothers were not at first aware of the hero's
kinship to them, though they had been informed of it when they most
ungratefully cut and slashed him with their swords as he lay asleep by the
side of his beauteous bride the Princess of Daryabár.
Sometimes it is not a brother, or brothers, but a treacherous friend or a
secret, cowardly rival, who attempts the life of the hero and claims the
credit and reward for his bold achievement. Many examples must occur to
readers familiar with Icelandic, Norwegian, and German folk-tales which need
not here be cited. In the old French romance of the Chevalier Berinus and his
gallant son Aigres de l'Aimant, the King of Loquiferne is in love with the
Princess Melia, daughter of a king named Absalon, who would give her only to
the prince who should bring with him two knights prepared to combat with and
slay two fierce lions, or would attempt this feat himself. None of the barons
of the King of Loquiferne offering themselves for the adventure, Aigres
undertakes it very readily, and is accompanied by a knight named Açars, who
has charge of a casket of jewels destined for the princess as a wedding-gift.
Young Aigres encounters and kills the lions singlehanded, and the lily-livered
and faithless Açars envies him the glory of his exploit. On their way back to
Loquiferne with the Princess Melia, as they pass near a deep well Açars
purposely allows the casket of jewels to fall into it and pretends to be
distracted at the misfortune. But the gallant Aigres securing one end of his
horse's reins to the top of the well descends by this improvised rope, and
when he dives into the water to recover the casket the rascal Açars cuts the
reins and compels the princess and her maid to follow him. His triumph is
brief, however, for Melia and her maid are taken from him, without his
striking a blow in their defence, by a king who is in love with the princess.
Açars proceeds to the court of the King of Loquiferne and tells him how the
lady had been snatched out of his hands by a king who attacked him with a
great army while Aigres had fled like a craven. Meanwhile Aigres contrives to
get out of the well, and finds his steed and armour close by: he is fortunate
in rescuing the princess and her maid from the king who had taken them from
Açars, and arriving at the court of Loquiferne denounces Açars as a coward and
traitor, and the princess Melia confirms his assertions; so the carpet-knight
is for ever disgraced.
Another example not very generally known is found in the Urdú romance, "Gul-í
Bakáwalí:" When the hero, Taj al-Malúk, the youngest son of King Zayn
al-Malúk, is born, the astrologers cast his horoscope and predict that the
king will lose his sight as soon as he looks upon him. In order to prevent
such a calamity, the king causes the child and his mother to be placed in a
house far distant from the city, where Zayn al-Malúk grows up into a handsome,
courageous youth. By chance he meets his father, the king, while the latter is
hunting, and the king no sooner casts his eyes on the youth than he becomes
blind. The royal physicians tell him that only the Rose of Bakáwalí can
restore his sight, and the four other sons of the king set out together to
procure this wonderful flower. They fall victims to the wiles of a courtesan,
who wins all their money at play and ultimately imprisons them in her house.
In the meantime Taj al-Malúk has started on the same errand; he outwits the
courtesan, obtains the liberation of his brothers, and then journeys to
Jinnistán, where, by the help of a friendly demon, he plucks the Rose in the
garden of the beauteous fairy Bakáwalí, and retraces his way homeward. Meeting
with his four brothers on the road, he acquaints them of his success, and on
their doubting the virtue of the flower, it is applied to the eyes of a blind
man, and his sight is instantly restored. Upon this the brothers take the
flower from Taj al-Malúk by force and hasten with it to their father. But the
hero's friends the demons build for him a splendid palace, and the fame of his
wealth soon reaches the court of his father, who, with the four brothers and
the ministers of state, visits him, and after a great feast Taj al-Malúk makes
himself known to the king and relates the whole story of how he procured the
flower that had restored his sight. The king falls upon his son's neck and
weeps tears of joy, saying, "You have restored the light of my eyes by the
Rose of Bakáwalí, and by the sight of you the door of cheerfulness has been
opened in my sorrowful heart. It is incumbent on me to make known this
enlivening news to your mother, who has looked out for you with anxiety and I
must cause her, who has been afflicted with grief at your absence, to drink
the sherbet of the glad tidings of your safety." Then the king went to Taj
al-Malúk's mother, made many apologies for his ill treatment of her, exalted
her higher than she was previously, and gave her the joyful news of her son's
arrival. The remainder of the romance recounts the marvellous adventures of
the hero in fairyland, whither he proceeds to rejoin Bakáwalí, and where he
undergoes many strange transformations; but ultimately all is "merry as
marriage beds."--Nothing is said about the punishment or pardon of the
treacherous brothers, but doubtless in the original form of the story the hero
acted as generously towards them as did Khudadad when his father would have
put the forty brothers to death. It seems somewhat strange that after
Khudadad's brothers had killed him (as they believed) they did not take the
Princess Daryabár away with them, which generally happens in stories of this
kind.
The Story of the Blind Man, Baba Abdullah--p. 178.
An incident in the Muhammedan version of the legend of the Seven Sleepers may
have furnished a hint for this well-told tale. When the evil-minded Dekianus
views the Hid Treasure, which he had covenanted with the aged man who read the
Tablet for him and conducted him to the spot should be equitably divided
betwixt them--when he had beheld with wonder and astonishment the incalculable
riches contained in the seven chambers, he says within himself, "And must I
share this with the old man?" Then he ponders and thinks, "Nay, but I will
give him a goodly portion ;" but finally he resolves to give him nothing--nay
more, to take away his life so that there should be none on earth besides
himself acquainted with the source of his wealth. In vain does the old man bid
him take all the treasure and swear that he will ever preserve the secret:
Dekianus smote him with his sword so that he died.
There is a tale in the Persian story-book "Shamsah wa Kahkahah" (also entitled
"Mahbúb al-Kalúb") which bears some analogy to the story of the Blind Man,
Baba Abdullah. A skilful geomancer is desired by a tradesman to cast his
horoscope. He does so, and informs the tradesman that he is to find a
treasure. The man is incredulous, but after the operation is repeated with the
same result at length becomes convinced of the accuracy of the geomancer's
calculations, locks his door, and forthwith they both begin to dig the floor.
They come upon a large stone which on removal is found to have covered a well.
The geomancer lowers the tradesman down it in a basket, which the latter fills
with gold and silver and precious stones, and it is drawn up by the geomancer.
When this has been repeated several times and the geomancer views the immense
quantity of glittering treasure heaped up beside him, covetous thoughts enter
his mind, and he determines to leave the tradesman to his fate at the bottom
of the well, take all the wealth for himself, and live in comfort and luxury
the rest of his days. Accordingly he does not again let the basket down, and
the poor tradesman, suspecting his iniquitous design, calls out piteously to
his perfidious friend, imploring him not to leave him there to perish, and
swearing that the treasure should be equally shared as between brothers. But
the covetous geomancer is deaf to his appeal, and begins to consider how the
treasure might be conveyed to his own house without attracting the notice of
any of the folk of the quarter, and in the midst of his cogitatious he falls
asleep. Now it happened that the poor tradesman had an enemy who had long
waited for an opportunity to do him a personal injury, and that very night he
came to the house, and by means of a rope with a hook which he fastened to the
wall he climbed on to the roof and descended into the place where the
geomancer was sleeping. The man, mistaking him for the tradesman, seized the
geomancer and with a sharp awl pierced his eyes, blinding him for ever. But,
having thus effected his revenge as he thought, in groping his way out of the
house he stumbled into the well and broke his foot. The tradesman, taking him
for the geomancer, come for more gold, upbraided him for his insatiable
avarice, and the man, in his turn, supposing him to have been thrown into the
well by the tradesman, replied, "Be satisfied; I have punished him who cast
you into this place," but as he began to howl from the pain of his broken
foot, the tradesman knew that he was not the geomancer. Next morning the
tradesman's son arrives from a long trading journey, with much gold and
merchandise and many slaves. On entering his father's house he is astounded to
perceive the open well and by the side of it a vast heap of treasure and a man
holding both hands to his eyes and wailing bitterly, lamenting the
covetousness which had caused him the loss of his eyesight. The young man
sends a slave down into the well and the first person drawn up is the
tradesman, who is both surprised and overjoyed to behold his son once more,
and tells him the whole story. His enemy is then taken out and is dismayed to
find that he has blinded the wrong man. Both the geomancer and the tradesman's
enemy are pardoned, but the latter dies soon after, while the geomancer
retires to a cave in the mountains, where every morning and evening two small
loaves are thrown in to him by an unknown hand, and during the rest of his
life he never ceased to repeat this distich:
If you possess one barley grain of justice,
You will never have half a grain of sorrow.
But much more closely resembling the story of Baba Adbullah is a tale in the
Persian romance which recounts the imaginary adventures of Hatim Ta'í. A blind
man is confined in a cage which is suspended from a branch of a tree, and
constantly exclaims, "Do evil to none; if you do, evil will overtake you."
Hatim having promised to mend his condition and relieve him, he relates his
history as follows:
"I am by occupation a merchant, and my name is Hamír. When I became of age my
father had finished the building of this city, and he called the same after my
name. Shortly after, my father departed on a sea-voyage, and left me in charge
of the city. I was a free hearted and social young man, and so in a short time
expended all the property left under my care by my father. Thus I became
surrounded with poverty and want, and as I knew that my father had hidden
treasures somewhere in the house, I resolved to discover them if possible. I
searched everywhere, but found nothing, and, to complete my woe, I received
the news of my father's death, the ship in which he sailed being wrecked.
"One day as I was sauntering, mournful and dejected, through the bazár, I
espied a learned man who cried out, 'If any one has lost his money by theft or
otherwise, my knowledge of the occult sciences enables me to recover the same,
but on condition that I receive one fourth of the amount.' When I heard this
seasonable proclamation, I immediately approached the man of science, and
stated to him my sad condition and how I had been reduced from affluence to
poverty. The sage undertook to restore my wealth, and above all to discover
the treasures concealed in my father's house. I conducted him to the house and
showed him every apartment, which he carefully examined one after another. At
length by his art he discovered the stores we were in search of; and when I
saw the gold and silver and other valuables, which exceeded calculation, the
demon of fraud entered my heart, and I refused to fulfil my promise of giving
a fourth of the property to the man of wisdom. I offered him only a few small
pieces of silver; instead of accepting which, he stood for a few moments in
silent meditation, and with a look of scorn said, 'Do I thus receive the
fourth part of your treasure which you agreed to give me? Base man, of what
perjury are you guilty?' On hearing this I became enraged, and having struck
him several blows on the face, I expelled him from my house. In a few days
however he returned. and so far ingratiated himself into my confidence that we
became intimate friends; and night and day he displayed before my sight the
various hidden treasures contained within the bowels of the earth. One day I
asked him to instruct me in this wonderful science, to which he answered that
no instruction was requisite. 'Here,' said he, 'is a composition of surma and
whoever applies the same to his eyes, to him will all the wealth of this world
become visible.'[FN#406] 'Most learned sir,' I replied, 'if you will anoint
mine eyes with this substance I promise to share with you the half of all such
treasures as I may discover.' 'I agree,' said my friend; 'meanwhile let us
retire to the desert, where we shall be free from interruption.'
"We immediately set out, and when we arrived there I was surprised at seeing
this cage and asked my companion whose it was. I received for answer, that it
belonged to no one. In short, we both sat down at the foot of this tree, and
the sage, having produced the surma from his pocket, began to apply it to my
eyes. But, alas! no sooner had he applied this composition than I became
totally deprived of sight. In a voice of sorrow I asked him why he had thus
treated me, and he replied, 'Such is the reward of treachery; and if you wish
to recover your sight, you must for some time undergo penance in this cage.
You must utter no complaint and you shall exclaim from time to time, 'Do no
evil to any one; if you do, evil will befall you.' I entreated the sage to
relieve me, saying, 'You are a mere mortal like myself, and dare you thus
torment a fellow-creature? How will you account for your deeds to the Supreme
Judge?' He answered, 'This is the reward of your treachery.' Seeing him
inexorable, I begged of him to inform me when and how my sight was to be
restored, and he told me, that a noble youth should one day visit me, and to
him I was to make known my condition, and farther state, that in the desert of
Himyar there is a certain herb called the Flower of Light, which the youth was
to procure and apply to my eyes, by means of which my sight should be
restored."
When the man in the cage had ended his story, the magnanimous Hatim bade him
be of good cheer, for he would at once endeavour to relieve him. By the aid of
the fairies, who carry him through the air for the space of seven days, he
arrives in the desert where the Flowers of Light shine brilliant as lamps on a
festival night, diffusing the sweetest perfume far and wide; and recking
naught for the serpents, scorpions, and beasts of prey which infested the
place (for he had a talisman that protected him), he advances and plucks three
of the largest and most brilliant flowers. Returning in the same manner as he
had gone thither, he reaches the spot where the blind man Hamir is imprisoned;
taking down the cage, he releases the wretched man, compresses the stalk of
the flower so that the juice drops upon his sightless eyeballs, and when this
has been repeated three times Hamir opens his eyes, and seeing Hatim falls
prostrate at his feet with a profusion of thanks.
Although there are some differences in the details of the story of Baba
Abdullah and that of Hamir, as above, yet the general similarity between them
is sufficient to warrant the conclusion that if one was not adapted from the
other, both must have been derived from the same source; and here we have, I
think, clear evidence of the genuineness of another of the tales which Galland
was believed to have invented himself.
History of Sidi Nu'man--p. 187.
It is curious to find this current as a folk-tale at Palena, in the Abruzzi,
without any material variation except in the conclusion. My friend, Mr. E.
Sidney Hartland, has favoured me with the following abstract of the Italian
version, as given in vol. iii. of the "Archivio per lo studio delle Tradizioni
Popolari" (Palermo, 1882), p. 222:
There was once a husband and wife. The wife says that she cannot eat anything,
and only picks a few grains of rice with a large pin. Her husband asks why she
eats nothing, and she answers that she does not want to eat. Meantime she goes
out secretly every night, and the husband begins to have suspicions of her.
One night he follows her softly and finds she goes to the burial ground, where
she meets with certain female companions. They open a grave and feed on the
flesh of the dead. The next morning the husband cooks rice again, and the wife
picks up a few grains of it with a pin as before. The husband exclaims, "What!
you enjoy the flesh of dead men, and over rice you are so finical as to eat it
with a pin!" The wife is so enraged at learning that her husband knows of her
doings that she goes to the water-bucket, fills a small bottle from it, and
having muttered certain words over the water flings it upon him and he
instantly becomes transformed into a dog. A provision merchant sees him
running about, and takes and sets him on his counter. When the people come to
buy provisions the dog examines the money to see if it be good, and the false
coin he throws on the ground. One day a man comes to buy bacon and offers
false coin. The provision merchant refuses to take it; they dispute over the
matter, and it is referred to the dog, who throws the money on the ground. The
man is astonished, and returning home tells his wife, who at once says that
the dog is not a dog, and desires her husband to bring her the animal that she
may see it. The man returns to the provision merchant and begs him to lend him
the dog for a little while, and takes it home. The wife, who is a companion of
the wife of him who has been changed into a dog, and understands witchcraft,
fills a bottle with water, pronounces certain words over it, and throws the
water upon the dog, who immediately becomes a man again, and she advises him
to do to his wife as she had done to him, and imparts the secret to him. As
soon as he returns home he fills the bottle with water from the bucket, says
the words he had learned, and throws the water over his wife, who becomes a
mare. He drives her out of the house and beats her as flax is beaten. To every
one who asks why he is thrashing the mare he tells his story, and the people
say, "Serve her right!" This goes on for some time. At last, when the husband
sees that his wife has voided enough foam from the mouth, with another dash of
water he changes her back to her proper form, and henceforward she eats
whatever is set before her, obeys her husband in all things, and never goes
out by night again. So they live long, happy and contented.
This version from the Abruzzi so closely resembles the story of Sidi Nu'mán
that we should perhaps be justified in concluding it to have been directly
derived from Galland's Nights, in the absence of any Venetian version, which
might well have been imported independently from the East, but however this
may be, the story in Galland bears unquestionable internal evidence that it is
a genuine Arabian narrative, having nothing peculiarly European in its
details.
A somewhat similar story is quite familiar to me, but I cannot at present call
to mind whether it occurs in a Persian collection or in The Nights, in which
the woman going out when she thinks her husband asleep, the latter follows her
to a hut at some distance which she enters, and peeping into the hut, he sees
a hideous black give her a severe beating for not coming sooner, while she
pleads that she could not venture to quit the house until her husband was
sound asleep. The two carouse together, and by-and-by the black going outside
for a purpose, the husband strikes off his head with his sword and then
conceals himself close by. The woman, after waiting some time, goes out to see
what is detaining her paramour, and finding his headless body, she moans over
it in great sorrow, and then taking the corpse on her back carries it away and
throws it into the river. Her husband hastens home before her, and so she
suspects nothing. Some days after, when she refuses to do some light work
because of her physical weakness, her husband can no longer control himself,
and tells her that she had strength enough to carry on her back the body of
her black paramour, and so on.[FN#407]
The ghoul-wife of Arabian tales, who eats little or nothing at home, has her
in the rákshasí of Indian fictions, who secretly devours antelopes, etc. There
are many parallels in The Nights and other Asiatic story-books to the incident
of Sidi Nu'man being changed back into his proper form, the most noteworthy
being perhaps the case of the Second Calender in the shape of a monkey, or
ape, whom the princess, an adept in white magic, at once recognizes as a man
and veils her face, as does the young woman in the case of Sidi Nu'man: but
while the Calender is restored to his own form, the princess, alas! perishes
in her encounter with the genie who had transformed him.--In most of the
Arabian tales of magical transformations of men and women into beasts the
victims are ultimately restored to their natural forms, but in the Indian
romance of the princess Somasekhara and Chitrasekhara, a wicked king named
Ugrabáhu is permanently changed by some water taken from a magic fountain into
a monkey and sold to a beggar, who compels him to perform tricks in public for
his benefit. Heywood, in his "History of Women" (Book viii.), cites some
curious European stories of men being transformed into donkeys by eating a
certain kind of cheese,
History of Khwajah Hasan Al-habbal--p. 198.
How this entertaining story found its way into North Germany--and nowhere else
in Europe, so far as I am aware--it is not easy to say, but its twin-brother
seems to be orally current there, in all essential details, excepting the
marvellous conclusion. For the poor ropemaker, however, a struggling weaver
and for the two gentlemen, Sa'd and Sa'dí, three rich students are
substituted. There does not appear (according to the version given by Thorpe
in his "Yule Tide Stories," which he entitles, not inaptly, The Three Gifts)
to be any difference of opinion among the students regarding the influence of
Destiny, or Fate, upon men's fortunes: they simply give the poor weaver a
hundred dollars "to assist him in his housekeeping." The weaver hides the
money in a heap of rags, unknown to his wife, who sells them to a
rag-collector for a trifling sum. A year afterwards the students are again
passing the house of the weaver and find him poorer than ever. He tells them
of his mishap and they give him another hundred dollars warning him to be more
careful with the money this time. The weaver conceals the dollars in the
ash-tub, again without the cognisance of his wife, who disposes of the ashes
for a few pieces of soap. At the end of the second year the students once more
visit the wretched weaver, and on being informed of his loss, they throw a bit
of lead at his feet, saying it's of no use to give such a fool money, and go
away in a great huff. The weaver picks up the lead and places it on the window
sill. By-and-by a neighbour, who is a fisherman, comes in and asks for a bit
of lead or some other heavy thing, for his net, and on receiving the lead
thrown down by the students promises to give him in return the first large
fish he catches. The weaver does get a fine fish, which he immediately cuts
open, and finds in its stomach a "large stone," which he lays on the
window-sill, where, as it becomes dark, the stone gives forth a brighter and
brighter light, "just like a candle," and then he places it so that it
illuminates the whole apartment. "That's a cheap lamp," quoth he to his wife:
"wouldst not like to dispose of it as thou didst the two hundred dollars?" The
next evening a merchant happening to ride past the weaver's house perceives
the brilliant stone, and alighting from his horse, enters and looks at it,
then offers ten dollars for it, but the weaver says the stone is not for sale.
"What! not even for twenty dollars?" "Not even for that." The merchant keeps
on increasing his offers till he reaches a thousand dollars, which was about
half its real value, for the stone was a diamond, and which the weaver
accepts, and thus he becomes the richest man in all the village. His wife,
however, took credit to herself for his prosperity, often saying to him, "How
well it was that I threw away the money twice, for thou hast me to thank for
thy good luck!"--and here the German story ends. For the turban of the
ropemaker and the kite that carried it off, with its precious lining, we have
the heap of rags and the rag-collector; but the ashes exchanged for soap
agrees with the Arabian story almost exactly.
The incident of the kite carrying off the poor ropemaker's turban in which he
had deposited the most part of the gold pieces that he received from the
gentleman who believed that "money makes money"--an unquestionable fact, in
spite of our story--is of very frequent occurrence in both Western and Eastern
fictions. My readers will recollect its exact parallel in the abstract of the
romance of Sir Isumbras, cited in Appendix to the preceding volumes: how the
Knight, with his little son, after the soudan's ship has sailed away with his
wife, is bewildered in a forest, where they fall asleep, and in the morning at
sunrise when he awakes, an eagle pounces down and carries off his scarlet
mantle, in which he had tied up his scanty store of provisions together with
the gold he had received from the soudan; and how many years after he found it
in a bird's nest (Supp. Nights, vol. ii. p. 260 and p. 263).--And, not to
multiply examples, a similar incident occurs in the "Kathá Sarit Ságara," Book
ix. ch. 54, where a merchant named Samudrasúra is shipwrecked and contrives to
reach the land, where he perceives the corpse of a man, round the loins of
which is a cloth with a knot in it. On unfastening the cloth he finds in it a
necklace studded with jewels. The merchant proceeds towards a city called
Kalasapuri, carrying the necklace in his hand. Overpowered by the heat, he
sits down in a shady place and falls asleep. The necklace is recognised by
some passing policemen as that of the king's daughter, and the merchant is at
once taken before the king and accused of having stolen it. While the merchant
is being examined, a kite swoops down and carries off the necklace. Presently
a voice from heaven declares that the merchant is innocent, explains how the
necklace came into his possession, and orders the king to dismiss him with
honour. This celestial testimony in favour of the accused satisfies the king,
who gives the merchant much wealth and sends him on his way. The rest of the
story is as follows: "And after he had crossed the sea, he travelled with a
caravan, and one day, at evening time, he reached a wood. The caravan encamped
in the wood for the night, and while Samudrasúra was awake a powerful host of
bandits attacked it. While the bandits were massacring the members of the
caravan, Samudrasúra left his wares and fled, and climbed up a banyan-tree
without being discovered. The host of bandits departed, after they had carried
off all the wealth, and the merchant spent that night there, perplexed with
fear and distracted with grief. In the morning he cast his eves towards the
top of the tree, and saw, as fate would have it, what looked like the light of
a lamp, trembling among the leaves. And in his astonishment he climbed up the
tree and saw a kite's nest, in which there was a heap of glittering priceless
jewelled ornaments. He took them all out of it, and found among the ornaments
that necklace which he had found in Svarnadvípa and the kite had carried off.
He obtained from that nest unlimited wealth, and descending from the tree, he
went off delighted, and reached in course of time his own city of Harshapúra.
There the merchant Samudrasúra remained, enjoying himself to his heart's
content, with his family, free from the desire of any other wealth."
There is nothing improbable--at all events, nothing impossible--in the History
of Khwajah Hasan al-Habbál. That he should lose the two sums of money in the
manner described is quite natural, and the incidents carry with them the
moral: "Always take your wife into your confidence" (but the Khwajah was a
Muslim), notwithstanding the great good luck which afterwards befell, and
which, after all, was by mere chance. There is nothing improbable in the
finding of the turban with the money intact in the bird's nest, but that this
should occur while the Khwajah's benefactors were his guests is--well, very
extraordinary indeed! As to the pot of bran--why, some little license must be
allowed a story-teller, that is all that need be said! The story from
beginning to end is a most charming one, and will continue to afford pleasure
to old and young--to "generations yet unborn."