A certain King had six wives, none of whom had children, in spite of doctors
and all sorts of doctors' stuff. He was advised by his ministers to take a
seventh wife. There was in the city a poor woman who earned her livelihood by
gathering cow-dung from the fields kneading it into cakes, which, after drying
in the sun, she sold for fuel. She had a very beautiful daughter, who had
contracted friendship with three girls much above her rank namely, the
daughter of the King's minister, the daughter of a rich merchant, and the
daughter of the King's chaplain. It happened one day that all four were
bathing together in a tank near the palace, and the King overheard them
conversing as follows: Said the minister's daughter, "The man who marries me
won't need to buy me any clothes, for the cloth I once put on never gets
soiled, never gets old, and never tears." The merchant's daughter said, "And
my husband will also be a happy man, for the fuel which I use in cooking never
turns to ashes, but serves from day to day, and from year to year." Quoth the
chaplain's daughter, "My husband too will be a happy man, for when once I cook
rice it never gets finished; no matter how much we may eat, the original
quantity always remains in the pot."[FN#434] Then said the poor woman's
daughter, "And the man who marries me will also be happy, for I shall give
birth to twin children, a son and a daughter; the girl will be divinely
beautiful, and the boy will have a moon on his forehead and stars on the palms
of his hands."
The King didn't care to have any of the three young ladies, but resolved at
once to marry the fourth girl, who would present him with such extraordinary
twin children, notwithstanding her humble birth, and their nuptials were
celebrated in due form, much to the chagrin of his six wives. Some time after
the King had occasion to go for six months to another part of his dominions,
and when about to set out he told his new wife that he expected her to be
confined before the period of his absence was expired, and that he would like
to be present with her at the time, lest her enemies (her co-wives) might do
her some injury. So giving her a golden bell he bade her hang it in her room,
and when the pains of labour came on to ring it, and he would be with her in a
moment, no matter where he might be at the time; but she must only ring it
when her labour pains began. The six other wives had overheard all this, and
the day after the King had departed went to the new wife's room and affected
to admire the golden bell, and asked her where she got it and what was its
use. The unsuspecting creature told them its purpose, upon which they all
exclaimed that it was impossible the King could hear it ring at the distance
of hundreds of miles, and besides, how could the King travel such a distance
in the twinkling of an eye? They urged her to ring the bell and convince
herself that what the King had said to her was all nonsense. So she rang the
bell, and the King instantly appeared, and seeing her going about as usual, he
asked her why she had summoned him before her time. Without saying anything
about the six other wives, she replied that she had rung the bell merely out
of curiosity to know if what he had said was true. The King was angry, and,
telling her distinctly she was not to ring the bell until the labour pains
came upon her, went away again. Some weeks after the six wives once more
induced her to ring the bell, and when the King appeared and found she was not
about to be confined and that she had been merely making another trial of the
bell (for, as on the former occasion, she did not say that her co-wives had
instigated her), he was greatly enraged, and told her that even should she
ring when in the throes of childbirth he should not come to her, and then went
away. At last the day of her confinement arrived, and when she rang the bell
the King did not come.[FN#435] The six jealous wives seeing this went to her
and said that it was not customary for the ladies of the palace to be confined
in the royal apartments, and that she must go to a hut near the stables. They
then sent for the midwife of the palace, and heavily bribed her to make away
with the infant the moment it was born. The seventh wife gave birth, as she
had promised, to a son who had a moon on his forehead and stars on the palms
of his hands, and also to an uncommonly beautiful girl. The midwife had come
provided with a couple of newly-littered pups, which she set before the
mother, saying, "You have given birth to these," and took away the
twin-children in an earthen vessel, while the mother was insensible. The King,
though he was angry with his seventh wife, yet recollecting that she was to
give birth to an heir to his throne, changed his mind, and came to see her the
next morning. The pups were produced before the King as the offspring of his
new wife, and great was his anger and vexation. He gave orders that she should
be expelled from the palace, clothed in leather, and employed in the
market-place to drive away crows and keep off dogs, all of which was done
accordingly.
The midwife placed the vessel containing the twins along with the unburnt clay
vessels which a potter had set in order and then gone to sleep, intending to
get up during the night and light his furnace; in this way she thought the
little innocents would be reduced to ashes. It happened, however, that the
potter and his wife overslept themselves that night, and it was near daybreak
when the woman awoke and roused her husband. She then hastened to the furnace,
and to her surprise found all the pots thoroughly baked, although no fire had
been applied to them. Wondering at such good luck, she summoned her husband,
who was equally astonished and pleased, and attributed it all to some
benevolent deity. In turning over the pots he came upon the one in which the
twins were placed, and the wife looking on them as a gift from heaven (for she
had no children) carried them into the house and gave out to the neighbours
that they had been borne by herself. The children grew in stature and in
strength and when they played in the fields were the admiration of every one
that saw them. They were about twelve years of age when the potter died, and
his wife threw herself on the pyre and was burnt with her husband's body. The
boy with the moon on his forehead (which he always kept concealed with a
turban, lest it should attract notice) and his beautiful sister now broke up
the potter's establishment, sold his wheel and pots and pans, and went to the
bazar in the King's city, which they had no sooner entered than it was lit up
brilliantly. The shopkeepers thought them divine beings and built a house for
them in the bazar. And when they used to ramble about they were always
followed at a distance by the woman clothed in leather who was appointed by
the King to drive away the crows, and by some strange impulse, she also used
to hang about their house.
The youth presently bought a horse and went hunting in the neighbouring
jungles. It happened one day, while following the chase, that the King met
him, and, struck with his beauty, felt an unaccountable yearning for
him.[FN#436] As a deer went past the youth shot an arrow and in so doing his
turban fell off, on which a bright light, like that of the moon, was seen
shining on his forehead. When the King perceived this, it brought to his mind
the son with the moon on his forehead and stars on the palms of his hands who
was to have been born of his seventh queen, and would have spoken with the
youth, but he immediately galloped off. When the King reached home his six
wives observing his sadness asked him its cause, and he told them of the youth
he had seen in the forest with a moon on his forehead. They began to wonder if
the twins were not still alive, and sending for the midwife closely questioned
her as to the fate of the children. She stoutly declared that she had herself
seen them burnt to ashes, but she would find out who the youth was whom the
King had met while hunting. She soon ascertained that two strangers were
living in a house in the bazar which the shopkeepers had built for them, and
when she entered the house the girl was alone, her brother having gone into
the jungle to hunt. Pretending to be her aunt, the old woman said to her, "My
dear child, you are so beautiful, you require only the kataki[FN#437] flower
to properly set off your charms. You should tell your brother to plant a row
of that flower in your courtyard." "I never saw that flower," said the girl
"Of course not; how could you? It does not grow in this country, but on the
other side of the ocean. Your brother may try and get it for you, if you ask
him." This suggestion the old trot made in the hope that the lad would lose
his life in venturing to obtain the flower. When he returned and his sister
told him of the visit of their aunt and asked him to get her the kataki
flower, on which she had set her heart, he at once consented, albeit he
thought the woman had imposed upon his sister by calling herself their aunt.
Next morning he rode off on his fleet horse, and arriving on the borders of an
immense forest he saw a number of rákshasí[FN#438] roaming about, he went
aside and shot with his arrows some deer and rhinoceroses and then approaching
the rákshasís called out, "O auntie dear, your nephew is here." A huge
rákshasí strode towards him and said, "O. you are the youth with the moon on
your forehead and stars on the palms of your hands. We were all expecting you,
but as you have called me aunt, I will not eat you. What is it you want? Have
you brought anything for me to eat?" The youth gave her the game he had
killed, and she began devouring it. After swallowing all the carcases she
said, "Well, what do you want?" He answered, "I want some kataki flowers for
my sister." She told him it would be very difficult for him to get them, as
they were guarded by seven hundred rákshasas, but if he was determined to
attempt it, he had better first go to his uncle on the north side of the
Jungle. He goes, and greets the rákshasa, calling him uncle, and having
regaled him with deer and rhinoceroses as he had done his "aunt," the rákshasa
tells him that in order to obtain the flower he must go through an
impenetrable forest of kachiri,[FN#439] and say to it "O mother kachiri, make
way for me, else I perish," upon which a passage will be opened for him. Next
he will come to the ocean, which he must petition in the same terms, and it
would make a way for him. After crossing the ocean he'll come to the gardens
where the kataki blooms. The forest opens a passage for the youth, and the
ocean stands up like two walls on either side of him, so that he passes over
dryshod.[FN#440] He enters the gardens and finds himself in a grand palace
which appeared unoccupied. In one of the apartments he sees a young damsel of
more than earthly beauty asleep on a golden bed, and going near discovers a
stick of gold lying near her head and a stick of silver near her feet. Taking
them in his hand, by accident the gold stick fell upon the feet of the
sleeping beauty, when she instantly awoke, and told him she knew that he was
the youth with the moon on his forehead and stars on the palms of his hands;
that the seven hundred rákshasas who guarded the kataki flowers were then out
hunting, but would return by sundown, and should they find him they'd eat him.
A rákshasí had brought her from her father's palace, and is so fond of her
that she will not allow her to return home. By means of the gold and silver
sticks the rákshasí kills her when she goes off in the morning, and by means
of them also she is revived when she comes back in the evening. He had better
flee and save his life. But the youth told her he would not go away without
the kataki flower, moreover, that he would take her also with him. They spent
the day in walking about the gardens, and when it was drawing near the time
for the return of the rákshasas, the youth concealed himself under a great
heap of the kataki flower which was in one of the rooms, having first "killed"
the damsel by touching her head with the golden stick. The return of the seven
hundred rákshasas was like the noise of a mighty tempest. One of them entered
the damsel's room and revived her, saying at the same time, "I smell a human
being!"[FN#441] The damsel replied, "How can a human being come to this
place?" and the rákshasa was satisfied. During the night the damsel worms out
of the rákshasí who was her mistress the secret that the lives of the seven
hundred rákshasas depended on the lives of a male and female bee, which were
in a wooden box at the bottom of a tank, and that the only person who could
seize and kill those bees was a youth with a moon on his forehead and stars on
the palms of his hands--but there could be no such youth, and so their lives
were safe.[FN#442] When the rákshasas had all gone out as usual next morning,
the damsel, having been revived by the youth, told him how the demons could be
killed, and, to be brief, he was not slow to put her directions into practice.
After the death of the seven hundred rákshasas, the youth took some of the
kataki flowers and left the palace accompanied by the beautiful damsel, whose
name was Pushpavati. They passed through the ocean and forest of kachiri in
safety, and arriving at the house in the bazár the youth with the moon on his
forehead presented the kataki flower to his sister. Going out to hunt the next
day, he met the king, and his turban again falling off as he shot an arrow,
the King saw the moon on his forehead and desired his friendship. The youth
invited the King to his house, and he went thither at midday. Pushpavati then
told the King (for she knew the whole story from first to last) how his
seventh wife had been induced by his six other wives to ring the bell twice
needlessly; how she gave birth to a boy and a girl, and pups were substituted
for them, how the twins were miraculously saved and brought up in the house of
a potter, and so forth. When she had concluded the King was highly enraged,
and next day caused his six wicked wives to be buried alive. The seventh queen
was brought from the market-place and reinstated in the palace, and the youth
with a moon on his forehead and stars on the palms of his hands lived happily
with his beautiful twin-sister.
In two other Hindú versions known to me--but the story is doubtless as widely
spread over India as we have seen it to be over Europe--only the leading idea
of Galland's tale reappears, though one of them suggests the romance of
"Helyas, the Knight of the Swan," namely, the story called "Truth's Triumph,"
in Miss Frere's "Old Deccan Days," p. 55 ff. Here a rájá and his minister
walking together come to a large garden, where is a bringal- tree bearing 100
fruits but having no leaves, and the minister says to the rájá that whosoever
should marry the gardener's daughter should have by her 100 boys and one girl.
The rájá espoused the maiden, much to the vexation of the 12 wives he had
already, and then follows a repetition of the golden bell affair! as in the
Bengali version. Drapadi Bai, the gardener's daughter and the new rání, gives
birth "right off" to 100 sons and a daughter, all of whom are thrown by the
nurse on a dust-heap in which are a great number of rat-holes, the jealous
co-wives fully expecting that the voracious rodents would quickly eat them up.
The nurse tells the young rání that her children had turned into stones; such
is also the story the 12 co-wives tell the rájá on his return, and he orders
the poor Drapadi Bai to be imprisoned for life. But the rats, so far from
devouring the children, nourished them with the utmost care. It comes to the
knowledge of the 12 co-wives that the children are still alive, they are
discovered and turned into crows--all save the little girl, who luckily
escapes the fate of her 100 brothers, gets married to a great rájá, and has a
son named Ramchandra, who effected the restoration to human form of his
crow-uncles by means of magic water which he obtained from a rákshasí.
The other story referred to is No. xx of Miss Stokes' "Indian Fairy Tales,"
which Mr. Coote could not have read, else he would not have been at the
trouble to maintain it was impossible that Galland derived his tale from it:
"so long," says he, "as that story remained in the country of its birth--
India--it was absolutely inaccessible to him, for great traveller as he was,
he never visited that far-off portion of the East." The fact is, this Hindu
story only resembles Galland's, and that remotely, in the opening portion
Seven daughters of a poor man played daily under the shady trees in the king's
garden with the gardener's daughter, and she used to say to them, "When I am
married I shall have a son--such a beautiful boy as he will be has never been
seen. He will have a moon on his forehead and a star on his chin," and they
all laughed at her. The king, having overheard what she so often repeated,
married her, though he had already four wives. Then follows the golden bell
affair again, with a kettledrum substituted. When the young queen is about to
be confined her co-wives tell her it is the custom to bind the eyes of women
in her condition, to which she submits, and after she has borne the wonderful
boy she promised to do, they tell her she has been delivered of a stone. The
king degraded her to the condition of a kitchen servant and never spoke to
her. The nurse takes the baby in a box and buries it in the jungle. But the
king's dog had followed her, and when she went off he took the box out of the
earth and swallowed the baby. Six months after the dog brings him up, caresses
him and swallows him again. He does likewise at the end of the year, and the
dog's keeper, having seen all told the four wives. They say to the king the
dog had torn their clothes, and he replies, he'll have the brute shot
to-morrow. The dog overhears this and runs off to the king's cow; he induces
her to save the child by swallowing him, and the cow consents. Next day the
dog is shot, and so on: the cow is to be killed and induces the king's horse
to swallow the child, and so on.--There may have been originally some mystical
signification attached to this part of the tale, but it has certainly no
connection with our story.[FN#443]
I had nearly omitted an Arabian version of the outcast infants which seems to
have hitherto escaped notice by story-comparers. Moreover, it occurs in a text
of The Nights, to wit, the Wortley-Montague MS., Nights 472-483, in the story
of Abou Neut and Abou Neeuteen = Abú Niyyet and Abú Niyyeteyn, according to
Dr. Redhouse; one of those translated by Jonathan Scott in vol. vi. of his
edition of the "Arabian Nights," where, at p. 227, the hero marries the King's
youngest daughter and the King in dying leaves him heir to his throne, a
bequest which is disputed by the husbands of the two elder daughters. The
young queen is brought to bed of a son, and her sisters bribe the midwife to
declare that she has given birth to a dog and throw the infant at the gate of
one of the royal palaces. The same occurs when a second son is born. But at
the third lying-in of the princess her husband takes care to be present, and
the beautiful daughter she brings forth is saved from the clutches of her
vindictive sisters. The two little princes are taken up by a gardener and
reared as his own children. In course of time, it happened that the King (Abú
Neeut) and his daughter visited the garden and saw the two little boys playing
together and the young princess felt an instinctive affection for them, and
the King, finding them engaged in martial play, making clay-horses, bows and
arrows, &c., had the curiosity to inquire into their history. The dates when
they were found agreed with those of the queen's delivery; the midwife also
confessed; and the King left the guilty parties to be punished by the pangs of
their own consciences, being convinced that envy is the worst of torments. The
two young princes were formally acknowledged and grew up to follow their
father's example.
We must go back to India once more if we would trace our tale to what is
perhaps its primitive form, and that is probably of Buddhist invention; though
it is quite possible this may be one of the numerous fiction which have been
time out of mind the common heritage of nearly all peoples, and some of which
the early Buddhists adapted to their own purposes. Be this as it may, in the
following tale, from Dr. Mitra's "Sanskrit Buddhist Literature of Nepál"
(Calcutta: 1882), pp. 65, 66, we seem to have somewhat like the germ of the
Envious Sisters: