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A GROUP OF
EASTERN ROMANCES
AND STORIES
FROM THE PERSIAN, TAMIL, AND URDU.
_WITH INTRODUCTION, NOTES, AND APPENDIX_
BY W. A. CLOUSTON,
AUTHOR OF “POPULAR TALES AND FICTIONS” AND THE “BOOK OF
NOODLES”; EDITOR OF THE “BOOK OF SINDIBAD,” THE
“BAKHTYAR NAMA,” ETC.
“Who is he, that is now wholly overcome with idleness or
otherwise involved in a labyrinth of worldly cares and troubles
and discontents, that will not be much lightened in his mind
by reading some enticing story, true or feigned?”—BURTON’S
_Anatomy of Melancholy_.
PRIVATELY PRINTED.
MDCCCLXXXIX.
EDITION—_300 Copies._
TO FORSTER FITZGERALD ARBUTHNOT, ESQ.,
MEMBER OF THE ROYAL ASIATIC SOCIETY OF GREAT BRITAIN AND IRELAND.
MY DEAR ARBUTHNOT,
Since you have always been warmly interested in my own works as
well as in Oriental Literature generally, allow me to Dedicate
to you the present collection of Eastern Tales. This I do with
the greater pleasure, knowing that no man is more able than
yourself to appreciate their value for the comparative study
of popular fictions, and also to recognise their entertaining
qualities.
Believe me,
Yours ever faithfully,
W. A. CLOUSTON.
GLASGOW, _April, 1889_.
PREFACE.
It has been justly remarked that “the literature of a nation furnishes
the best guide to researches into its character, manners, and opinions,
and no department of literature contains a more ample store of data
in this respect than the light and popular part consisting of tales,
romances, and dramatic pieces.” The lighter literature of mediæval Europe
affords us an insight into customs, manners, and superstitions which
have long passed away; but in “the unchanging East” the literature of
the Asiatic races, produced at the same period, continues to reflect
the sentiments and habits of the Hindús, Buddhists, and Muslims at the
present day. For among Asiatics belief in astrology, magic, divination,
good and bad omens, and evil spirits (rákshasas, dívs, jinn, etc.) who
are ever eager to injure human beings is still as prevalent as when
the oldest of their popular tales and romances were first written. The
child-like, wonder-loving Oriental mind delights in stories of the
supernatural, and the more such narratives exceed the bounds of human
possibility the greater is the pleasure derived from them;—like our own
peasantry, who believed (and not so long since) in “ghosts, fairies,
goblins, and witches,” as well as in the frequent apparition of Satan
in various forms to delude the benighted traveller, and were fond of
listening to “tales of the wild and wonderful” during the long winter
evenings.
* * * * *
The following collection comprises fairly representative Eastern tales;
some of which are of common life and have nothing in them of the
supernatural, while in others may be found all the machinery of typical
Asiatic fictions: gorgeous palaces constructed of priceless gems; wealth
galore; enchantments; magical transformations; fairies and jinn, good
and evil. Those who think that they are “sensible, practical men” (and
are therefore _not_ sensible) would not condescend to read “such a pack
of lies”; but there be men, I wot, who entertain no particularly high
opinion of themselves, to whom what poor Mr. Buckle called “the lying
spirit of Romance” is often a great solace amidst the stern realities of
work-a-day life, and, carried away in imagination to regions where all is
_as it ought to be_, they for a brief season quite forget “life and its
ills, duns and their bills.”
* * * * *
But few words are necessary to explain the design of the present
work. I found the four romances diverting and many of their incidents
peculiarly interesting from a comparative folk-lore point of view; and
I felt encouraged by the friendly reception of my _Book of Sindibád_ to
reproduce them as a companion volume and as a farther contribution to
the study of popular fictions. It may be considered by some readers that
my notes are too copious. I know that foot-notes have been likened to
runaway knocks, calling one downstairs for nothing; but as the book is
not specially designed for Eastern scholars (who indeed require none of
the information that I could furnish), I was desirous that nothing likely
to be obscure to the ordinary reader should pass without explanation and
illustration; and since these foot-notes have considerably swelled the
bulk of the book and I shall certainly not profit by them, I trust they
will not prove altogether useless or superfluous. The abstract of the
romance of Hatim Taï—which was an afterthought—and the other matter in
the Appendix will be, I venture to think, interesting to readers “of all
ranks and ages.”
* * * * *
It only remains to express my thanks, in the first place, to the learned
Orientalist Mr. Edward Rehatsek, of Bombay, for kindly permitting me to
reprint his translations from the Persian, with which I have taken a few
liberties, but had he revised them himself, I feel sure he would have
made very similar alterations: I much regret that want of space prevented
me from reproducing more of the shorter stories. In the next place, I
(and the reader also, if I am not mistaken) have to thank Pandit Natésa
Sástrí, of Madras, for his translation of the Tamil romance, which I
have entitled “The King and his Four Ministers.” I must also acknowledge
my great indebtedness to Dr. Chas. Rieu, of the British Museum, whose
courtesy, great as everybody knows it is, I fear was very frequently
sorely tried by my “anxious inquiries”; and to Prof. E. Fagnan, of the
École des Lettres, Algiers, and Mr. E. H. Whinfield, who has done good
work in Persian literature, for their kind investigations regarding an
inedited Turkish story-book. Private friends want no public recognition,
but I should consider myself ungrateful did I omit to place also on
record my obligations in the course of this work to Dr. David Ross,
Principal of the E.C. Training College, Glasgow, to Mr. Leonard C.
Smithers, Sheffield, and finally, but certainly not least of all, to my
old and trusty friend Mr. Hugh Shedden, Grangemouth. With so much help it
may well be thought my work might have been of higher quality than I fear
is the case; but there is an ancient saying about expecting “grapes of
thorns,” which I have made my excuse in a former work.
W. A. C.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
INTRODUCTION xix
HISTORY OF NASSAR 3
Story of Shah Manssur 12
Story of Hatim Taï and the Benevolent Lady 46
The Painter’s Story 53
The Washerman’s Story 58
The Blind Man’s Story 60
The Benevolent Lady’s Story 64
Story of Prince Kasharkasha 69
CONTINUATION OF THE HISTORY OF NASSAR 98
Story of the Foolish Hermit 112
Story of the Treacherous Vazír 114
Story of the Unlucky Shoayb 118
CONCLUSION OF THE HISTORY OF NASSAR 137
HISTORY OF FARRUKHRÚZ.
CHAPTER I.
How three brothers set out on a trading journey—How the
youngest is cruelly abandoned by his elder brethren—How
he meets with royal favour 147
CHAPTER II.
The hero’s quest of a throne of marvellous gems 154
CHAPTER III.
The hero goes in quest of four treasure-trees, and is
married to the Queen of the Fairies 166
CHAPTER IV.
How the hero pretended to visit Paradise, and caused all
his enemies to perish 182
THE KING AND HIS FOUR MINISTERS 193
Story of the Lost Camel 194
Story of the Hunter and His Faithful Dog 206
Story of the Bráhman’s Wife and the Mungús 211
Story of the Faithless Wife and the Ungrateful Blind Man 215
Story of the Wonderful Mango Fruit 220
Story of the Poisoned Food 226
Story of the Bráhman and the Rescued Snake 231
THE ROSE OF BAKÁWALÍ.
Proem 237
CHAPTER I.
The Astrologers’ prediction at the birth of our
hero—His Father is struck with blindness—His four
Brothers set out in quest of the Rose of Bakáwalí,
to restore their Father’s sight—He secretly follows
them—They fall into the toils of Dilbar, an artful
courtesan, who fleeces them and makes them prisoners 240
CHAPTER II.
The Prince determines to rescue his Brethren—He takes
service with a nobleman, and makes friends with
Dilbar’s confidante, by whose instructions he turns the
tables on Dilbar, and wins all her wealth and her own
person—He tells Dilbar of his design to obtain the Rose
of Bakáwalí, and she warns him of the dangers he must
encounter—He relates the _Story of the Bráhman and the
Lion_—Dilbar exhorts our hero before his departure 247
CHAPTER III.
Showing how the Prince is helped in his quest by
a friendly Demon—Marries Mahmúda, a beautiful
girl—Reaches the Garden of Bakáwalí and plucks the
Rose—Seeing the Fairy Bakáwalí asleep, falls in love
with her—Returns with Mahmúda and rejoins Dilbar, who
liberates his Brethren, before the three set out for
his own country—On the way he is deprived of the Rose
by his Brethren, who return home, and by means of the
Flower restore their Father’s sight 259
CHAPTER IV.
Bakáwalí, on awaking, discovers that her Rose has been
stolen, sets out in search of the thief disguised as a
man, and takes service with the Prince’s Father, the
King of the East—The Fairies build a grand Palace for
the Prince, like that of Bakáwalí—The King hears of the
new Palace—_Story of the Princess and the Demon who
exchanged Sexes_—The Prince’s Father and Brethren,
with Bakáwalí (disguised), visit him at his Palace,
and he discloses himself 272
CHAPTER V.
Bakáwalí returns to her own country, and there writes
a love-letter to the Prince, who sets out to visit
her—The Mother of Bakáwalí discovers that her daughter
is in love with a human being, tosses the Prince high
up into the air, and imprisons Bakáwalí—The Prince
falls into a river, emerges from it in safety, obtains
several magical articles, is changed into a young
woman, then into a foul-visaged Abyssinian, and finally
regains his own form 288
CHAPTER VI.
The Prince comes to the Castle of a fierce Demon
called Sháh Pykar, where he finds Rúh-afzá, cousin of
Bakáwalí, a prisoner—He rescues her from the Demon
and conveys her to her parents—He obtains Bakáwalí in
Marriage and returns with his beauteous Fairy Bride to
his own Palace 303
CHAPTER VII.
Bakáwalí goes to the Court of Indra, where she sings
and dances—The Deity, enraged at her love for a human
being, pronounces a curse upon her—The Prince goes
to Ceylon, where he finds Bakáwalí confined in a
Temple, the lower part of her body being turned into
marble—Chitrawat, the daughter of the Rájá, falls in
love with him, and on his declining her overtures he
is thrown into prison 316
CHAPTER VIII.
The Prince is married to Chitrawat, but, visiting
Bakáwalí every night, his new bride complains to her
Father of his indifference, and the Rájá sends spies
to dog his steps—The Temple is discovered and razed
to the ground, and the Prince is in despair 329
CHAPTER IX.
Bakáwalí is re-born in the house of a Farmer—When she
is of marriageable age the Prince and Chitrawat meet
her and they all three proceed to his own country,
where he is welcomed affectionately by Dilbar and
Mahmúda—Bahrám, the son of Zayn ul-Mulúk’s Vazír,
falls in love with Rúh-afzá, the cousin of Bakáwalí 335
CHAPTER X.
Bahrám is long love-sick, but by the help of two
sympathising fairy damsels is finally united to the
beautiful Rúh-afzá, and all ends happily 343
PERSIAN STORIES.
THE THREE DECEITFUL WOMEN 355
Trick of the Kází’s Wife 358
Trick of the Bazár-Master’s Wife 376
Trick of the Kutwál’s Wife 384
THE ENVIOUS VAZÍR 390
THE BLIND BEGGAR 402
THE KÁZI OF GHAZNÍ AND THE MERCHANT’S WIFE 414
THE INDEPENDENT MAN AND HIS TRAVELLING COMPANIONS 425
THE KING WHO LEARNED A TRADE 434
THE HIDDEN TREASURE 442
THE DEAF MAN AND HIS SICK FRIEND 446
THE GARDENER AND THE LITTLE BIRD 448
APPENDIX.
Hatim Taï and the Benevolent Lady 455
Abstract of the Romance of Hatim Taï 456
The Painter’s Story 471
The Washerman’s Story 476
The Blind Man’s Story 477
Story of Prince Kasharkasha 479
Story of the Unlucky Shoayb 489
History of Farrukhrúz 493
The Ungrateful Brothers 493
The Three Expeditions 496
The Expedition to Paradise 500
The King and his Four Ministers 504
Bengalí oral Version 504
Story of the Woman who knew the Language of Animals 505
Story of the King and his Faithful Horse 507
Story of the Wonderful Fruit 507
Kashmírí oral Version 507
Story of the Merchant and his Faithful Dog 509
Story of the Woman who knew the Language of Animals 510
Story of the King and his Falcon 510
Story of the Lost Camel 511
Story of the Hunter and his Faithful Dog 513
Story of the Bráhman’s Wife and the Mungús 515
Story of the Faithless Wife and the Ungrateful Blind Man 516
Story of the Wonderful Mango Fruit 517
Story of the Poisoned Food 518
Story of the Bráhman and the Rescued Snake 518
The Rose of Bakáwalí 519
The Magical Flower 520
The Prince and Dilbar playing Backgammon 522
The Bráhman and the Lion 531
The Princess and the Dív who exchanged Sexes 532
The Prince obtains a Snake-Gem 540
The Prince conceals the Snake-Gem in his Thigh 541
Bakáwalí at Indra’s Court 544
Bahrám transformed into a Bird 545
Persian Stories.
The Three Deceitful Women 546
The Kází and the Merchant’s Wife 555
The Hidden Treasure 558
The Deaf Man and his Sick Friend 561
The Gardener and the Little Bird 563
Additional Notes 568
INDEX.
INTRODUCTION.
INTRODUCTION.
Man has been variously described as a laughing, a cooking, and a
clothes-wearing animal, for no other animal laughs, or cooks, or wears
clothes. Perhaps another definition might be added, namely, that he is a
_story-telling_ animal. From bleak Greenland to the sunny islands that
be-gem the South Pacific, there seems to be no race so low in the scale
of humanity as not to possess a store of legends and tales, which take
their colouring from the ways of life and the habits of the people among
whom they are found domiciled. But notwithstanding the very considerable
number of popular tales that have been collected from various parts of
the world, their origin and general diffusion are still involved in
obscurity. The germs from which some of them sprang may have originated
soon after men became sentient beings. It is possible, though not very
probable, that the ideas on which are based the more simple fictions
which are found to be similar—_mutatis mutandis_—among Non-Aryan as well
as Aryan races were independently conceived; but this concession does
not apply to tales and stories of more elaborate construction, where the
incidents and their very sequence are almost identical—in such cases
there must have been deliberate appropriation by one people from another.
And assuredly not a few of the tales which became orally current in
Europe during the middle ages through the preaching monks and the merry
minstrels were directly imported from the East. But even when a tale has
been traced through different countries till it is discovered in a book,
the date of which is known to be at least 200 B.C., it does not follow,
of course, that the author of the book where it occurs was the actual
inventor of it. Men are much more imitative than inventive, and there is
every reason to believe that the Buddhists and the Bráhmans alike simply
adapted for their own purposes stories and apologues which had for ages
upon ages been common to the whole world. All that is now maintained
by the so-called “Benfey school” is that many of the Western popular
tales current orally, as well as existing in a literary form, during the
mediæval times which are found in old Indian books reached Europe from
Syria, having travelled thither from India through Persia and Arabia, and
that this importation of Eastern fictions had been going on long before
the first crusades.
* * * * *
Whatever our modern European authors may do in the production of their
novels (the _novel_ has no existence in the East), it is certain that
Asiatic writers do not attempt the invention of new “situations” and
incidents. They have all along been content to use such materials as
came ready to hand, both by taking stories out of other books, and
dressing them up according to their own taste and fancy, and by writing
down tales which they had heard publicly or privately recited.[1] Indeed
they usually mention quite frankly in the prefaces to their books from
whence they derived their materials. Thus, Somadeva tells us that his
_Kathá Sarit Ságara_ (Ocean of the Streams of Story), of the 11th
century, is wholly derived from a very much older Sanskrit work, of the
6th century, the _Vrihat Kathá_ (Great Story), of Gunadhya; and Nakhshabí
states that his _Túti Náma_ (Parrot Book) is chiefly an abridgment, in
more elegant language, of an older Persian work composed in a prolix
style, which was translated from a book “originally written in the Indian
tongue.” So we need not expect to find much originality in later Eastern
collections,[2] though they are of special interest to students of the
genealogy of popular tales in so far as they contain incidents, and even
entire stories and fables, out of ancient books now lost, which have
their parallels and analogues in European folk-lore.
* * * * *
The first two romances in the present work form the third _báb_, or
chapter, of a Persian collection of moral tales and anecdotes entitled
_Mahbúb ul-Kalúb_, or the Delight of Hearts, written by Barkhurdár bin
Mahmúd Turkman Faráhí, surnamed Mumtáz, concerning whom all that is
known is given by himself in what Dr. Rieu terms “a diffuse preface,
written in a stilted and ambitious style.” In early life[3] he quitted
his native place, Faráh, for Marv Sháhiján, where he entered the service
of the governor, Aslán Khán, and two years afterwards he proceeded to
Ispahán and became secretary to Hasan Kulí Khán Shámlú: both amírs
flourished during the reign of Sháh Sultan Husain, A.H. 1105-1135
(A.D. 1693-1722). At Ispahán he heard in an assembly a pleasing tale,
which, at the request of his friends, he “adorned with the flowers of
rhetoric,” under the title of _Hikáyát-i Ra’ná ú Zíbá_. In course of
time he added other stories, until he had made a large collection,
comprising no fewer than four hundred tales and anecdotes, divided into
an introduction, eight _bábs_, and a _khátimah_, or conclusion, and he
entitled the work _Mahfil-árá_—‘Adorner of the Assembly.’ After a visit
to his native place, he went to Herát, where he remained for some time,
and thence he set out on a pilgrimage to the shrine at Mashad. But on his
way he was attacked by a band of Kuzzaks in the desert, who robbed him
of everything, including the precious manuscript of his _Mahfil-árá_.
Returning to Ispahán, it may be presumed, though he does not specify
“the place of security,” he re-wrote from memory his collection of tales,
dividing the work into an introduction, five _bábs_, and a _khátimah_.
The work is formed on the plan of the _Gulistán_, or Rose-Garden, of
the illustrious Persian poet Sa’dí, each section being devoted to the
exemplification of a special subject or theme. The introduction comprises
dissertations
(1) On the necessity of Politeness;
(2) On the behaviour of a householder, so as to obtain for
himself happiness in this world and the next;
(3) On the Education of Children;
(4) On the advantages of following a Trade or Profession;
(5) On Hospitality;
(6) On gratitude for the benefits received from God.
Then follow Five Chapters:
I—On Civility, Humility, and Modesty, the virtues on which
amicable intercourse with all conditions of men is based.
II—On Good Manners and abstention from injuring others by word
or deed.
III—On Equanimity in Prosperity and Adversity, and Resignation
to the will of God in all things.
IV—On Friendship, or Association: the choice of a suitable
Companion, and the rejection of an uncongenial or base one.
V—On the Advantages of Contentment and the Meanness of Envy and
Covetousness.
Conclusion: Story of Ra’ná and Zíbá.
The Persian text of this large collection of Tales was printed at Bombay
in 1852. There are two MS. copies in the British Museum, one of which
is described by Dr. Rieu as being embellished with two _’unváns_, or
ornamental head-pieces, gold-ruled margins, and 55 miniatures in the
Persian style.
In 1870 Mr. Edward Rehatsek published, at Bombay, a translation of
the two Tales contained in the third chapter of the _Mahbúb ul-Kalúb_
under the title of _Fortune and Misfortune_, which are reproduced in
the present volume as the _History of Nassar_ (properly Násir) and the
_History of Farrukhrúz_, the Tales being quite distinct from each other.
* * * * *
I—In the HISTORY OF NASSAR, son of the Merchant of Baghdád, the _motif_
is that Fate, or Destiny, is paramount in all human affairs, and so long
as Fortune frowns all the efforts of men to better their condition are
utterly futile: an essentially Asiatic notion, and quite foreign to the
sentiments of the more manly and self-relying Western races. It must be
allowed, however, that there seems to be a mysterious factor in human
life which we call “luck,” against which it were vain to struggle;—only
it is seldom to be recognised until it has worked out its purpose! How,
for example, are we to account for a soldier escaping uninjured after
taking an active part in many battles, while his comrade by his side is
shot dead at the first fire of the enemy? There are certainly lucky and
unlucky men who have done little or nothing to bring about their own good
or ill fortune. “Fate,” says Defoe, “makes footballs of men: kicks some
upstairs and some down. Some are advanced without honour, and others
are suppressed without infamy. Some are raised without merit; some are
crushed without crime. And no man knows, by the beginning of things,
whether his course will end in a peerage or a pillory.” And a Persian
poet chants in melancholy strain:
Strive not to grapple with the grasp of Fate;
Canst thou with feebleness success combine?
All vain, ’gainst Destiny thy watchful state;
Go thou, and to its force thyself resign.
But the Bard of Rydal Mount—the Christian Philosopher, whose grand poetry
is out of vogue in these “double-distilled” days—tells us that
One adequate support
For the calamities of mortal life
Exists—one only: an assured belief
That the procession of our fate, howe’er
Sad or disturbed, is ordered by a Being
Of infinite benevolence and power;
Whose everlasting purposes embrace
All accidents, converting them to good.
And it may be safely asserted that no great things were ever done by any
man whose actions were controlled by a belief in mere “luck.” The great
American poet lustily sings:
Let us then be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to _labour_ and to _wait_.
The Sinhalese have a number of proverbs about “luck” which might very
suitably serve as mottoes for the Tale of Násir and the subordinate
stories of Mansúr and of Shoayb; for instance, they say: “It hails
whenever an unlucky man goes abroad”; and again: “Even if the unlucky man
have a gold coin in his purse, he is sure to be accused of having stolen
it.” In the tale of Prince Kasharkasha, when the ruined merchant comes
to the young king whom he had formerly befriended, he is dismissed with
a small sum of money, the king fearing lest his old friend’s ill-luck
should also affect him: an idea which is constantly cropping up in
Asiatic stories; though, by the way, it does not appear that the worthy
merchant had himself any such fear when he so generously relieved the
prince from his bitter distress.
It can hardly be said that the “moral” to be drawn from the career of
Násir is a very elevating one. The three pieces of wholesome advice
bestowed on him by his father’s ancient friend, and enforced with such
appropriate stories, did the young traveller little good; for we find him
go on blundering out of one scrape into another, until his “lucky star”
is once more in the ascendant. And in the case of poor Mansúr, though
he does ultimately attain wealth and ease through his own exertions,
yet he was in the first instance indebted to sheer luck in discovering
a treasure-crock in an old ruin. From one point of view, there is droll
humour in some of the incidents in these tales, more especially in
Násir’s unlucky exhibitions of his accomplishments before the king; and
in the narrative of the misfortunes of poor Shoayb, whom another king
strove so persistently to benefit, disregarding the counsel of his prime
minister and setting at defiance the evident decree of Fate;—though one
cannot help regretting that he should have been expelled from the country
after all he had suffered. Let us believe that ere long his “run of
ill-luck” came to an end!
* * * * *
II—The HISTORY OF FARRUKHRÚZ may be considered as exemplifying the
Sinhalese proverb which asserts that “the teeth of the dog that barks
at the lucky man will fall out;” for did not all the vile schemes of
the envious vazírs, to compass the death of this Favourite of Fortune,
turn to his advantage and finally to their own well-merited destruction?
True, he was very near losing his good fortune when he parted with
the talismanic ring, and, by the art magic of Kashank the ’Ifrít, was
changed to an old barber in Damascus; but here again have we not an
illustration of another Sinhalese proverb which says that “you cannot
even kick away good luck”? In this spirited little romance the interest
is well sustained throughout, and the scene in Damascus will, I think,
favourably compare with some of the facetious tales in the _Arabian
Nights_. Variants and analogues of the principal incidents are given in
the Appendix.
* * * * *
III—THE KING AND HIS FOUR MINISTERS, which is now for the first time
presented in English, has been translated from the Tamil, at my
suggestion, by my friend Pandit S. M. Natésa Sástrí, of Madras, who is
already known in this country to students of the migrations of popular
tales from his _Folk-Lore in Southern India_, published at Bombay,
and his translation of another Tamil romance, _Madanakámarájankadai_,
under the title of _Dravidian Nights Entertainments_, published at
Madras: London agents for both works, Messrs. Trübner & Co. The Tamil
title is _Alakésa Kathá_, or Story of (King) Alakésa, and a short but
not quite accurate account of it is given by Dr. H. H. Wilson in his
most valuable _Descriptive Catalogue of the Oriental MSS. etc. in the
Mackenzie Collection_, published at Calcutta, 1828, vol. i, p. 220. Dr.
Wilson describes the work as “a story of the rájá of Alakapúr and his
four ministers, who, being falsely accused of violating the sanctity of
the inner apartments, vindicate their innocence and disarm the king’s
wrath by narrating a number of stories.” It is, however, only one of the
ministers who is believed by the rájá and the rání to have thus offended,
and his three colleagues successively urge the rájá to inquire into all
the circumstances of the affair before proceeding to punish him, and they
support their arguments with Tales showing the deplorable evils which may
result from inconsiderate actions. An aged minister of the rájá’s father
then comes before the king and relates a story to the same purpose,
and he is followed by the accused minister, who also tells a story as
a warning against hasty decisions, after which he not only makes his
innocence manifest, but shows how he had saved the rájá and his spouse
from a terrible fatality.[4]
In the Appendix of the present work will be found abstracts of Bengalí
and Kashmírí oral variants of this Tale, the frame of which was evidently
suggested by that of the Book of Sindibád, of which the numerous European
versions are commonly known under the title of the _History of the Seven
Wise Masters of Rome_, where a young prince is falsely accused, as
Joseph was by the wife of Potiphar, and his father the king orders him
to be put to death; but he alternately reprieves and condemns him during
seven days, in consequence of his Seven Vazírs, day after day, and the
Lady, night after night, relating to the king stories of the wickedness
of women and of the depravity of men, till at length the innocence of the
prince is proved, and the wanton, treacherous lady is duly punished.—The
leading tale of the Turkish _History of the Forty Vazírs_ (which has been
completely translated into English by Mr. E.J.W. Gibb; London: Mr. George
Redway) is on the same plan, though the stories related by the Vazírs and
the Lady are almost all different.
To the sporadic part of the great Sindibád family of romances belongs
also the Persian work entitled _Bakhtyár Náma_, in which a stranger youth
becomes the king’s favourite and is raised to a position of great honour
and dignity, which excites the envy of the king’s Ten Vazírs, who cause
him to be accused of violating the royal haram, and the young man is
reprieved from day to day through his relating eloquently stories showing
the lamentable consequences of precipitation, and he is ultimately found
to be guiltless, and, moreover, to be the king’s own son, whom he and his
queen had abandoned in a desert when newly born, as they were flying for
their lives.—Another group of tales pertaining to the same cycle is found
in the Breslau printed Arabic text of the _Alf Layla wa Layla_ (Thousand
and One Nights), under the title of “King Shah Bakht and his Vazír
Er-Rahwan,” where the king is induced by the machinations of some of his
courtiers to believe that his favourite minister Er-Rahwan should slay
him within twenty-eight days; and the Vazír, being condemned to death,
obtains a respite by relating to the king each night an interesting story
until the supposed fatal period is past, when the king is convinced of
his fidelity.[5]
Neither the name of the author nor the date of the _Alakésa Kathá_ is
known, but it is supposed to have been written in the 16th century.
It is one of the very few Asiatic collections in which the tales are
all unobjectionable, and while these are found in much older Indian
story-books, they present some curious variations, and are moreover
of considerable interest as illustrating Hindú popular beliefs and
superstitions.
As European mediæval writers were in the habit of piously prefixing
the sign of the cross to their compositions, and Muhammedan authors
invariably begin their books with the formula, “In the Name of God, the
most Merciful, the most Compassionate,” so Hindú writers always commence
by invoking the assistance of Ganesa, the god of wisdom. Accordingly
the _Alakésa Kathá_ opens thus: “Before relating in Tamil the story of
the Four Ministers, which is admired by the whole world, O Mind! adore
and serve him who is the elder of the trident-armed and the remover of
obstacles”—that is, Ganesa, who is said to be the son of Siva and his
spouse Parvati, or of the latter only. Ganesa is represented as having
the head of an elephant, which was perhaps originally a symbol of his
sagacity, but is accounted for in one of the later legends regarding this
deity as follows: The goddess Parvati wished to take a bath one day in
her mansion, Kailasa, during the absence of her lord, Siva. Her female
attendants were engaged in some domestic duties, but she must have her
bath, and there must be a servant to guard the door. So Parvati rubbed
her body with her hands, and of the scurf created a man, whom she ordered
to watch outside the door, and allow no one to enter. It so happened
that Siva returned before his spouse had finished bathing, and he was
opposed by the newly-formed man, whose head he immediately struck off,
and then he entered the bath-room. This intrusion Parvati regarded as a
very great insult, and when she learned that her guard at the door was
slain her rage knew no bounds. She demanded that her first son, as she
termed him, should be restored to life, and Siva, vexed at his rashness,
told his _ganas_ (armies of dwarfs: troops of celestials) to search for
him who slept with his head to the north, to kill him, and place his head
on the neck of the murdered guard. The ganas, after wandering long and
far, found only an elephant asleep in that position, so they brought his
head and fixed it on the neck of the man whom Siva had slain, when, lo!
he at once rose up alive, a man in body, with the head of an elephant.
Siva then appointed him lord of his ganas (_Ganesa_) and adopted him as
his son.—This curious legend is the cause of all Hindús never sleeping
with their heads to the north. Ganesa is said to have written down the
_Mahábhárata_ from the dictation of Vyasa, the reputed author of that
epic. He is represented with four hands, in one of which he holds a
shell, in another a discus, in the third a trident, or club, and in the
fourth a water-lily.[6]
* * * * *
IV—THE ROSE OF BAKÁWALÍ was originally written, in the Persian language,
by Shaykh Izzat Ulláh, of Bengal, in the year of the Hijra 1124, or
A.D. 1712. It was translated into Urdú in the beginning of the present
century, by Nihál Chand, a native of Delhi, but, from his residence in
Lahore, surnamed Lahorí. He entitled his version of the romance _Mazhab-i
’Ishk_, which signifies the Doctrine of Love; but when the Urdú text was
first printed, under the care of Dr. Gilchrist, at Calcutta, in 1804, it
bore the original Persian title, _Gul-i Bakáwalí_; the second edition,
published in 1814, by T. Roebuck, bears the Urdú title.
M. Garcin de Tassy published an abridgment (in French) of the Urdú
version of the ROSE OF BAKÁWALÍ in the _Journal Asiatique_, vol. xvi,
1835, omitting the snatches of verse with which the author has liberally
garnished his narrative.[7] A complete English translation, with the
verses done into prose, by Lieut. R. P. Anderson, was published at Delhi
in 1851, and the Urdú version was again rendered into English, with the
poetry done into tolerably fair verse, by Thomas Philip Manuel, and
published at Calcutta in 1859. For the version in the present work I
have used both G. de Tassy’s French abridgment and Manuel’s English
translation, following the former when the narrative seemed to be rather
prolix, and the latter when I found the French _savant_ too brief in
specially interesting episodes, thus, I trust, making a readable version
of this charming romance.
In the Appendix will be found copious parallels, analogues, and
illustrations of the chief incidents in the ROSE OF BAKÁWALÍ, which
therefore calls for only a few general remarks in this place. It cannot
be said that there is much originality in the romance, most of the
incidents being common to the folk-tales of the several countries of
India, but they are here woven together with considerable ingenuity, and
the interest of the narrative never flags. It may in fact be regarded as
a typical Asiatic Tale, in which is embodied much of the folk-lore of
the East. Like all fairy tales, it has no particular “moral,” for the
hero achieves all his wonderful enterprises with the aid of super-human
beings and by means of magical fruits, etc. The various and strange
transformations which he undergoes in the course of his adventures are
still believed to be quite possible by Muslims and Hindús alike. We very
frequently read in Eastern tales of fountains the waters of which have
the property of changing a man who drinks of them or bathes in them into
a woman, and of transforming a monkey into a man, and _vice versa_. But
this romance is, I think, singular in representing the hero, after having
been changed into a young woman, as actually becoming a mother! In the
account of his transformation to an Abyssinian, and beset by a shrewish
wife and a pack of clamorous children, there is not a little humour. The
magical things which he obtains through overhearing the conversation of
birds are familiar to the folk-tales of Europe as well as to those of
Asia, and I have treated of them fully in the first volume of my _Popular
Tales and Fictions_.
We must regard the first part of this romance—down to the end of the
third chapter—as belonging to the wide cycle of folk-tales in which a
number of brothers set out in quest of some wonderful and much desired
object, and the youngest is always the successful one; but he is deprived
of the prize by his envious and malicious brothers, who generally throw
him into a well, and returning home claim the credit of the achievement.
In the end, however, the young hero exposes the fraud, and his rascally
and cowardly brethren are put to shame. Several of the incidents in the
brothers’ quest of the magical Rose with which to cure their father’s
sight are paralleled in the story of the Water of Life, in Grimm’s
_Kinder und Hausmärchen_, and in the Norse and German stories of the
Golden Bird. Thus in our romance the four elder princes, through their
pleasure-seeking disposition, fall into the toils of an artful courtesan,
while the youngest pluckily proceeds to fairyland and procures the Rose
of Bakáwalí, of which his brothers deprive him on his way home. In such
stories as I have mentioned the elder brothers, if not deservedly
enchanted in some manner on the road, waste their time at a wayside inn,
and the younger is aided in his quest by some animal, troll, or dwarf,
to whom he had done a friendly turn: in our romance the young prince is
helped by a good-natured dív, or demon.
The prediction of the astrologers, with which the romance begins, that
if the king should ever cast his eyes on his newly-born son he should
instantly become blind, has many analogues in other Eastern tales. For
example, in the _Bakhtyár Náma_ we read that a king of Persia, after
being long childless, one night, in a dream, is addressed by an aged man:
“The Lord has complied with thy request and to-morrow thou shalt have a
son, but in his seventh year a lion shall seize and carry him off to the
top of a mountain, from which he shall fall, rolling in blood and clay.”
The vazírs say that the decrees of Destiny cannot be withstood, but the
king declares that he will do so, and then summons his astrologers, who
say that the king after twenty years shall perish by the hand of his
own son. The king causes an underground dwelling to be constructed, in
which he places his child and the nurse. When the prince is seven years
of age, a lion rushes into the cave, devours the nurse, carries off the
boy, and drops him down a mountain. The child is found by one of the
king’s secretaries, who causes him to be properly educated. In course of
time the youth is appointed armour-bearer to the king, who, of course,
does not know that he is his own son, and in fighting with an enemy who
had invaded his kingdom, in the confusion of the battle, the youth cuts
off the king’s hand, supposing him to be on the enemy’s side, and before
dying the king ascertains that his son had caused his death.
In the _Bagh o Bahár_ (see the Appendix, page 478), a young prince, in
consequence of a prediction of the astrologers that he was menaced with
great danger until his fourteenth year, is confined in a vault lined with
felt, in order that he should not behold the sun and the moon till the
fatal period was passed. In Mr. Ralston’s _Tibetan Tales_, the diviners
declare to a king that he shall have a son who shall take his life and
usurp the royal power, setting the diadem on his own head. And we have a
familiar instance in the Arabian tale of the Third Calender, where the
astrologers having predicted that the newly-born son of a jeweller should
be killed when fifteen years old by ’Ajíb the son of King Khasib, the
child is placed in an underground apartment in an island. In the Turkish
story-book known as the _History of the Forty Vasírs_, the soothsayers
predict that a king’s son shall be much afflicted and wander in strange
lands, with tribulation and pain for his companions, from his thirtieth
till he has attained his sixtieth year. In the Norwegian story of Rich
Peter the Pedlar the star-gazers foretell that his daughter should one
day wed a poor man’s son. And in classical legends we have the story of
Danae, the daughter of Acrisius, king of Argos, by Eurydice, who was
confined in a brazen tower because an oracle had said that his daughter’s
son should put him to death.
* * * * *
V—THE PERSIAN STORIES have been selected from a collection translated by
Mr. Edward Rehatsek, and published at Bombay in 1871, under the title of
_Amusing Stories._ They occur in the Persian work, _Mahbúb ul-Kalúb_,
of which some account has been given in connection with the first two
romances in the present volume. The first of these stories, that of the
Three Deceitful Women, is very diverting, and, as I have shown in the
Appendix, has its counterparts in France and Spain. It belongs to the
numerous stories of the Woman’s Wiles cycle, and certainly represents
the ladies in no very amiable character. But as a set-off to this tale
of the depravity of women—the subject of many European mediæval stories
and jests, as well as of Asiatic fictions—we have also stories of the
wickedness of men, such as that of the Envious Vazír and that of the Kází
of Ghazní—“blackguards both”!
HISTORY OF NASSAR.
HISTORY OF NASSAR, THE SON OF KHOJA HUMAYUN, THE MERCHANT OF BAGHDAD.
During the reign of the Abbaside Khalífs there lived in the city of
Baghdád a merchant called Khoja[8] Humáyún, who was very rich, highly
respected, and prosperous in all his dealings. The caravan of his good
fortune had for a long time travelled in the lands of success; the hand
of detriment was never extended towards the skirts of his wealth; nor
did the simúm of loss and misfortune ever blow in the gardens of his
prosperity; so that he passed all his days in the cradle of happiness and
content. One day he happened to repose in a retired part of his mansion
on the couch of gladness, when he beheld suddenly two kites overhead
contending for something. After the Khoja had been looking at them for
some time, he perceived that from the claws of one something was hanging
which the other wanted to snatch away. Whilst he was wondering the
object fell to the ground, and on examining it he found it to be a small
bundle which contained three rubies, a diamond, and four pearls, all of
unequalled beauty and price. The Khoja was at first highly pleased at
this occurrence, and joyfully considered it as an additional sign of his
good fortune, and recited this distich:
Whom prosperity favours,
Jewels rain upon his head.
But, as he was a man of great discernment and experience, he looked at
this affair in another light, on second thoughts, and considered it as
a mystery, which made him uneasy. He had a grown and intelligent son,
called Nassar, whom he privately addressed thus: “My beloved son, it is
well-nigh eighty years since I began to navigate the ocean of life in the
skiff of prosperity, and it has never deserted me, nor have the autumnal
blasts of reverse ever withered the freshness of my affluence. But as
the splendour of every morn of happiness is followed by the darkness and
night of decrease and misfortune, and the leaves of the rosy volume of
comfort are scattered by the whirlwind of distress; and as
Fate has not lit a lamp of content
Which the storm of adversity has not extinguished;
I conclude from this incident that as the humái[9] of my good success
has reached the zenith, the caravan of my prosperity will soon deflect
from the path of my destiny: the ship of my happiness may become wrecked
in the ocean of adversity; and, for all I know, the treasure I possess
may become a prey to the whale of reverse, poverty and misery. This
anticipation may be realised very soon, but as I have spent a life of
happiness and content, and have gratified all the desires of a man, I
wish for nothing more; therefore, if misfortune beset me, I trust I shall
be able patiently to endure its bitterness. But since you have not seen
the ups and downs of life, or experienced any reverse, I do not think it
fitting that you should continue to live with me, and it is in conformity
with the dictates of prudence that you spend some time in travelling; for
wise men have said that travel is a polish which rubs off the rust of
carelessness from the speculum of a man’s mind and a sovereign cure for
inexperience:
Travel lights the lamp of perfection in a man;
When a pearl is taken out of the sea it is appreciated.[10]
In Shíráz, the seat of learning,” continued the Khoja, “I have a friend
named Khayrandísh, who was my companion in several journeys, and to
whom I have done some good. You must go to him and say: ‘I wish you to
surrender to me the deposit my father entrusted you with when you were
companions on the road of Bahrayn.’ After receiving that article from
Khayrandísh, take prudence and caution for your guide and go to the
Maghrabí country,[11] because there is much chance of acquiring worldly
goods there, and no one ever returned from it empty-handed. Consider that
precious object as a means to procure you a livelihood, for by presenting
it to one of the kings or grandees of those parts it will soon ensure
you attention; and I for my part shall make over all I possess to my
relatives and friends, and shall devote myself solely to the worship of
God.”
Nassar made his preparations and departed for Shíráz, the seat of
learning; but he had scarcely proceeded two stages in that direction when
a eunuch in the Khalíf’s service, intending to abscond, had at midnight
absented himself from the royal haram with a casket of jewels which he
had abstracted. He walked with great apprehension through the streets in
search of the dwelling of his accomplice, whence he intended to proceed
farther at the break of day; but as the night was very dark he missed the
house, and, by the decree of Fate, entered the mansion of Khoja Humáyún,
which happened to be open. On looking round he soon discovered his
mistake, so he wandered about the house trying to find his way out, but
the Khoja’s slaves having in the meantime locked the entrance as usual,
he had no alternative but to conceal himself in a corner and there remain
till morning.
But the Khalíf’s treasurer soon discovered that the eunuch had decamped
with the casket, and caused proclamation to be made, that any person
harbouring the culprit should at once hand him over to the police,
failing which his property should be confiscated. The royal officials
made fruitless search all night, but at break of day, when the eunuch
of night had retired and the prince of morn established himself in the
palace of the horizon, one of the attendants of the court, who was a
mortal enemy of Khoja Humáyún, passing his house, perceived the eunuch
and took him before the Khalíf; and, considering this a good opportunity
of avenging himself on his foe, he said: “Khoja Humáyún, who trusted
in his wealth and dignity, has committed this crime by instigating the
eunuch to the deed and afterwards secreting him in his house.” The Khalíf
well knew the Khoja’s loyalty and honesty, had often bestowed favours
upon him, and was aware that such an act was not at all consistent with
his disposition; but as the sun of prosperity, in consequence of the
celestial rotations, had deflected from him and set in the west of
misfortune;[12] and the night of distress was intent on obscuring the
precincts of his comfort and destroying the volume of his happiness with
the scissors of extinction; and as the stratagems of enemies have results
like the bites of snakes and scorpions, the insidious words of the
adversary so inflamed the Khalíf’s wrath that he ordered Khoja Humáyún’s
property to be confiscated, his house razed, and himself expelled from
the city without giving him the least opportunity of uttering a word in
his own defence.
On the same day when the simúm of this catastrophe destroyed Khoja
Humáyún’s rose-garden of prosperity, Nassar’s courser of safety also met
with an accident on his journey. In the vicinity of Shíráz a party of
robbers fell upon him and deprived him of everything he possessed; and,
exchanging the robes of affluence and wealth for poverty and nudity, he
arrived in the city in great distress, and having found the dwelling
of Khayrandísh, he made him acquainted with his father’s injunction.
Khayrandísh received him in the most friendly manner possible, and said:
“Dear youth, I am entirely at your service, and was desirous to be
honoured by a message from your father, whose casket with his seal upon
it is in my charge. But the laws of hospitality require that a guest
who adorns my poor hut with the light of his presence should abide with
me during three days, in order that I may entertain him to the best of
my ability;[13] and this applies especially to you, whose presence I
consider as a great blessing. After the expiration of three days I shall
deliver the deposit into your hands.” To this proposal Nassar agreed, and
Khayrandísh rejoiced him with his amity, and provided him with a very
handsome wardrobe.
When the golden lamp of the glorious sun entered the lantern of the west,
and the amber-haired belle of evening removed the veil from her face,
Khayrandísh placed the best food and drink on the table of intimacy, and
after conversing on various subjects with his guest, he spoke to him
as follows: “Friend, it appears that worldly prosperity has left Khoja
Humáyún, and that he has sent you in pursuit of it; for I have lately had
a fearful dream and was very uneasy about his circumstances. So tell me
now what you intend to do with the deposit.” Nassar acquainted him with
his intention to go to the Maghrabí country, and with the injunctions
of his father. Khayrandísh replied: “As the travellers in the path of
rectitude and probity ought to guide those who wander in the desert of
error and inexperience, and as I am under great obligations to your
father, I consider it my duty to be useful to you. Since you have never
before been from home and have spent all your days in affluence, I fear
you will not be able to perform the journey satisfactorily:
Travel is not easy—its dangers are boundless;
Difficulties accompany it in all directions.
But as divine grace is the escort of all who intend to journey in the
path of trust in God, I leave you to the guardianship of divine mercy to
protect you from all dangers. I shall, however, give you three counsels,
and hope you will profit by them.” Nassar rejoined: “It is the first duty
of young men to listen to the counsels of intelligent and upright men;
therefore speak, for I shall follow them.” Khayrandísh then spake thus:
FIRST ADVICE.
“Though the deceitful bride of the world may look at you from the corner
of her eye, and may try to bias your mind by her coquettish movements,
lose not the reins of self-possession from your hands, because worldly
prosperity is unsubstantial as the mirage, and the honey of its favour
leaves only the bitterness of deception.
Give not thy heart to the love of the world,
For it has destroyed thousands like thee.
When the humái of worldly prosperity spreads its wings over you, covet
not its favours, for it will change at last and regret only will remain.
Be not intent on riches and dignity;
For, like henna, they are not lasting.[14]
Prosperity is fickle, and when it has turned its back, all efforts
to recall it are futile. The favours and frowns of the world are the
harbingers of the caravan of prosperity and adversity, for both depend in
every individual case from the propitious or unpropitious consequences
of the rotation of the stars of the times, and are connected with them
like the sun with shadows;[15] nor can they be altered by the foresight
of Lukman, or by the wisdom of a thousand Platos. And such efforts may
be compared to the vain longings of procuring spring in the depth of
winter, or for the light of day at midnight. Thus all the struggles of
Shah Manssur were fruitless, and he reaped only sorrow from them.” Nassar
asked: “What is the story of Shah Manssur?” Khayrandísh thereupon related
the
_Story of Shah Manssur_.
Once upon a time there was a man called Shah Manssur, from the
neighbourhood of Nishapúr, who lived in affluence, but deceitful fortune
had spread the chess-board of hypocrisy, had mated and abandoned him in
the desert of affliction. After he lost all his property, he sat down in
the lap of misery, and finding all his efforts to better his condition
fruitless, he set out for India. When he arrived in Kabúl he was equally
disappointed, so he went one day into the bazár, hoping to find
employment as a porter. There he waited till evening, and every man found
occupation excepting himself. He began involuntarily to shed tears, and
one of the principal merchants, who was returning home from the palace
of the Amír, saw him, and, concluding that he was suffering from some
wrong done to him, asked him the cause of his distress. Manssur informed
him of his circumstances, upon which the merchant took him to his house,
and next morning told him that as he was in need of an attendant he
might stay until he could find something more to his advantage. Shah
Manssur accordingly entered into the merchant’s service, and gained by
his diligence the approbation of his master, but raised the envy of his
fellow servants and incurred the ill-will of his mistress. One day he
felt somewhat indisposed, and the merchant’s wife sent him some poison
as a medicine,[16] but as his distemper was slight he made no use of the
remedy, and kept it in his pocket. Now the merchant had a little son whom
Shah Manssur was wont to carry about, and who was so much accustomed to
him that whenever he cried Manssur only could quiet him. It so happened
that this day the child would not cease weeping, and Shah Manssur was
obliged to take him into the street, hoping to divert him by looking
at the passers-by. Having a little business to despatch, he set the
child for a moment against a wall, which unfortunately fell and covered
him. Shah Manssur was in despair and made a great outcry, whereupon the
merchant came out and asked him why he made such a noise. He told his
master of the accident, at which the merchant was disconsolate, and
the people flocked from all directions wishing to kill Shah Manssur.
Meanwhile the ruins of the wall were removed, and on the child being
extricated he was found alive and perfectly uninjured. The father and
mother of the child were in an ecstasy of joy at his fortunate escape,
and all the people wondered. Shah Manssur fell on his knees and thanked
the Most High, and everybody rejoiced. A man in the crowd proposed that
a medicine be administered to the child, and Shah Manssur immediately
produced from his pocket that sent to him by the merchant’s wife, and
handed it to his master, but as soon as the child had swallowed it he
fell into convulsions and expired. The child’s parents were in despair,
especially the mother, who threatened to commit suicide if Shah Manssur
were suffered to live, because, as she said, he had poisoned her son.
Hereupon the merchant’s servants tied Manssur to a post, and ill-treated
him so much that he fainted, and was abandoned for dead.
In the evening he began to revive and moaned piteously. The merchant
was an intelligent man and could hardly believe Shah Manssur to have
been so ungrateful as to kill his child deliberately with poison, so
he approached the supposed culprit and besought him to speak the truth.
Manssur said that as he was deeply grateful for the kindness he had
received from his master and greatly attached to the child, the thought
of committing such a crime could not have entered his mind; and that
he had only given to the child a remedy which had been sent to himself
by his mistress when he was slightly indisposed. The merchant at once
perceived his wife’s treachery and was convinced of Shah Manssur’s
innocence; but nevertheless he told him that he could no longer retain
him in his service; so he loosed his bonds and dismissed him. Naked and
wounded, as he was, Shah Manssur walked away and took refuge in the
outskirts of the city with an old woman, at whose house he used to stay
in better times when on his commercial journeys. Having explained to
her his case, she received him kindly and set about curing his wounds.
This old woman had a son who was carrying on an amorous intrigue with a
neighbour’s wife. He happened to be absent on that night at a friend’s
house, but his paramour was ignorant of this, and having waited till her
husband was asleep she hastened to her lover’s house, which she found in
darkness, and mistaking Shah Manssur for him she approached his couch.
The wounded man thought it was his old landlady, and began to thank her
for her kind solicitude. In the meantime the husband of the adulterous
woman had missed her and made his appearance in the old woman’s house.
She had just got up to ascertain the cause of the disturbance, and on
perceiving a man standing with a naked sword at the door, she concluded
he was a thief, and at once ran up to the roof of her house and raised an
alarm, which caused all the people of the district to sally forth with
sticks and swords; but the adulterous woman ran off by way of the river,
which was the shortest, to her house and went instantly to bed. In the
confusion her husband was struck by many stones thrown at him when making
his escape, but at last he arrived home and overwhelmed his wife with
reproaches; she, however, yawned, pretended to awake from sleep, turned
from one side to the other, and asked what was the hour of the night.
But the infuriated husband would not be deceived by this subterfuge, but
vehemently accused her of being unfaithful, and even drew his sword. Upon
this the woman cried aloud: “O Muslims! my husband is killing me!” and
the police officers, who were at that moment returning from the alarm
that had been raised by the old woman, caught the words and ran to the
house, when the husband violently struck one of them with his sword, and
after a brief struggle was taken into custody.
After the woman had thus got rid of her husband the wasps of lust again
stung her, and being anxious to know whether her lover was sick she
once more approached Shah Manssur’s couch, awoke him and began her
overtures. The old woman’s son, who had been at a neighbour’s, hearing of
the disturbance in his mother’s house, went home. On his way, however,
when passing near the dwelling of his paramour, he went in, and finding
the house empty he concluded that she had gone in search of himself. He
was not aware, of course, of Shah Manssur being the guest of his mother,
and when he reached home he lit a candle and went into his room, where
beholding his paramour with a strange man, he exclaimed: “I have got a
curious substitute to-night!” The woman fled in terror, but Shah Manssur
fell into the grasp of the young man. The noise of the struggle again
awoke the old woman, who, as before, thought that thieves had broken
into the house, and ran to the roof of the house and screamed loudly.
Her son, supposing Shah Manssur to be the thief, told her that he had
taken him. The old woman tried in vain to undeceive him; but he, incited
by his jealousy and rage, struck her, on which she raised a great noise,
accusing him of wishing to kill her, till some neighbours came and
dragged him off to prison.
Notwithstanding all that had taken place the adulterous woman could not
rest and again repaired to Shah Manssur, who was this time frightened at
her re-appearance, ascribing to her all the mischief that had happened
during the night, and believing her to be an evil spirit was considering
how he might get rid of her. The old woman’s sister, overhearing the
conversation, approached the door to listen. Meanwhile the imprisoned
husband had bribed his jailor, escaped from custody, and made his
appearance at the old woman’s house, where mistaking her sister for his
own wife he wounded her with his sword. The noise again made the landlady
get up, and in the tumult the faithless wife took to her heels, as did
also her husband, who believed that he had grievously wounded her and
chuckled in his heart at the deed. She was, however, very swift-footed,
and when he reached home he found her again in bed and to all appearance
asleep. Pretending to be just awaking, she asked what he wanted, and he
told her he was greatly astonished to behold her safe and sound after he
had killed her at the old woman’s house. The wife sarcastically remarked
that men are once a-year subject to lunatic influences which affect their
minds. Quoth the man: “Possibly this may be the case with me, as I have
been greatly disturbed in my mind during the last two days; you have done
well to inform me of this.”
When the old woman came out from her house she saw no one except her
sister, who was severely wounded. She was amazed, and said to herself:
“All the tumult and mischief of this night occurred on account of the
presence of this man.” So when it was morning she spoke to Shah Manssur,
saying: “Dear sir, as these misfortunes have happened, my son has been
thrown into prison, and my sister will perchance die of her wound; and
as, moreover, my son is very self-willed and incensed against you, it
will be best for you to remove from this house.” Shah Manssur accordingly
left the place and began with great pains to travel towards Gaznín,
bearing the load of misery on the back of sorrow, and reading the
threnody of his misfortunes.[17]
After some time he was overtaken by a man riding on a camel, who accosted
him and had compassion for his wretched condition. The man informed
him that his name was Baba Fys, that his camel was laden with silk
belonging to Khoja Fyra, the vazír of the Amír of Gaznín, who was of a
very benevolent disposition and would no doubt assist him. He then took
Shah Manssur on his camel, and, dreading the dangers of the night, he
proceeded with great speed. The swift motion and his wounds so distressed
Shah Manssur that he earnestly desired Baba Fys to set him down again,
in order that he might pass the night in tranquility and thus be able to
continue his journey in the morning. But his companion told him that to
stop at such a place was by no means advisable, since in the vicinity
there was a mountain pass to which many animals resorted under the
leadership of a monkey named Paykar, who had plundered many caravans.
By the prayers of the Lord Sulayman, they could now do mischief only
during the night, and therefore they kept the pass obstructed all day,
so that travellers must necessarily hasten through it in the night, but
after that the road was quite safe, and then he might rest himself.
Shah Manssur, however, was in such great distress, and so determined to
alight, that Baba Fys, unwilling to abandon him to his fate, was obliged
to comply with his request. They agreed to sleep and relieve each other
by turns, but had rested only a short time when they perceived a camel
approaching them, ridden by a monkey and guided by a bear. Many other
animals of dreadful aspect also came running and attacked the camel.
Hereupon Baba Fys began to lament, and accused Shah Manssur of having
brought him into all this trouble. This attracted the attention of the
monkey, who made a sign to the wild beasts, which immediately pulled
Baba Fys to the ground, bit off his ears and then retired. This incident
so disconcerted Baba Fys that he was ashamed to continue his journey to
Gaznín, and, after bitterly upbraiding his companion for being the cause
of his mishap, he returned to Kabúl.
Shah Manssur, though wretched and on foot, resumed his journey, and
at last reached Gaznín. As it was winter and the city noted for its
coldness, he strolled about till he came to a bath-house, when he said
to himself: “This is a warm place, so I will spend the night in it.”
Accordingly, saluting the keeper, he walked in. The keeper said: “Young
man, you appear to be a stranger; where do you come from? where are
you travelling to? and what is your occupation?” Manssur replied: “I
am a traveller, and the caravan of misfortunes has brought me to this
country.” The bath-keeper then asked him: “Did you happen to meet on
your way a camel-rider named Baba Fys?” He replied: “We were companions,
but in the desert we were attacked by wild beasts, who bit off his ears,
and therefore he has returned to Kabúl.” On hearing this the heart of
the bath-keeper became hot as a blacksmith’s furnace, seething from the
flames of grief, and he exclaimed: “What more distressing news could you
tell me? He is my brother; the camel was my property; and I borrowed
the price of the silk. I must of necessity go home to-night and consult
my relatives on this affair; and as the vazír, who is the owner of this
bath and is at present sick, intends to come here in the morning, I was
ordered to warm the bath well. Do you therefore put fire into it, and
to-morrow I will pay you for your trouble. Take care, however, to stir up
the fuel from time to time, so that the bath may become properly heated.”
After giving these instructions to Manssur, he departed to his house.
But as Manssur was fatigued and glad to be in a warm place, he soon fell
asleep; and on awaking he found the fire was extinguished, so he got
up, and in his anxiety and inexpertness he stirred the fire so as to
break part of the floor above it, in consequence of which the water in
the reservoir rushed down and completely put out the fire again, at the
same time scalding Manssur, who fled from the place in great fear. When
the vazír arrived at the bath in the morning he began to tremble from
the cold, and his malady so increased that he fainted. His attendants
immediately seized the bath-keeper, who asserted, in excuse, that it was
all the fault of the fireman, who had run away. But the vazír suddenly
dying in consequence of having caught cold, his son gave orders that both
the bath-keeper and the fireman should be put to death.
Manssur, however, had made good his escape from Gaznín, and was
journeying towards Lahore when he fell in with a caravan, of which one of
the merchants engaged him as his servant. As Manssur was well acquainted
with his duties, he diligently guarded his master’s goods, and soon
gained his confidence. When the caravan had entered into one of the
pargannas of Lahore, as all the provisions were exhausted, each merchant
gave his servant a quantity of goods to exchange for victuals. Manssur
bartered the goods he had received from his master very profitably, and
returned with various kinds of provisions before any of his companions,
at which his master was so well pleased that he said to him: “I hear
that there are many wealthy persons in this parganna. Take therefore some
goods of high price and dispose of them, and I will give you half the
profits.” Accordingly, Manssur selected merchandise of nearly the value
of five hundred tománs,[18] which he sold for a thousand and returned.
His master gave him three hundred tománs, saying: “Let this sum be the
capital of your business, which you will in a short time increase and
be thus enabled to return to your own country.” Shah Manssur gratefully
received the merchant’s generous gift, and, having bought suitable goods,
again repaired to the parganna, and hawked them about till he arrived at
the gate of an elegant and magnificent mansion, which he concluded to
be the property of some noble or grandee, and thought the owner might
possibly buy all his stock of merchandise. So he deposited his wares
in the shade of a wall and leaned against it, watching the door of the
house. Presently a maiden resembling a húrí[19] in stature, with the
serenity of the moon in her countenance, and with bewitching eyes, came
out of the house with a pitcher in her hand for the purpose of taking
water from the river; and Shah Manssur thus addressed her: “I am at your
service—
The glances of your eyes are wonderful;
Whoever beholds them is on the top of felicity.”
But the maiden replied:
“This is not the place where every caravan stops;
The lion of every desert is here distrusted.”
Having thus spoken the damsel went her way, leaving Shah Manssur
disappointed. But after a while she returned and inquired of him: “Why
do you stop here?” He answered: “I am waiting on rosy-cheeked ladies,
and my heart is stored with all sorts of services for them.” Quoth the
damsel: “Bring your goods into the house that I may buy them.” So he took
up his wares and followed the girl, who walked very rapidly. They passed
through a corridor with several doors, and arrived in the court-yard of
the mansion, which was a great and lofty edifice of much beauty, having
many apartments elegantly furnished, but untenanted. When he had looked
around and rested himself for a while, he perceived that the maiden had
disappeared. At last he concluded it would be best for him to leave the
place; but as he was roaming from one apartment to another he lost his
way, and finding no way of exit became frightened, yet continued his
search until he reached a hall from the ceiling of which a golden disk
was suspended by chains encrusted with precious stones. On both sides of
the disk small globular bells were dangling, and upon it there was a
phial of glass. The statue of a lion of marble bound in chains occupied
one side of the apartment. While Shah Manssur viewed this scene with
amazement, the same girl entered with a rod in her hand. As he was about
to address her, she exclaimed: “Ha! madman, you have walked into the trap
at last!” and struck the lion so that he began to roar, and the disk,
the chains, and the little bells shook and jingled, accompanied by great
noises, shoutings, and lamentations, which terrified Shah Manssur, who
anxiously wished to make his escape. Meanwhile the phial on the disk
emitted a green substance mingled with flames, which ascended into the
air and filled the apartment with darkness: Shah Manssur almost fainted;
and when the smoke and the flame had subsided, a viper lifted its head
out of the phial, from which it finally emerged and entered the mouth of
the lion. Soon after this the lion sneezed, and from his brains a spider
escaped, which gradually increased in size until it became as large as a
sheep; when it made a still greater effort its skin burst, from which an
old hag of miserable aspect, dreadful as a goblin and ugly as a satyr,
came forth, embraced Shah Manssur very ardently, kissed him, and emitted
from her cadaverous mouth a disgusting liquid which covered his face. Her
putrid breath was like burning sulphur, and made him cough and almost
give up the ghost. This dreadful hag, however, doubled her caresses, and
would not leave him until he fainted away. When he came to his senses
he cried out piteously: “O most gracious lady, deliver me from this
calamity!” But she replied: “Your request cannot be gratified;” and then,
giving him a substance to smell at, he again became unconscious.
Thus Shah Manssur continued during nearly forty days in the grasp
of misfortune. The wretched hag made her appearance once every day,
tormenting him, and causing him to faint for the gratification of her
wicked lust. One day, however, when she was about the same business,
she pulled out a mirror from her pocket and looking into it with great
consternation, was suddenly transformed into a spider, crawled into the
mouth of the lion, whence she again issued in the form of a serpent,
ascended to the disk and disappeared in the phial. Then Shah Manssur
went into the court-yard and tried whether he could escape from the
place. There the girl met him and said: “I am astonished that she has
not thrown you into a trance;” upon which Manssur told her all that had
occurred, and the girl said: “She has a foe in Jábolká, whose machination
she learns from that mirror, because whenever he attempts to ruin this
wicked fairy his figure appears in it, and the accursed one departs
to combat him.” Then exclaimed Shah Manssur bitterly: “O cruel and
merciless woman! the torments which I have suffered in this house are the
consequences of my having by your coquetry been decoyed into it; and now
perhaps you will be compassionate enough to let me depart.” The damsel
replied: “Young man, I have, like yourself, been caught in this shoreless
whirlpool, and have been made the instrument of alluring poor victims,
whom she was in the habit of using for the gratification of her wicked
desires and afterwards destroying. Whenever I disobeyed her she punished
me severely. Her name is Hennána the Witch, and she is a descendant of
the sorcerers of the time of Kolyas, whom the accursed Pharaoh sent
against the Lord Moses (salutation to him).[20] This iniquitous wretch
keeps a similar establishment in Hindústán: she is able, like the wind,
to transport herself in a moment from the eastern to the western parts of
the world, and to carry the flames of misfortune to all places.”
Shah Manssur then asked the girl: “How did you fall into her power?” She
replied: “Know that my father is the chief of Agra and is possessed of
great wealth. He had betrothed me to my cousin, who set out for Banáres
to procure the paraphernalia of the wedding ceremony; and when the report
of my beauty and other qualities had spread through that city, the Amír
verified it, was desirous to marry me, and said to my relatives: ‘I
have heard that you have a beautiful girl, and I wish to take her for
a wife.’ My father and my relatives consented; but as I was deeply in
love with my uncle’s son, I became very indignant and exclaimed: ‘To
how many men will you give your daughter? It is many years since you
betrothed me to my cousin, and though he is absent at Banáres for the
purpose of procuring the things needful for a household, I consider
myself as under his protection, and shall never accept of another husband
as long as I am alive. Do not try to force me, for I would rather commit
suicide.’ This resolute declaration had the effect I desired, and, after
holding a consultation with our relatives, my father determined that we
should all flee to Banáres. I was dressed in male garments, and when
night approached was taken out of the city and given in charge of two
confidential servants who were to explain everything to my cousin, and
we began our journey on fleet Arab steeds. After we had travelled for
three days a fearful wind and thunderstorm overtook us in the desert,
during which I became separated from my escort and was left alone. As
I was roaming about I arrived at a green spot where I discovered a
fountain, and feeling thirsty I alighted from my horse, which at once
took to flight, and in my vain pursuit of it I chanced to meet an old
woman who was weeping piteously and crying aloud: ‘O unhappy fate! have
you at last in my old age and weakness thrown me into such a state that
I must become the prey of wild beasts? Would to God some friend could
take me by the hand and deliver me from this danger!’ I came forward and
said: ‘Old woman, what has happened to you?’ She answered: ‘I was going
on a pilgrimage to Makka, and when our caravan entered this desert it
was plundered by robbers. Here have I been for two days without a morsel
of food. Young man, have pity on my age and helplessness; deliver me
from this calamity, and convey me to a place of security, that you may
be rewarded for your good act.’ I had compassion on the wretched old
woman and was considering what I could do for her, when she handed me
an apple, of which I had no sooner eaten a small piece than I sneezed
and fainted; nor was I sensible of aught until I again opened my eyes
and found myself in this place with that accursed witch. When she saw me
pale and frightened, she exclaimed: ‘Let nothing dismay you, for your
life is not in danger from me;’ and thinking I was a man, she commenced
to fondle me, but I soon undeceived her. Since that time four years have
elapsed, during which, being myself miserable, I was compelled to entice
helpless men into her snares. Nevertheless, one day I conceived that I
might escape and secretly left the house, but I was instantly transformed
into a she-dog, and was pursued by all the dogs in the town, so that I
was again obliged to return to this place. But now I shall propose to
you a means of escape, on condition that you convey me in safety to my
friends.” Shah Manssur eagerly replied: “I promise to do whatever you
require of me,” and the girl went on to say: “When the phial is broken
the witch must die; request her therefore to give you tidings concerning
your family, and as soon as she disappears you must strike the phial with
a stone so as to break it.”[21]
Whilst they were conversing they perceived the accursed hag approaching.
So the maiden left the apartment; and when the witch saw Shah Manssur
weeping she asked him the reason, to which he answered: “It is now a long
time since I was separated from my country, and I have had a fearful
dream which afflicts me sorely.” Quoth the hag: “Be not distressed;
I shall instantly give you information regarding your relatives;” so
saying, she went to the phial, disappeared and quickly returned, and
minutely described to him the dwelling as well as the condition of his
parents and relatives. Manssur was astonished at the accuracy of her
description, but, dissembling, said to her: “I cannot believe all this,
because my country is far distant and you have returned in half a minute.
Unless you bring me a token that you have really been there I cannot
trust you.” Quoth the witch: “What kind of token do you desire?” Manssur
replied: “In the garden of our house is a tree on which I once climbed,
when a portion of my belt was torn off, which I tied to a branch. If you
bring me a rag of the belt I shall then believe you.” When he had said
this the witch went again to the phial, and, as before, disappeared.
This time the girl brought Shah Manssur a stone; he invoked the aid of
God the Most High, and striking the phial, it flew into pieces. Then the
lion roared, the chains clanked, the little bells jingled, a fearful
noise was heard, some blood dripped from the ceiling of the apartment
to the ground, and the magical apparatus, the furniture, the chambers,
and the entire edifice vanished, leaving Shah Manssur and the maiden
standing together in a cemetery, and both poured forth their thanks to
the Most High. Then the girl said: “My dear friend, from hence to Agra
is ten days’ journey;” and handing him some costly pearls she added,
“try to convey me quickly to my parents, and buy with these pearls all
that is necessary for me on the way.” Shah Manssur purchased a camel
with a litter and a slave for the damsel, and sent her off to her own
country, after which he set out on foot, and in a destitute condition,
for Burhanpúr.
When Shah Manssur arrived at his destination he heard that the Amír of
Burhanpúr, while hunting, had lost a precious gem from the hilt of his
sword, and had issued an order that all the citizens should go next
morning to the hunting ground in search of it. So rich and poor, gentle
and simple, left the city and roamed about. Shah Manssur joined the
crowd, and was fortunate enough to find the lost gem. On presenting it
to the Amír he was highly pleased, praised him greatly, and questioned
him as to his connections and circumstances; after which he gave him in
charge of one of his chamberlains to provide for him as soon as possible.
It happened, however, that the Amír died suddenly, and the reward
promised to Manssur came to nothing.
The son of the Amír succeeded his father. One day a merchant presented
him with a parrot that could speak with great eloquence, and the new Amír
entrusted it to the care of the chamberlain, who took the bird home,
and having sent for Manssur said to him: “Take the utmost care of this
parrot, for it may become the means of introducing you to the Amír, and
of your obtaining the reward which his father promised you.”[22] Manssur
took charge of the bird and carried it away; but when he got into the
street the people were all so anxious to see it and pressed so much upon
him that he thought it would be better to take the parrot out of the cage
and carry it in his hand. But unluckily it escaped from his grasp and
flew to the top of the chamberlain’s haram. Manssur had great trouble in
climbing the wall, and just as he had succeeded the parrot again flitted
away and alighted on the roof of one of the haram apartments. Shah
Manssur was so frightened that he said nothing to the eunuch and other
servants, but threw up a cord, by means of which he contrived to reach
the spot; but once more the parrot started off, and in so doing moved
a tile which fell on the head of the chief lady of the chamberlain’s
haram and killed her there and then. The eunuchs and maid-servants, on
discovering this fatal mishap, raised their voices in lamentation, which
caused the chamberlain to leave his office and run into the haram, where
he found everyone in a state of great agitation, and Shah Manssur a
captive in the hands of the eunuchs, and he at once ordered the culprit
to be beaten and thrown into prison, where the poor fellow was kept for
some time and tormented every day until he found a favourable opportunity
and escaped.
Shah Manssur fled to Guzerat, where he wandered about in great distress,
sometimes hiring himself out as a labourer and sometimes as a porter.
One day, when he was unable to obtain either food or employment, he
determined to sell the ring with which the neighbour’s wife had presented
him.[23] He was chiefly induced to take this step by sniffing the
appetising fumes of roast meat in passing a cook’s shop, the owner of
which he approached, and requesting something to eat offered the ring in
pledge for the price. But when the cook looked at the ruby set in the
beazle and then at the poverty-stricken figure of Shah Manssur, he felt
sure that he could not be the lawful possessor of such a gem but must
have stolen it, and that, not knowing its real value, he was ready to
part with it for a meal. Now it chanced that during the preceding night
some thieves had broken into the treasury of the Amír and stolen a great
quantity of gold, silver, precious stones, and valuables of all kinds;
and this audacious robbery had become known throughout the city and the
police were busy searching the bazárs and private houses for the thieves.
So the cook said to Shah Manssur: “Friend, you do not look like the owner
of such a ring as this;—come, tell me where you got it?” “What business
have you thus to question me?” replied Manssur. “Either give me something
to eat or return me the ring.” These words gave rise to a dispute, which
culminated in a fight, wherein the neighbours took the part of the cook,
and on the arrival of the police on the scene they took the ring from
the cook, and thinking it to be one of the articles stolen from the
treasury they dragged Shah Manssur before their superintendent, and
reported that they had recovered a portion of the stolen treasure and
captured the thief.
It happened that a notorious robber named Obayd was at that time, with
forty companions, carrying on great depredations which the police were
unable to prevent, and his fame had so widely spread through Hindústán
that day and night no one could breathe in peace. It is even said that a
few days before the robbery of the Amír’s treasury Obayd sent a message
to the police superintendent, to be on his guard, as he was coming.
Consequently, when the superintendent saw Manssur he supposed him to be
Obayd, loaded him with heavy chains, and sent him to the Amír, together
with the ring, for the purpose of ingratiating himself and displaying
his zeal in the service. But when the Amír looked at Shah Manssur, he
said: “I have always heard that Obayd is a powerful and strong man; this
fellow is weak and looks like an arrant coward: he may possibly be an
accomplice, but he cannot be Obayd himself.” The superintendent, however,
replied: “May your highness live for ever! This man, who seems so feeble,
is strong and bold, and so nimble that he can jump through a finger-ring.
But now that he has been captured by me his powerful limbs have shrunk
together from fear; and I shall put him to the torture forthwith to
compel him to tell the truth.” Said the Amír to Shah Manssur: “Who are
you? and whence have you obtained this ruby?” He replied, “May the Amír
live long! I am a stranger, and the ring is my own property. I have come
to this country on account of the great name and the good report which I
have heard of the Amír. I have fallen into the hands of the police, but I
have no knowledge at all of the robbery of your highness’ treasury.” The
apparatus of torture was then brought, and Shah Manssur, being suspended
by the heels of punishment, forgot in his misery the name of Obayd and
said, “I am Zubayr, and have robbed the treasury.” Now there was a famous
robber of the name of Zubayr, so the Amír believed the poor fellow’s
statement and remarked: “He may be Zubayr.” The superintendent said to
his men: “Take good care of this man to-night, and in the morning we
shall again examine him.” Accordingly they took Manssur to prison, all
believing him to be the robber Zubayr. On the way all the people who had
been robbed by Zubayr rushed up to Manssur and demanded their property;
but the superintendent said: “Do not be uneasy. I shall get back to the
last farthing everything he has taken from you.”
When night set in special watchmen were appointed to guard the prison,
and vaunting their own bravery and fidelity, they took charge of the four
corners thereof. Shah Manssur was unable to sleep, and was thinking how
the morning would dawn on his innocent head, when he heard sounds of
striking and digging. It was midnight, and he hearkened to the sounds
with fear and trembling, till suddenly the wall opened, from which a hand
grasping a sword protruded, at which Manssur became so terrified that he
nearly fainted, for he weened it was a man belonging to the police. A
voice, however, exclaimed: “Friend, be not afraid. I have come to save
you. We have no time to lose in explanations;” and with these words a
strong man seized Shah Manssur with his fetters and chains, carried him
out of the prison, let him down the wall of the fort by a rope, and
conveyed him quickly to a ruin at a distance of nearly three farasangs.
When he arrived there he placed Manssur on his feet, and raising a
great stone which covered the entrance to an underground chamber, they
descended into it, and there he set poor Manssur free from his heavy
bonds, after which he thus addressed him: “Young man, be comfortable and
rest yourself, for I know you have suffered much.” Then placing before
him different kinds of delicious food, he added: “Eat cheerfully, for
your misfortunes are now ended.”
After Shah Manssur had eaten he went to sleep; and when he awoke he spoke
thus to his deliverer: “Generous and kind man, although honesty radiates
from your august countenance and I feel happy in your company, yet, as
it is my fate to wander in the desert of grief and to fall perpetually
from one calamity to another, you would greatly relieve my apprehensions
by informing me of the motives of your kind act.” The man replied: “I
am the robber of the Amír’s treasury! But when I learned that you, an
innocent man, had been imprisoned in my stead, I considered it my duty
to liberate you, and for that purpose I have been obliged to kill many
of the watchmen. To-morrow, when everything becomes known, there will
be great excitement and the police will be in pursuit of me. This is a
secure refuge where no one can discover you; and when the storm is over I
shall find means to convey you out of all danger.” Shah Manssur replied
by expressing his deep feeling of gratitude to his deliverer.
Next morning at sun-rise the superintendent was informed that a number of
watchmen had been killed and that Zubayr had been carried off through an
opening in the wall. At this unpleasant news he was much disconcerted,
and ran at once to the palace to make his report. The Amír was furious
and exclaimed: “You rascal! is this how you have taken care of your
prisoner? This comes only through your gross negligence. I shall hear
none of your excuses. Produce the man, else I shall punish you and
ignominiously expel you from my service.”
When the people of the town learned what had happened, all who had been
plundered by Zubayr accused the superintendent of having connived at the
prisoner’s escape and clamoured for the restitution of their property.
So he asked for a month’s respite and despatched three thousand men in
search of the robber. But after vainly searching in all directions they
returned, and those who had been robbed confiscated the superintendent’s
property, and the Amír expelled him from the city.
Meanwhile the deliverer of Shah Manssur kept him company during the day
and went forth at night in order to ascertain what was going on in the
city; and when he heard of the superintendent’s downfall he hastened
back and said to Manssur: “Praise be to God! the danger is over, and it
is time for me to send you to your own country.” But quoth Shah Manssur:
“Dear friend, I have a difficulty which I wish you to solve for me.”
Said the man: “Speak.” Shah Manssur continued: “Since I have had the
pleasure of your acquaintance, I have discovered nothing improper in your
character; but it is utterly incomprehensible to me how you, who are
endowed with such noble sentiments, can have selected the occupation of a
robber.” His liberator answered:
“My occupation was formerly quite different. Know that my name is Junayd
Muhtashim, and I am a scion of a noble and opulent family. In this
neighbourhood there is a tract of country with flowing rivers, spacious
meadows, fertile lands, many houses and numberless gardens. All that
district belonged to me and was inhabited by my retainers and servants,
and I cheerfully paid all taxes to the Amír, who was for many years
my friend. In course of time, however, the exactions of the government
officials became very heavy; judges, tax-gatherers, and accountants were
sent to me whose rapacity it was difficult to satisfy, and I became
greatly distressed. I repeatedly made complaints to the Amír, and
endeavoured to convince him that he could be powerful only so long as he
treated his subjects with justice, and that oppression could result in
nothing but unhappiness and confusion. But all my advice proved futile,
and when his delegates came again I took refuge in a fort and answered
therefrom. After several days had passed in this way, I heard that it was
the intention of the Amír to plunder me, so I conveyed all my moveable
property into the stronghold and prepared to stand a siege. When the Amír
became aware that he could not very easily get at me, he seized the sheep
and cattle which I possessed outside of the city, and ultimately I was
able to take refuge with my retainers in Hyderábád, whither some persons
came and bought of me all the landed property I had in Guzerat; but as
I could in no other way recover the value of the goods and cattle which
the Amír had forcibly taken from me, I secretly returned to Guzerat to
pay myself from his own treasury or in any other way, and no one has been
able to interfere with me.[24] But you, my friend, must no longer remain
in this place. I have a courser, swift like lightning, to whom fifty
farasangs are an easy stage: mount and ride on him to Hyderábád, where I
shall induce my friends to send you comfortably to Nishapúr.”
Having written a few words to his relatives, explained to Shah Manssur
the position of his house, and presented him with a costly diamond, he
took affectionate leave of him, wished him God-speed, led him out of
the underground apartment, and said: “Wait a moment till I bring you
a horse.” He presently returned with a steed, which when Manssur had
mounted, “This courser,” said his deliverer, “well knows the road, and
when you reach Hyderábád you must throw the reins on his neck, and he
will carry you without fail to the threshold of my house;” so saying, he
led him on to the highway and again bade him farewell.
Shah Manssur prosecuted his journey with great rapidity till he arrived
at Hyderábád, and remembering the injunctions he had received, allowed
the horse to go where it pleased. Thus he rode through the streets till
suddenly a man recognised the horse, and proceeding to Junayd’s house
intimated that a stranger was coming mounted on his horse. Some of
Junayd’s relatives at once went out and asked Shah Manssur where he got
the animal he bestrode. He replied: “The horse is my own, and you have
no right to question me.” These words so incensed the people that they
instantly surrounded him and pulled him off the horse, saying: “This
animal belongs to us. Come—tell us the truth as to how you obtained
it.” Shah Manssur, believing them to be a pack of rascals who wished to
deprive him of the horse, began to use insulting language towards them.
By this time a great number of people had gathered round the horse and
they cried out: “We know this animal: it belongs to Junayd, and these
are his relatives. You must produce some token of your honesty.” As soon
as Manssur learned that these were the friends of Junayd he began to
fumble in his pocket for the letter he had received from him, but could
not find it—on the road he had lost both the letter and the diamond; so
all his assertions that the horse had been given to him by the owner
were discredited. They declared to him plainly that he had either
killed Junayd or robbed him; and then they beat Manssur most cruelly
and imprisoned him until the matter could be cleared up. He was kept in
confinement till one of his accusers fell dangerously ill, and tormented
by the stings of his conscience, when he was set at liberty.
Shah Manssur now reflected: “My remaining in Hindústán is of no use, for
calamities dog me at every step. Alas for the time which I have lost
in roaming about in this country! It were better that I should return
home, and if the Most High please, he can make me happy and cause me to
prosper there.” A caravan was proceeding from Hyderábád to Irán,[25]
and Manssur, sad and disappointed, travelled along with it. On reaching
the outskirts of Nishapúr, he said to himself: “To make my appearance in
this destitute and miserable condition, after a journey from Hindústán,
would distress my friends and cause my enemies to rejoice. Therefore I
will remain here until nightfall and then enter the town and go to my
friends.” He took refuge in a dilapidated building, where he mourned
and wept over his sad fate. After a while an owl flew in, pursued by an
eagle, and sought protection of Shah Manssur, who took up a stone to
throw at the eagle. The stone, however, struck the wall and displaced
a brick, when a quantity of gold ashrafís[26] fell to the ground. Shah
Manssur ran to the place and there found a pot full of gold and silver.
He stuffed his pockets with gold coins and then concealed the pot in
an obscure corner of the ruin, fervently thanking God for this happy
termination of his travels and misfortunes.[27]
He remained in the ruin all night, and in the morning he did not
enter Nishapúr but went to Kazvyn, where he took an apartment in the
caravanserai, changed his habiliments, and bought a large quantity of
the finest merchandise, a string of camels, and three slaves, and made
his entrance into Nishapúr rejoicing. He was most kindly received by his
relatives and friends, and in course of time he removed the whole of the
treasure from the ruin to his own house. Thus he lived in comfort and
prosperity, made several journeys to the country of Rúm and to that of
the Franks,[28] by which he obtained large profits, so that he finally
became the owner of seven hundred strings of valuable camels.
One day when he was sitting with his friends and relating his unhappy
adventures in Hindústán, he mentioned also the affair of the witch, and
asked whether they had seen her about the place. They replied: “We were
sitting together one day in this very house, when a strange cat made its
appearance, looked at each of us attentively, and instantly vanished. Not
long afterwards it came again, ran with great speed up yonder tree, and
immediately falling down, seemed to be in the agony of death, but when we
went up to the animal it had already expired.” Quoth Shah Manssur: “That
was the same witch whose captive I had been for some time, until at last
I contrived to send her here and escape;” and at this explanation they
were greatly amazed.[29]
Shah Manssur once took a large quantity of merchandise, with many
attendants, to the country of Tabríz, which was at that time under the
Turkish government. He waited on the Amír of Tabríz, associated with him,
and so gained his favour that he made him his vazír; and when the Amír
died, the citizens, being pleased with the kind and just disposition of
Shah Manssur in his capacity of vazír, petitioned the sultan to make him
Amír, a request which was readily granted, and Shah Manssur governed in
Tabríz for many years until he died.
* * * * *
“My dear Nassar,” continued Khayrandísh, “I have related this narrative
to make you understand that a man cannot attain the object of his desires
by irregular wanderings and inordinate appetites; but if he be patient he
will succeed. The world is a coquette, and the more she is courted the
more coy and prudish she becomes, but if left unnoticed she will try to
gain our favours.”
SECOND ADVICE.
“It is necessary to guard oneself from the wiles and snares of our
fellow-beings, and not to trust implicitly in persons whose character is
neither known nor tried. Whoever walks among thorns must do so with great
care and precaution. This world resembles a picture-gallery with many
apartments, each of which has its own peculiar attractions; but a man who
should spend all his time in the contemplation and enjoyment thereof,
to the neglect and disregard of his daily avocations, would injure his
own interests. Therefore he is prudent who runs not after every fleeting
illusion, but bridles his desires lest he be disappointed and rendered
unhappy, like the geomancer, the washerman, and the painter, who lost
control of their passions and were drowned in the ocean of misfortunes
and errors, grieving over their troubles, which they were unable to
remedy.” Then Khayrandísh told Nassar the
_Story of Hatim Taï and the Benevolent Lady_.
It is related that when Hatim Taï[30] was dispensing his bounty one day
in a hall which had forty doors, by every one of which the destitute
might be admitted, a darvesh entered and thus addressed him: “O vernal
cloud of liberality! the mead of hope expects to be irrigated by you. O
husbandman of the field of beneficence, the aspirants to your favours are
in attendance to receive your refreshing showers, and this gleaner from
the store-houses of your bounty was by the guide of hope directed to the
prosperous mansion of your generosity!
Bestow gifts, O noble individual,
For liberality is the lamp in the assembly of Faith.
Whoever gives a dirham to a mendicant
Is favourably regarded by God.
The umbrella of victory, in both worlds,
Overshadows the glorious heads of the liberal.”
Hatim ordered one hundred dínars[31] to be given to the darvesh, who
again entered by another door and reiterated his petition, and again
obtained one hundred dínars. Thus he repeated his request until he had
come in by all the forty doors, and had obtained the same sum at each of
them. After that he reappeared at the first door and proffered the same
request, upon which an attendant said to him: “Darvesh, you have made
the round of all the entrances and were disappointed at none. How is it
that your greediness is not yet satisfied, and that you have exposed
yourself to a refusal?” The darvesh heaved a deep sigh and replied: “The
fame of Hatim, which extends over the whole world, has induced me to
travel from China to this place. But in that country there is a lady more
liberal than he, inasmuch as her largesses surpass the most extravagant
expectations of those who receive them, so that a hundred Hatims could
not equal in many years the sums which she disburses in one day.” When
the darvesh had thus spoken he disappeared, and Hatim became desirous of
ascertaining the truth of his statement, so he departed for China, and,
arrived there, considering how he might accomplish his object, he walked
about the streets.
He perceived great crowds of people hastening away and inquired the
reason, when a man answered: “In this city there was a man of the name
of Nassar-ullah, who possessed immense riches. He left a daughter who
distributes in great profusion—and has done so for several years—money
to all persons. If you wish to know whether I speak the truth, you have
only to follow the crowd.” Accordingly Hatim went along with the people,
and arrived at a beautiful palace where servants dressed in rich garments
received everyone who wished to enter. Within the palace Hatim saw a
large assembly reposing on silken couches, with tables before them on
which the finest dainties were placed in rich variety and abundance.
After the repast was over a confidential servant appeared with a platter
full of pieces of paper on which different sums were written; and to
every person who was about to depart he handed one of those papers. When
Hatim’s turn came he also received one, and the assembly broke up. As the
people arrived at the gate each man handed his paper to a servant, who
gave him in return a bag full of gold according to the amount specified
on the little ticket. Hatim was so much astonished at what he had seen
that he was constantly thinking of the immense riches of the lady, and
was extremely anxious to obtain an interview with her. So he requested
a chamberlain to procure him the honour of an audience, and on being
admitted into the presence of that queen he addressed her as follows:
“Most exalted lady of the mansions of liberality, and húrí of the castles
of felicity!
May the rose of your nature constantly
Be blooming joyfully in the spring of generosity!
The hand of your liberality, beauteous fairy,
Is shedding jewels like the vernal cloud.
Your servant has a difficulty,
Which causes him great anxiety:
If you grant my petition,
I shall humbly explain it.”
That idol of high prosperity gave permission, and Hatim spake thus: “I
hear that the stream of your extraordinary liberality has for several
years flowed with undiminished vigour, and I am curious to know how you
obtained such enormous wealth.” Quoth the lady: “Every assembly receives
light from its lamp, and the destiny of every individual is traced out
on his forehead by the hand of divine providence.
Love was the bulbul’s, and beauty the rose’s share;
Liberal persons are the treasurers of the mercy of God.
The state of my affairs is connected with a tale which I shall
communicate to you on two conditions: First, I am informed that at
present there exists a man of the name of Hatim, whose liberality is so
far famed that in spite of my having for a number of years made it my
business to grant to all persons the richest and most abundant gifts,
my name is not even heard of except in this country; therefore I am so
jealous of Hatim that I wish you to kill him. Secondly, I have heard that
in the neighbourhood of Khatá there is an exceedingly high mountain, in a
cave of which a blind man has dwelt for many years, who never utters any
words save these:
‘If you possess one barley-corn of justice,
You will never have half a grain of sorrow,’
and I desire to know his reason for constantly repeating these words.”
Hatim drew the finger of acquiescence over the face of content, took
his leave, and set out for the cave indicated by the lady. There he
found a blind man, whom he requested to relate his adventures. But the
blind man replied: “My good friend, what can have instigated you to make
such a request? I have no doubt that your mind is often exercised with
problems which you cannot solve; and I pray you to consider this question
as one of them.” Hatim, however, went on to say: “Persons of a kindly
disposition generally comply with the requests of the importunate, and I
hope you will not allow me to depart from this place without affording me
the desired information.” Then quoth the blind man: “I shall withdraw the
veil from the surface of the mystery on one condition: It is long since
I heard that there is a washerman in Khatá who goes every morning to the
bank of the river and does nothing but look at a tree which is there,
leap about like a madman, sigh deeply, and repeat these verses:
‘Alas, that your picture has left my sight,
And left my golden chalice empty of the wine of joy!
It is the wish of my heart that once more I may meet her.’
Now, my good friend, if you acquaint me with the story of that washerman,
I shall have no objection to relate to you my own history.”
Accordingly Hatim proceeded in quest of the washerman, and finding the
blind man’s account of him perfectly accurate, he was not a little
astonished at his actions and said to him: “Friend, if you would kindly
inform me why you act in this strange manner, I might be able to help
you in your troubles and perhaps liberate you from your affliction.” But
the washerman sighed and only said in reply: “The wound of my heart no
medicine can heal, nor can any advice help me. I am incurable, and the
grief of my heart would only be augmented were I to reveal it.
I had better hide my sorrow from empirics;
Perchance the divine mercy will cure my grief.”
Quoth Hatim: “Young man, stand not on ceremony with me, for I shall not
quit hold of your skirt until you have told me your adventures.” Then
said the washerman: “I also have a great curiosity regarding a certain
matter, and if you will satisfy it I shall relate to you my story. Know
that in Máchin there is a man who paints on a board, during the whole
year, a picture of the handsomest kind, which he sells in the bazár
at the end of the year for a thousand dínars, and then returns the
money and breaks his picture to pieces. I wish to learn the reason of
this proceeding.” “Alas, and woe is me!” exclaimed Hatim. “Into what a
labyrinth of troubles have I fallen, to be thus required to solve one
enigma after another!” He had, however, no alternative but to go to the
city of Máchin, and it so chanced that he arrived there at the time when
the painter had brought his picture to the bazár and was surrounded by
such a great crowd of people that Hatim could only get near him as a
bidder, and assisted at the sale until the painter broke his picture and
gathered up the fragments, when the crowd dispersed with exclamations of
regret. Hatim then visited the painter and addressed him, saying: “Young
man, what is your opinion regarding hospitality?” In reply the painter
recited these verses:
“A guest is a flower from the garden of prosperity and mercy;
He is the fruit of the spring of happiness.
Whoever is inhospitable injures his own soul.”
He received Hatim in a very friendly manner, and inquired of him: “To
what circumstance may I ascribe the happiness of being visited by you?”
Quoth Hatim: “The mysterious force which attracts kindred spirits to each
other has made me trespass on your retirement.” After an interchange
of courtesies they became quite intimate, and Hatim, anxious to attain
his object, said to the painter: “Dear friend, I conjure you, by the
obligations which you have already conferred on me, to explain the cause
of what I have witnessed this day,” and he thus complied:
_The Painter’s Story_.
In former times, when the refreshing clouds of youth and strength watered
the grove of my life, I decked out my imagination with the variegated
robes of pleasure, and during the greater portion of that period the buds
of all kinds of desires blossomed, and the ardent longings to embrace the
fairy of enjoyment took possession of my heart. I had a delightful garden
in which I walked about one day according to my usual custom, when I
beheld two serpents fighting. One was black, the other white; the latter
seemed to be the weaker and about to succumb to its antagonist; and,
as every one who removes a thorn from the path of a bare-footed person
performs a good action, I drew my scymetar and struck off the head of
the black serpent. That very moment the sky became darkened, something
roared in the air, a phial fell to the earth and was shattered to pieces,
at the same time the white serpent disappeared. I was astonished at
what had taken place, but again returned to the garden next day to walk
about in it. In passing near the bank of a river I observed a white hand
protruding from the water, each finger of which was adorned with a ring
set with precious stones of a brilliancy never before seen by the eyes of
man. The desire of possessing such gems incited me to seize one of the
fingers, when the hand drew me instantly into the river, and on opening
my eyes I found myself in a garden like Paradise, full of the most
beautiful flowers and trees. When I had recovered from my confusion and
astonishment I began to stroll about that spacious garden until I reached
a splendid building, which I entered, and discovered a person seated on a
throne surrounded by attendants. I approached and humbly saluted him; he
received me kindly, called me nearer, and said: “I am surprised to behold
you in this place.” To which I answered: “May it please your exalted
majesty, I have not intruded, but was forced to come into this region,”
and I explained the whole affair. Then quoth he: “On account of the
benefit you have conferred on our family, we were extremely anxious to
see you.” On hearing these words I began to consider to what nation this
man might belong, and what good service I could possibly have rendered
him, when he proceeded to say: “I know that you are thinking of me. My
name is Zayn al-Mafakhir. From Ma-varannahr, which is inhabited by men,
the country as far as China is in my power; and, except my ancestors,
none of the fairies or genii can enter it. I am obeyed by more than
thirty thousand genii and fairies. I have a daughter called Subayha, who
is innocent and beautiful. One of the chief genii had fallen in love with
her and wished to marry her, and with this object had sent a messenger to
enter into negotiations; but, as enmity and strife existed between us, I
refused to have anything to do with him. This so incensed the suitor that
he despatched a genie to steal my daughter; but my spies having informed
me of his proceedings, I constantly watched the girl. She was, however,
wont to visit your garden, and two days ago she happened to be there when
Jarbua assumed the form of a black serpent, and had almost effected his
purpose when you passed by and killed him. Subayha told me of this, and I
resolved to make you her husband.”
When the maiden was shown to me, her bewitching eye at once captured
the fawn of the repose of my heart; and on beholding the extraordinary
attractions of her person I fell ardently in love with her; and Zayn
al-Mafakhir said: “Subayha belongs to you. But, as the nature of a
fairy is entirely different from that of a human being, you must never
contradict or irritate her, but obey her in all things, lest the
thread of your affection be snapped in twain.” I promised to follow
these injunctions most faithfully; married Subayha; obtained all the
necessaries for housekeeping; and Zayn al-Mafakhir went to reside in
another place, leaving his palace with all its furniture and servants for
our use. In due course my wife gave birth to a son, and at the moment a
wolf appeared, to whom she threw the infant, and he walked off with it.
On seeing this act of cruelty my heart was sorely grieved for my child,
but on account of my promise I could not say anything, and renewed my
intimacy with her. After this we had three more children, two of whom
she threw to wolves and the third into the fire; and each time I was
overwhelmed with sorrow, until one day, when a grandee of that region
sent me some rich food, and I was just about to begin to eat it with
perfect zest when my wife dashed it from me, at which patience forsook
me, and I said to her: “Darling, in every thing my only desire is to
please you, and I have never failed in my duty towards you. But what gave
occasion for your unkindness? Three of my children you have given to
wolves, the fourth you have cast into the fire, and sorrow for their loss
had well-nigh killed me, though I did not complain to you; and now you
have thrown away the most delicious food. Surely these are all tokens of
your displeasure and even hatred!” The fuel of these words set the oven
of the lady’s anger in a blaze, and she exclaimed:
“To expect fidelity from a weak man
Is like mistaking a drop of water for a pearl.
Young man, on the day of our union you promised not to ask the reason of
anything I should do. The children whom you thought I had given to wolves
and thrown into the fire were simply delivered to their nurses, and all
are alive and well.” Hereupon she showed me our four children, who were
extremely beautiful. Then she continued: “The food which I threw away had
been poisoned by a malevolent genie, and had you eaten of it you would
have immediately perished. But now that you have been so thoughtless I
can no longer remain with you.” Having thus spoken, she became suddenly
changed into a dove and darkness covered the sky. When it was daylight,
the palace, with its furniture and ornaments, its garden and servants,
had disappeared, and I found myself in a cemetery, dressed in the same
garb as on the day when I went to walk in my garden.
For some time after this event I wandered about the streets and bazárs
like a madman, until my relatives applied various remedies which quieted
the excited condition of my mind; but no medicine could heal my grief. In
our neighbourhood there dwelt a painter who was well skilled in drawing
portraits, and I became his pupil to enable myself to perpetuate the
memory of my love and soothe my grief. I attained skill to paint the
likenesses of my wife and children, in which occupation I take such
delight that I complete every year a large picture and sell it for a
high price; but, as my jealousy does not allow me to let such precious
treasures fall into the possession of strangers, I break the picture to
pieces. O my friend, the felicity I enjoyed is gone for ever, and I spend
my life in misery.
* * * * *
As soon as Hatim had heard this narrative he hastened back to the
washerman and related it to him, who in his turn now told Hatim the story
of his adventures, as follows:
_The Washerman’s Story_.
I have followed the business of a washerman for many years. My occupation
brought me every day to this place, and once, when I was here as usual,
I observed a dove alighting on a tree. The bird was so beautiful that
I left off my work to admire it. After a while it shook its wings,
its skin opened, and a húrí-like damsel was revealed to my sight. She
descended from the tree and seated herself in my lap. I rubbed the sleeve
of astonishment over my eyes and exclaimed: “What happiness has fallen
to my lot! O most beauteous lady, I am ready to sacrifice my life to
you, and to make you the companion of my joys and sorrows.” But the
damsel replied: “Young man, this is not a fitting time for jesting. I
have come a long way, and feeling very weary I wish to repose for a
while.” So she laid her head in my lap and fell asleep, while I pondered
my good fortune and future enjoyment. Meantime another and still more
beautiful dove settled on a branch of the tree, and presently turned
into a heart-ravishing maiden. Desirous to please her, I expressed some
compliments, to which she thus responded: “Men are of weak intellects
and so fickle that they bestow every moment their affection on a new
object. One eye needs not two pupils and one scabbard cannot contain
two swords. Let no one be thirsty in a river, or wish for flowers in a
garden.” On hearing these sarcastic remarks I gently removed the head of
the first lady from my lap and said to the second: “I renounce a thousand
mistresses like this for half a glance of your eyes,” adding many other
complimentary expressions which pleased her so much that she also laid
her head in my lap and fell asleep. Soon afterwards a third dove alighted
on the tree, and was like the others transformed into a beautiful girl.
Forgetting what I had said to the other ladies, I fell violently in love
with her, but while I was trying to ingratiate myself with the new comer,
the two others awoke, and all three upbraided me in this strain: “O
faithless and ignorant wretch! are you not ashamed of your unsteady and
chameleon-like nature, and do you not know that the first condition of
love is fidelity! Who could ever expect attachment from thee?
The morning brings light, the evening night;
Nor can a bat perceive the sun.”
When they had thus spoken they assumed the forms of doves again and flew
away, leaving me to regret my folly and repent of my fickleness. Many
years have come and gone since then, but I can never forget the happiness
which I might have enjoyed, and so I roam about in despair.
* * * * *
Hatim took leave of the washerman and proceeded to the cave in the
mountain where he related the history of the fickle lover to the blind
man, who now told him his own history in these words:
_The Blind Man’s Story_.
In former times I was a skilful geomancer,[32] and one day I visited a
tradesman in the town with whom I had some business, on the conclusion of
which he requested me to cast his horoscope. I complied, and it appeared
that he was to find a treasure. I informed him of this, but he smiled
incredulously and said: “I am too well acquainted with my own destitute
condition. What you say is impossible, and I cannot permit you to jest
at my expense.” I repeated the operation, and the result being the same,
I swore that there was no joke at all in the matter. Quoth he: “Where,
then, is this treasure?” Said I: “In this very house.” The door was then
locked and we both began to dig with great energy until we came upon a
large stone, which having removed, we found that it had covered a well.
After consultation it was agreed that he should go down and I was to
remain above to receive the treasure. Accordingly, my friend having
provided himself with a basket, I let him down by a rope, and when he had
filled the basket with gold, I drew it up, and thus we continued until an
immense heap of gold and gems lay beside me. Then I thought to myself:
“It is possible that if I pull him up again he may try to get rid of me,
and so deprive me of my life as well as of a share of this treasure. I
had better leave him in the well, remove these riches privily, and pass
the rest of my life in comfort.” When my friend found that I did not
again lower the basket he began to suspect my design, and cried to me
from the bottom of the well: “Brother, do not harbour any evil thoughts
about me, for I shall never forget your kindness, and we shall make an
equal division of the whole treasure. Draw me up, I beseech you.” But I
would not comply, because I considered that a secret in the possession
of two persons is soon divulged, and both are disappointed. I therefore
took no notice of his lamentations, and was thinking how I might remove
the treasure without the knowledge of any one, and concluded that the
first thing to be done was to cover up the well so that I should be freed
from any apprehensions concerning my partner, and then carry off the
gold and silver by piecemeal. With these ideas I walked about the house
and considered that it would be advisable to wait till nightfall, when I
should cover the well and take away a portion of the treasure. But when
the night set in it occurred to me that I might be attacked by robbers
or that some other mishap might befal me, so I thought it would be more
prudent to wait for the break of day, and then with a quiet mind carry
off my wealth, and thus thinking, I fell asleep.
Now my friend happened to have a mortal enemy who was waiting for an
opportunity to kill him, and being desirous that night of giving effect
to his purpose he came to the house, fastened a rope to the wall, and
by means of it climbed to the roof, from which he descended into the
apartment where I was sleeping. The sound of the man’s footsteps awoke
me, and I leapt up affrighted, crying: “Who is there?” The man, mistaking
me for the owner of the house, caught hold of me and threw me violently
on the floor. “Friend,” said I, “if you want gold and silver, take it,
but spare my life.” “Do you wish to deceive me,” said the ruffian,
“and escape by such a subterfuge? You are as poor as a beggar, and I
shall make you walk the streets as one.” Thereupon he took an awl and
piercing both my eyes with it blinded me for ever, he being in the
hand of Providence the instrument of punishing me for my covetousness.
After having thus avenged himself on his enemy, as he thought, the man
wished to leave the house, but in the darkness he tumbled into the
well and broke his leg. The tradesman, supposing it was myself who had
thus fallen into the well, exclaimed: “Friend, you are wonderfully
covetous, and thereby have not only brought me to this misery but have
yourself now become my partner in misfortune.” But his enemy, mistaking
him for some one whom the tradesman had thus confined, said to him: “I
have punished the man who has imprisoned you in this well.” Presently,
however, he began to cry out from the pain occasioned by his broken leg,
when the tradesman at once discovered it was not I who had become his
fellow-prisoner. I need hardly say that I passed the night in great pain
from my blinded eyes.
Next day the tradesman’s son returned home from a journey to foreign
lands, where he had gained much wealth. On entering the house he was
astonished to find me holding both my hands to my eyes and a heap of
treasure by the side of the open well, and to hear me exclaiming: “I
was comfortable without this treasure, but my covetousness has for ever
deprived me of my sight,” and the lamentations of the two men at the
bottom of the well. He ordered a slave to draw them up, and to his
surprise and joy the first to appear was the young man’s father, who told
him all that had occurred, and when the other man had also been pulled
out, he discovered that his enemy was uninjured and that it was I whom he
had blinded. The tradesman forgave us both, but his enemy died soon after
these occurrences.
I was conveyed to this cave, and every day, morning and evening, two
small loaves are thrown in to me. I have been in this place many years,
but have never ceased to repent of my covetousness.
* * * * *
Hatim, having thus ascertained the histories of those three men, at once
returned to the bountiful lady and related them to her, after which she
told him her own story, as she had promised:
_The Benevolent Lady’s Story_.
My father was a wealthy merchant of this country, and very intimate with
all its ruling powers, until he died, when I inherited his property and
lived in comfort. One day as I was sitting at a window I observed a large
company of devotees, preceded by a man reputed to be of great sanctity,
who bore the marks of piety in his countenance. Whenever he stopped a
chair was placed for him, and the people stood reverently around him,
wiping with their sleeves the dust from his skirts and shoes; and in
this manner the procession entered the city. Seeing the stature of
that person invested with the robe of piety and devotion, I was curious
to ascertain what famed hermit or saint he might be, and despatched a
servant to make inquiries. He returned soon and said: “This is Mullah
Tamurtash, the ascetic, who has in the school of abstinence studied the
divine laws and performs his devotions in the hermitage of Abú Tuchmah
and is now come to the city at the invitation of the people to preach
and pray.” On learning this I considered it incumbent on me to pay a
compliment to so holy a personage, so the next day I made up a few
presents and said to a slave: “Take this to the holy ascetic, and request
his prayers for me at the throne of Grace.” My messenger was received
with great kindness, and examined on every circumstance connected with
my affairs. During the ensuing night an alarm of “thieves” was raised
in my house, and when I awoke I found that a number of men had walked
off with all the valuables they could lay hands on, and I sent a servant
in pursuit of them to discover where they deposited my property. The
servant on his return informed me that everything had been conveyed to
the abode of the ascetic. I immediately proceeded to the king’s palace
and stated my case to him, but was not a little surprised to receive this
reply: “This foolish and impudent woman,” said the king, “speaks like
an infidel, and ought to be expelled from the city lest some calamity
should befall us on account of her wickedness. To asperse the character
of a man who has all his life walked in the path of virtue is enough to
call down the wrath of God on our own heads.” I was accordingly driven
out of the city, poor and helpless, and journeyed on foot till I reached
a village, where I obtained shelter in the house of a respectable man;
and having, as my sole property, a ruby ring, I managed, by means of my
host, to sell it for ten thousand dirhams, and as one of the agents of my
father was established in Hindústán I determined to go to that country.
Having purchased a camel and a slave, I set out on my journey and in
due time arrived safely at the house of my father’s agent, to whom I
related my misfortunes. In short, I remained some time in Hindústán and
engaged in commerce, through which I accumulated immense wealth. I then
resolved to return to China, and, having provided myself with seventy
powerful, valiant, and intelligent slaves and put on men’s attire,
proceeded to trade from town to town until I reached my native city. I
readily obtained an audience of the king, to whom I presented a number of
valuable gifts, and soon it was reported far and wide that a very rich
merchant had arrived from Hindústán with a great company of attendants.
One day I gave a quantity of gold and silver to a slave and ordered him
to carry it to Tamurtash the ascetic, with my humble request that he
would remember me in his prayers. At night I ordered all my attendants
to arm themselves and to be on the alert, but keep quiet and concealed.
I was not deceived in my expectation, for about the middle of the night
the ascetic with his followers came, and throwing ropes over the wall got
into the courtyard with the design of plundering my house. Suddenly my
servants leapt forth from their ambush and captured the ascetic with his
forty accomplices, all of whom I caused to be confined in chains. As soon
as morning dawned I went to the palace and made my statement, when the
king ordered the police immediately to search for the thieves. “O King,”
said I, “all the robbers are already captured, and if you will permit,
I shall bring them into your presence.” When the king and his courtiers
beheld Tamurtash the ascetic and his disciples they were amazed, and
the king straightway caused them all to be put to death, saying: “That
woman stated the truth the first time also, but we gave no credit to her
words; she has suffered innocently, and now we have no means to make good
our error.” But I replied, smiling: “That poor woman am I, O King,” and
related the whole affair. The king approved of what I had done, and made
over to me all the property of the ascetic.[33]
“Now, my friend,” continued the lady, “years have passed since I
commenced to bestow the most abundant gifts from that property, and no
diminution appears in it. But in spite of all my liberality my fame is
not known beyond this country, while that of Hatim is patent and manifest
in the world like the sun. You have promised to bring me the head of
Hatim, but you have not kept your word.” Hatim answered: “I am myself
Hatim, and my head is at your disposal,” and drawing his sword he laid it
before the lady. She was greatly moved and said: “True greatness consists
not merely in liberality but in hazarding our lives for those of our
friends, and that you have done. The pre-eminence is therefore yours.
Hitherto I have abstained from accepting the addresses of any man, but
your beauty and liberality induce me to offer you my hand.” Hatim was
highly pleased, drew the hand of response over the eyes of acquiescence,
married her, and lived with her happily for many years until they were
parted by death.
* * * * *
When Khayrandísh had ended this tale he said to Nassar: “I have related
these stories to impress on your mind the fact that whoever abandons
the reins of his heart to the promptings of foolish illusions, and the
vain imaginings of his animal passions, will fare like the Painter, the
Washerman, and the Blind Man, will reap only disappointment, carry on
his back the load of bitter memories, and during his whole life taste
nothing but the beverage of shame and repentance.”
THIRD ADVICE.
“Although Fortune may smile on a man,” continued Khayrandísh, “and
distinguish him above his peers, he should be provident and prudent,
and must not despise the counsel of his friends. He must also be on his
guard against enemies, else he will, like Kasharkasha the son of the king
of Fars,[34] fall into the power of his foes, and the rose-grove of his
contentment will be withered by the autumn of grief, and all his life he
will be a wanderer in the deserts of repentance.” Nassar asked: “How was
that?” And Khayrandísh began to relate the
_Story of Prince Kasharkasha_.
There was a king of Fars called Farídún[35] who had a son named
Kasharkasha, whom he educated and kept with himself till he was seventy
years old. The young prince then, wishing to visit India, said to
his father: “Since travel enlightens the understanding and entails
experience, it is my desire to wander by land and sea in the capacity
of a merchant.” Quoth the king: “Beloved son, I would please you in all
things, but separation from you will break my heart, and I am unwilling
to part with you.” But neither these words nor any other entreaties could
induce the prince to forego his purpose, and he was at last allowed to
depart. His father gave him abundance of money and a number of faithful
attendants, and said to him: “Travelling, my son, is often attended by
misfortunes; and in case you should fall into distress, I advise you to
visit the merchant Sadullah, who lives in Baghdád, and is greatly devoted
to and willing to do anything for me.” Then giving his seal-ring to
Kasharkasha he added: “Show Sadullah this signet as a voucher for your
family and connections.”[36]
Kasharkasha bade adieu to his father, assumed the dress of a merchant,
and journeyed to India, where he acquired large profits by commerce, and
then went to the country of the Franks, and became so rich that he bought
a thousand Indian and Turkish slaves, who constantly waited on him. But a
craving for dominion and power is inherent in the nature of all scions of
royalty, and therefore all Kasharkasha’s great wealth could not satisfy
him, and he coveted a crown. He said to himself: “Every undertaking must
succeed if the proper means be employed in its pursuit. A kingdom is
gained by valour and a good army; and, thanks be to God, I possess both,
and prosperity will second my efforts. Indeed, which of my ancestors ever
debased himself by trading? I cannot live in such an unworthy manner; for
voluntarily to descend from a high to a lower position is against common
sense and betokens a mean disposition. In these regions there are many
towns and principalities which I may easily conquer, and in truth most
of the royal personages who attained great fame began only on a small
scale and enlarged their possessions by degrees.” After this Kasharkasha
travelled from place to place in the country of the Franks, seeking for
an opportunity to carry out his design. One day he approached a great
city, and beheld an army composed entirely of cavalry, which belonged to
the king of the city, who, on discovering the squadron of Kasharkasha,
imagined it to be that of an enemy and sent a messenger to make
inquiries. The young prince stated to the envoy that he was a merchant
from Hindústán, and in his turn asked some questions, to which the envoy
replied: “This is Tytmyran, and this is the Jalyák of Tytmyran, who is on
a hunting excursion.” When the messenger returned with the answer of the
young prince, the Jalyák of Tytmyran rode to visit Kasharkasha, who met
him half-way and saluted him courteously, because the lamp of politeness
emits so great a glare as to conceal and overshadow any plans that men
harbour in their minds.
On seeing the courteous demeanour of Kasharkasha the Jalyák at once
concluded that he could not but be of lofty birth, and invited him
to make an excursion into the surrounding country. The young prince
gracefully complied, and their intimacy increased more and more during
the day. They came to a high building, near which the king alighted,
and went into it. After a short space he again came out, and in tears.
Kasharkasha asked the cause of his grief, but the king replied that on
another occasion he would acquaint him with the particulars. When they
entered the city a suitable place was assigned to the young prince and
his followers, and the king taking the hand of Kasharkasha thus addressed
him: “Every man bears in his countenance signs of his character, and
in our first interview I discovered you to be of noble descent and the
scion of a royal family. I also had a son of extraordinary beauty and
accomplishments. He was very fond of hunting and roaming everywhere, and
once he took leave of me for two months and departed with a number of
trustworthy attendants. I counted the days of his absence impatiently,
and when the time for his return elapsed I dreaded that some misfortune
had befallen my son, and despatched some of my officers in search of
him, all of whom returned without success. I was so overpowered by
melancholy that I wept day and night, until at last, after a whole year
had passed, my son made his appearance quite alone, in a destitute
condition and almost naked. As soon as I saw him I exclaimed: ‘Beloved
son, how has the dust of this languidness settled on the skirts of your
happy disposition? and how has your beauty faded? What has become of your
servants and goods?’
“My son replied: ‘Dear father, my heart suffers from a wound which no
medicine can cure. Do not ask me any questions, because my case is a sad
one.’ Then he took from his bosom a portrait, which he contemplated,
saying:
‘When I began to worship the person of my love,
My soul ascended to my lips and I lost my peace.
A ray of love’s favour had alighted on my head,
But, alas! I have lost my love!’
‘Dear father,’ he continued, ‘after we embarked in our boat we sailed
pleasantly for almost a week, when a contrary wind arose and we lost all
control over our vessel. Thus we were tossed about during forty days,
when the tempest ceased and we came in sight of land. We made haste to
go on shore, but we knew not to what country or nation it belonged. We
strolled about and came to a beautiful meadow luxuriant with vegetation,
where we hunted and thus advanced till we arrived at a cultivated
tract of land in which was a magnificent palace. On asking a man for
information regarding this country he answered: “You are in Kashmír, and
that palace is the abode of the daughter of Khoja Fayssur, the vazír of
Kashmír. She is wont to pass a few months here every year during the
season of flowers.” In one of my rambles I chanced to meet a lady of
exquisite beauty, and though I had fallen in love with her I did not dare
to address her, but sent her a fervent declaration of my love through
an old woman, requesting the favour of an interview. The reply which I
received was most discouraging; nevertheless I continued my rambles in
the grounds of the palace to enjoy the happiness of an occasional glance
at my idol. While I was thus standing one day, she dropped a paper from
above, and on opening it I found it contained her portrait. This was a
great joy to me, but it was soon turned to grief when I heard that the
lady had departed to the city. I could do nothing better than follow her
and endeavour to obtain a meeting. At last my passion became a mania, and
as I cared nothing for money affairs my attendants gradually deserted
me, so that I was at last left alone and fell into a state of the utmost
destitution. The dominant idea, however, still supported me that I should
yet be happy although at present a houseless beggar in the streets. One
night the police were about to seize me, but I ran off at the top of my
speed and sought refuge in a house, exclaiming: “Is there anyone here who
possesses kindness enough to save a man from the whirlpool of misery?” A
person opened the door and admitted me, saying: “Rest yourself here this
night, and trust in the mercy of God.” I was tired and reclined against
the wall, when suddenly I heard the tones of a harp and of a woman’s
voice in the adjoining apartment, and my curiosity prompted me to look
through an aperture at the scene. I beheld a húrí-like maiden playing
on a harp and warbling like a nightingale. The amorous melody and the
tones of the instrument produced such an enervating effect on me that
I could no longer stand, and falling on the floor, which was of weak
construction, it gave way and I was precipitated with it on the master
of the house, who was sitting in the room below, and he was killed on
the spot. The girl who had been singing rose up and cried: “A robber has
killed my master!” This soon brought all the neighbours into the house:
they instantly seized and bound me, and gave me so many blows that my
whole body was a mass of bruises. Then I was dragged before the Amír, who
ordered me to be taken to prison. It chanced that the jailer was a man
who had formerly been in my service, and he burst into tears on seeing
me in such a condition. When I had informed him of my reason for coming
to Kashmír and of the unhappy accident, he said: “Fear nothing—you are
safe.” He dressed me in other clothes and sent me out to a friend of his
own; while he put my garments on the corpse of a man who had died that
day and been buried in the cemetery. When the police came in the morning
to take me before the Amír to be beheaded, they were disappointed, and
reported that the culprit had been so severely beaten on being captured
that he had died during the night. The Amír remarked: “If the man was
innocent, the guilt of his death cannot be attached to me,” to which
the chief of the police rejoined: “That is true; but the people had no
right to kill the man. This affair ought not to be lightly regarded,
for those who beat him are guilty of murder.” The Amír then ordered him
to carefully investigate the whole affair. Accordingly the chief of
the police assembled all the inhabitants of that quarter of the town,
intending to fine each one of them in a sum of money, and having caused
the corpse to be brought before him, he said: “Ye impudent fellows, how
many kings or governments are in this city?” They replied: “One.” He
continued: “If there be but one king here, why have you taken justice in
your own hand and killed this man?” The people asked in amazement: “Whom
have we killed?” “This man,” said he, “who was captured on suspicion of
being a robber and whom you have ill-treated so as to cause his death.”
But when the people looked at the dead man they declared: “This is not
the robber whom we seized and beat. He was a young man of fair complexion
and having black hair; of strong make and healthy appearance. This is
the body of a man who was of middle age and sickly; we know not who has
killed him.” Quoth the superintendent: “There is no use in denying the
matter,” and he called for the instruments of torture for the purpose
of eliciting a confession; when one of the bystanders, having examined
the features of the corpse, suddenly cried out: “This is my father,
Khoja Fays, the gladiator, who not long since performed before the Amír
of Kabúl, and returning home, drank some arrack, which gave him the
colic, so that he was obliged to take to his bed. He was visited by some
friends, who advised him to send for Ratyl the glazier, who is so famed
for his skill that he excels all the physicians of the age. I brought
him to the bedside of my father, and he prescribed something which was
of no avail: my father died, and we buried him.” Here the superintendent
exclaimed: “You stupid fellow, who asked for your testimony?” But the
man would not submit to be brow-beaten, and said: “See what our chief
of police has come to! For the sake of gain he takes believers who have
died out of their graves! I shall at once bring the doctor, the muezzin,
the grave-digger, and the mullah. To-morrow we shall bring the affair
before the Amír, and you, my friends, will be my witnesses. Come with
me.” A number of persons followed him, which vexed the superintendent,
who said to those that still remained: “Do not be deceived by the
ravings of that fool; for I shall not let you escape without a fine.”
At these words another section of the crowd became excited and cried:
“The superintendent is in league with a pack of scoundrels whom he sends
out in the night to rob people, and gets his share of the plunder. When
any robbers are caught he allows them to escape, and in their stead he
substitutes disinterred corpses. Is there no king in this place? Is
it not enough that one of us was killed, and now we are to pay a fine
besides?” Just then the son of the dead man returned with his witnesses,
all of whom accused the superintendent, who, however, was supported by
his own officers and another crowd of armed men; so that presently both
parties came to blows, blood was shed, and several men were killed and
wounded. When the Amír heard that the superintendent was the cause of
the disturbance, he was displeased, and his enemies so worked on the
mind of the Amír that the superintendent was ordered to be hanged and
the jailer who had saved my life was installed in his place. One day
after these occurrences I perceived a multitude of people assembled in
the streets and asked the cause of my friend, the new chief of police.
His answer was: “To-day the daughter of the vazír has died, and all this
popular excitement is on that account.” This news upset all my hopes
and I at once quitted my friend’s house and journeyed till I came to the
sea-shore where I found some men embarking for the country of the Franks;
I accompanied them, and finally arrived here.’
“When my son had ended his recital,” continued the king, “he sighed
heavily and added: ‘Beloved father, as a dutiful son I should have obeyed
and never left you, and thus I should not have fallen into the misery I
endure. I beseech you to sweep away my transgressions with the besom of
kindness, and to wash away the filth of my sins with the limpid stream
of pardon.’ Having uttered these words he expired. My grief for him
can never be appeased, and the edifice from which I came out weeping
is his tomb. As I have now no son, I often wonder which of my enemies
will succeed to my kingdom when I am no more. You are, I am sure, a
man of noble blood and good disposition. May I request you to acquaint
me with your affairs?” Kasharkasha most willingly complied, and when
he had concluded, the king spoke as follows: “I am prosperous in all
things and respected by friend and foe. But I have passed the meridian
of life, and purpose devoting the remainder of it to the duties I owe
to my Creator. And though I have meditated about and sought for some
one who might take upon himself a portion of my royal affairs and be a
companion of my solitude, I have found none so worthy as yourself.” As
Kasharkasha was ardently wishing for such a high station, he joyfully
replied: “May the beautiful leaves of the king’s book of life never be
scattered as long as the world-illuming sun moves in the firmament! I am
ready to obey your commands.” Accordingly the Amír assembled the grandees
of his kingdom and spake to them thus: “I inform you that this royal
prince, Kasharkasha, who has dwelt for some time in this city, is by me
appointed to be my successor, as I have no heir. Therefore I desire every
one who loves and obeys me to obey him likewise.” All the vazírs and
grandees drew the finger of acquiescence over the eyes of affirmation,
and the Amír dressed the prince in the costly robe of a viceroy and said
to him: “Dear friend, I have seven vazírs, yet I trust the direction of
all important affairs to Khoja Bihrúz, whose sincere friendship I have
tried on the touchstone of experience and never discovered a flaw in
his noble character. Therefore, though you are endowed with the innate
sagacity of noble personages, as you are not familiar with the laws
and customs of this country, I recommend you never to act without his
advice, in order that the affairs of our kingdom may prosper.” Then the
Jalyák divorced the bride of royalty, married her to Kasharkasha, and
retired to a corner of repose.[37] Kasharkasha, who had been so greatly
favoured by his good luck, without any efforts on his own part, sat
very joyfully on the throne of dignity and power, when, by the decree
of Providence, the Jalyák was removed from this terrestrial abode; and
as the desire of self-aggrandisement, coupled with unlimited dominion,
destroys contentment and begets an inordinate longing for greater power,
Kasharkasha indulged in ambitious schemes and resolved to conquer some of
the neighbouring kingdoms. On this project he consulted all his vazírs,
who readily approved of it, and even still more inflamed his ambition.
When the turn of Bihrúz came he said: “May the ready-money of prosperity
be always present in the treasury of the hopes of the king, and may the
joyful season of perpetual spring always gladden his heart! This is not
the time for attack, but rather for defence. Many potentates of the
country of the Franks have attempted to conquer this land; they came
with countless hosts, but were all repulsed by the Jalyák, whose fame is
yet remembered among them: soon, however, they will learn of the change
which has taken place, and your majesty will have enough to do in warding
off their attacks.” Kasharkasha paid no attention to this warning, and,
confiding in the approbation of all the other vazírs, he marched to Ráml,
which is a country belonging to the Franks, and when he arrived there he
halted, and despatched the following letter to Futtál Sháh, the king of
Ráml:
“The title-ornament of this epistle is the name of that Sovereign of the
volume of whose world-adorning book of omnipotence of existence of all
creatures is but one dot. Secondly, as all nations of men are connected
by the sameness of their species, and as it is incumbent upon the mighty
to protect the feeble; and if they treat their subjects well they will
reap blessings; therefore we send you our kind salutations, and inform
you that as it is our intention to hunt in these regions, and as you
would be unable to endure the brightness of our countenance, even as a
bat cannot look at the sun, and we fear that if you were to behold a part
of our army and warlike preparations, bodily and mental diseases might
befall you;—we advise you to surrender the keys of your fortress to the
bearer of this letter, on pain of incurring our displeasure.”
Futtál Sháh read the letter and returned his answer as follows: “We were
astonished at the folly and presumption of your missive, and defy you
to do your worst.” After despatching these lines the king hastened out
with his forces to attack Kasharkasha, who had in the meanwhile received
information from his spies that in his rear another king of the Frank
country was in ambush. He was considering how to act with one enemy in
front and another in his rear when the countless hosts of Futtál Sháh
came in sight, and there was no option but to await the issue. The enemy
advanced, attacked Kasharkasha, and the battle raged fiercely, for
both armies fought with great bravery; at last, however, Futtál Sháh
prevailed and Kasharkasha fled. In the morning he was a king, and in the
evening a beggar, fleeing from his pursuers. On the second day his horse
was so exhausted that he was obliged to walk on foot until he arrived
at a spring, where having quenched his thirst he lay down and slept. A
shepherd who had been searching for a lost sheep happened to come to the
spot, and seeing a young man in costly garments stretched at full length,
his covetousness induced him to throw a stone, which, however, missed
the intended victim. Kasharkasha jumped up, and seeing a man of helpless
appearance he asked: “Who are you?” The man replied: “I am a shepherd.
Who are you yourself? and what right have you at the spring where I daily
water the sheep of the king? Your inauspicious presence here has caused
the water to become muddy. All my sheep are scattered over the desert,
and how shall I answer for them to the king?” So saying, he suddenly
leapt on Kasharkasha, divested him of his fine clothes and left him his
own rags in exchange; then tying both the hands and feet of the prince,
he went his way.
After Futtál Sháh had won the battle, captured the army of his foe, and
plundered his treasury, he could find no trace of Kasharkasha; so he
sent off a number of men in search of him, some of whom arrived at the
spring, and discovering a man there with his hands and feet tied, asked
him who he was. Kasharkasha guessed they were servants of Futtál Sháh
who had come to look for him, and replied: “I am a shepherd, and came
here with my flock, when a young man, from whose forehead the marks of
royalty radiated, approached and asked me for a sheep, but I said they
all belonged to the king and I was not at liberty to dispose of any of
them. Upon this he became so incensed that he tied my hands and feet and
then walked off with a sheep. Since you have arrived here so opportunely,
I request you to liberate me from my bonds.” The men believed that he had
given them information about Kasharkasha, so they loosed him, and giving
him some food, hastened off in search of the fugitive. For this lucky
escape Kasharkasha thanked the Most High, and speeding to a mountain not
far from the spring, he found there refuge in a cave.
Meanwhile the emissaries of Futtál Sháh were scouring the plain and at
length caught sight of the shepherd while he was trying to catch the
horse of Kasharkasha. They said to each other: “We must not allow him
to get at the horse;” and when the shepherd perceived that they meant
to seize him he thought that they were the servants of Kasharkasha who
had come in pursuit of him, so he cried out: “My good friends, I have
committed an error. I hope you will pardon my transgression;” and he
began to undress himself. But they replied: “Kasharkasha, we are not
such fools as to let you go if you give us your clothes. We have been in
quest of you for the last three or four days and have taken no rest. Your
garments alone cannot reward our pains, and Futtál Sháh will require an
account of you; so come along with us.” Quoth the shepherd: “The affair
between your master and me has only taken place to-day; why should you be
seeking me these three or four days?” The pursuers said to one another:
“He has lost his kingdom and become crazy. We must convey him at once to
our king.” On hearing these words the shepherd wished to make use of the
sword of Kasharkasha, but being too awkward to do so, he threw it on the
ground and wielded his own staff in such a manner as to kill one of his
captors, when the others closed round him, tied his hands, and set him on
a horse, saying: “Kasharkasha, do not struggle now that the boat of your
prosperity has become a wreck and is sunk into the ocean of misfortune,
for it will be of no use.” Quoth the shepherd: “I swear by the souls of
Pír Siah Posh, Baják, Baba Ali Mest, and Mezar Mongal, that I had no idea
he was a king. My covetousness induced me to rob him of his clothes; I
hope you will pardon my incivility.” “You simulate folly,” they replied.
“Do you not remember that you wrote a letter to the king, and after
marching with so large an army against him do you not know that he is
a sovereign? You say that you have robbed him of his clothes; but these
words are very silly, considering that you were of elegant speech and
great intellect, and that you sat on a royal throne.” “You are talking
book-words,” said the shepherd: “I have never learned to read—what do I
know about letters and armies? I have done no farther harm than taken
his clothes. Besides, it is not usual for kings to come into the desert
alone and on foot. As it is, he might have met with a worse man than
myself, who would have killed him. I beseech you, for God’s sake, take
the clothes and let me go; because there is no one to take care of my
sheep, and if anything happen to them I shall have to atone for it by the
loss of all that I possess.” The men now looked at each other and smiled.
They then said: “Kasharkasha, if you have gone mad on account of the loss
of your kingdom it is no wonder, but it is a marvel that you are still
alive.” Quoth the shepherd: “Why have you changed my name? I am called
Kallam ed-Dín Ahmed and you hail me always by the name of Kasharkasha.
Perhaps you mean to sell me?” While they were thus going along, talking
and laughing, they came to a small village, some of the inhabitants of
which recognised the shepherd and asked him: “Where have you got these
fine clothes? Who are these men? Why have they tied your hands?” He said:
“I have robbed a man of these clothes, and these men have caught me and
are taking me to the king. I am willing to abandon the clothes but they
will not abandon me. I beseech you, by the favour of Pír Muhammed Jendah
Poosh, to give them anything they ask for my freedom, and I shall repay
you in goats.” Several of the headmen of the village now stepped forward
and addressed the king’s messengers: “Good friends, Kallam ed-Dín Ahmed
confesses his fault, and he has acted wrongly. But of what use would it
be to take him before the king? We have agreed to prepare a good roast
for you if you will let him go.” But they laughed and said: “This is
Kasharkasha, the king of Tytmyran, who succeeded the Jalyák, and having
wantonly attacked our sovereign was put to flight. The king has sent a
thousand men in pursuit of him, and has promised to confer dignity and
wealth on his captor. We have searched for him without resting for more
than three days, and it is not likely that we shall now let him go free.
All his speeches come from a disordered mind.” Hearing this the villagers
were astonished and silenced.
The messengers of Futtál Sháh proceeded to the city, and on their arrival
the rumour soon spread that they had taken Kasharkasha. The shepherd was
brought into the presence of the king, and the splendour of the court so
dazzled him that he lost his speech, and the king thus addressed him:
“You fool, do sovereigns and high personages indite such letters? Now
shall I ignominiously kill you, as a warning to all presumptuous and
foolish persons.” When the shepherd heard this sentence he was roused,
and exclaimed: “O king, I swear, by the soul of Baba Nasym Sermest, that
I made that very day a vow of repentance to go on pilgrimage to the tomb
of Baba Jany and never again to commit such an act. Indeed the clothes
are present and at hand. I possess several ewes big with young which I
shall give you if you set me free. I have the sheep of one hundred men
under my charge, and were any accident to befal them all my friends
and relatives would be unable to make compensation on my account,” and
he wept bitterly. Futtál Sháh asked in astonishment: “How does this
reply agree with our question?” Upon this all the assembly smiled, and
a merchant present, who had been at Tytmyran and knew the person of
Kasharkasha, kissed the floor of civility, and said: “O king, this is not
Kasharkasha. He is a man of handsome appearance and fair speech; this
is an ignorant boor.” Hereupon the king first questioned the shepherd
closely and then his captors, who stated their case, after which he
declared: “Both parties are right; Kasharkasha was at the spring and
has purposely misled you. At present there is no use of making further
efforts, because he has gained time to go wherever he pleased.” Then he
gave the shepherd five thousand dirhams and dismissed him.
Soon after Kasharkasha had concealed himself in the mountain cave he
was driven out of it by hunger, and descending into the plain wandered
from town to town, scratching the wound of the loss of his kingdom and
of the treasure of prosperity with the nails of regret and sorrow,
and keeping it fresh with the salt of repentance, until he arrived in
Turkey. There it occurred to him one day that his father had told him,
in case his good fortune should desert him, to visit the merchant Khoja
Sadullah, who would aid him. So he proceeded to Baghdád and found the
house of the merchant, who was a very kind-hearted man, and happened at
the time to be going on a visit to the Khalíf, with whom he stood in high
favour. On seeing Kasharkasha he concluded from his mean attire that he
was a mendicant and ordered one of his attendants to give him alms, on
receiving which the prince burst into tears. When Khoja Sadullah asked
him why he wept, he produced his father’s signet, which when the Khoja
examined, “This ring,” said he, “belongs to King Farídún of Fars. I gave
it to him; but how came it into your possession?” Kasharkasha replied:
“He is my father. The desire to travel has separated me from him, and
the instability of fortune has reduced me to this pitiable state.” Khoja
Sadullah warmly embraced and welcomed him, saying: “Forget all your
troubles and be comforted; because you will again become lucky, and this
unpropitious condition will depart from the horoscope of your felicity.
All men are subject to reverses of fortune, but the end is frequently
very happy. My life and property are at your service.” Then he sent the
prince to the bath, provided him with a costly wardrobe, assigned to him
a number of apartments fit for a royal personage, and appointed fifty
slaves to wait on him, all of whom he ordered to obey and try to please
him. Thus Fortune again smiled on Kasharkasha and he spent his days in
comfort and felicity.
One day he was walking on the roof of the house and chanced to look into
the haram of the Khoja, having mistaken it for that of another dwelling.
The wife of the Khoja was in the open court-yard when his eye alighted on
the countenance of that heart-ravishing beauty, which so captivated him
that his person became more attenuated every day. He kept the matter to
himself, but one of his attendants reported it to the Khoja, who seemed
to pay no attention, but nevertheless went to his wife and said to her:
“Darling of my soul, I have a request to make to you, but on condition
that you swear to comply with it.” The lady took the required oath, and
the Khoja continued: “I divorce you.” She asked: “Of what fault has the
bud sprouted in the rose-grove of my imagination? And what crime have I
committed to deserve your abhorrence and to be separated from you?” Quoth
the Khoja: “God forbid that I should have experienced from you anything
save kindness and love; but I have been compelled to part with you.”
The Khoja, having thus divorced his wife, went to Kasharkasha and spoke
to him as follows: “I have been made aware of your condition, and your
wish shall be gratified in a few days. The woman whom you have seen is
the foster-sister of Farrukhzád the merchant. Her husband died a few
days ago, and her time of mourning is not yet over. Her brother, my most
intimate friend, is in Basra, and I have sent a man to him to sue for her
hand in your behalf—be of good cheer.” Kasharkasha was highly pleased,
and the Khoja amused him until the time required by the law was expired.
Then he sent for the Kází, and Kasharkasha was married to the lady in due
form. In the evening the Khoja led his former wife to the apartments of
the prince; and, when she beheld the unparalleled beauty and comeliness
of her new husband, she whispered to the Khoja: “Although you have
divorced me, I thank God that I am to be the spouse of this youth.” When
the Khoja had taken his leave, the prince asked the lady: “What did you
just now whisper to the Khoja?” She replied: “Young man, I was the wife
of the Khoja and we lived together very happily, but he has without any
cause divorced me and married me to you; so I said to him, when I beheld
you, and he had no longer any power over me: ‘Although you have divorced
me without cause, I am delighted to be the wife of this young man, who
seems to be a great deal better than yourself.’” As soon as Kasharkasha
learned that she had been the wife of the Khoja he drew the hand of
refusal over the breast of his desires and said:
“To overcome one’s own lust is victory;
To master one’s own passion is bravery indeed.
God forbid that I should touch this woman, for I consider her unlawful to
me.” So he slept that night alone, and in the morning apologised to her,
saying: “I was somewhat indisposed and unable to keep your company. Pray
have patience for a few days till I recover fully.”
In this manner some days passed, when the prince, conversing with the
Khoja about his own country, said to him: “It is now a long time since
I left my dear father, and though I have in your company and by your
kind services forgotten all my misfortunes, I nevertheless feel a very
great desire to rejoin him.” Therefore the Khoja loaded twenty strings
of camels with costly goods and sent them under the care of fifty
trustworthy slaves with Kasharkasha. Taking affectionate leave of his
benefactor and promising always most gratefully to remember his great
kindness, the prince departed on the road to Fars. When he arrived in
the vicinity of the capital he sent the glad tidings to his father, who
hastened to meet him. They entered the city together, and King Farídún
was so rejoiced at the happy event that he opened his treasury and
distributed much money among the people. After some time he abdicated the
government in favour of his beloved son, and died, leaving him his sole
heir and successor.
In the meantime Kasharkasha’s kind-hearted benefactor suffered a reverse
of fortune. One day Sadullah was informed that an agent whom he had
despatched to Hindústán was returned, but had been shipwrecked and lost
everything. The Khoja piously observed: “He from whose favour all that
is in this world depends is able to make good this loss.” But a week
later news reached him that another of his agents had been plundered by
robbers. Soon after this second calamity the Khalíf of Baghdád died, and
was succeeded by Mutassim,[38] who had long nourished ill-will against
the Khoja, therefore he confiscated all the merchant’s property. Khoja
Sadullah, now reduced to absolute poverty, determined to go to Fars
and take refuge with Kasharkasha. He contrived to collect a sum of
money among the merchants for the expenses of his journey, and quitting
Baghdád proceeded as far as Tabríz, where he fell sick and spent all
his little store of money. At last he recovered his health, but being
unable to proceed on his journey he resolved to apply to the Amír for
some assistance. During the preceding night a robbery had been committed
in the Amír’s treasury, and a number of suspected persons were brought
to the palace, among whom Sadullah unwittingly took his place, and was
along with them committed to prison to await the trial. They were all
kept in confinement for several months, and tortured daily to draw from
them acknowledgment of their guilt, until at length the real thieves
were discovered in another quarter and the suspected persons were all
discharged.
With a broken heart Sadullah resumed his journey to Fars, and chanced to
arrive at the royal palace at the time when Kasharkasha was holding a
levee and receiving petitions from his subjects. He entered the hall of
audience and made his obeisance, but, as Kasharkasha did not recognise
him in his wretched plight, Sadullah’s salutation was not returned.
After trying in vain to attract the notice of the king, Sadullah stepped
a little apart from the crowd and thus addressed Kasharkasha: “O King,
why does your highness disdain to look at me? I am Khoja Sadullah, the
merchant, of Baghdád, who was always devoted to your family. But now
fortune has turned its face from me, and I am come to seek refuge at your
court.” The king turned to one of the attendants and said: “Give one
hundred of the government sheep in charge of this man, and give him also
two loaves every day.” Then he said to Sadullah: “My good friend, we have
appointed you to be one of our shepherds; take good care of your flock.”
Khoja Sadullah thought this proceeding very strange, and said to himself:
“What meanness is this on the part of the king, to appoint me to be a
shepherd! However, though I have occupied a high station, I must obey
and perform the duties of a shepherd till something better turns up.” So
he took a staff, a sling, a bag, and a dog, and went every day with the
other shepherds to pasture his flock, and soon learned the business. But
an epidemic broke out which carried off daily several of his sheep until
every one had perished. Then thought Sadullah: “Since my entire flock
has died, it seems that I am not even fit to be a shepherd.” One day the
king observed the Khoja approaching with a great load on his back, and
asked him: “How are the sheep?” Quoth Sadullah: “May the flock of the
king’s health and comfort be always on the increase and remain unscathed
by the touch of the wolf of misfortune, and abide under the protection of
the Shepherd of divine favour! Thanks to my unlucky destiny, an epidemic
has carried off all the sheep, and I have brought their brands.” The
king smiled and said: “Give him another hundred sheep.” These, however,
also died, and likewise a third hundred, so that the Khoja was ashamed
to show his face. But the fourth flock entrusted to him became more
plump every day; no evil befell them; all the ewes threw twin lambs; and
when the king next called for the Khoja he made his appearance with a
number of sprightly and nimble lambs, and a quantity of butter, cheese,
and milk. The king said to him: “O Khoja, what do you now think of your
sheep?” He answered: “May the game of prosperity and the fawn of life
remain within the grasp of the brave lion of the king’s happiness, as
long as the flock of stars browse in the meadow of the sky, and as long
as the sun continues to travel in the firmament! Thanks be to the Most
High, by the blessing of the king’s good fortune, the contrary wind of my
ill-luck has become appeased, the lamp of success has been kindled, the
sheep of the king are all safe and sound, and my disgrace is wiped off.”
At these words the king rose from his place, fell on the Khoja’s neck,
and exclaimed: “Dear friend, your fate had taken such a mischievous turn
that had I entrusted you with my kingdom you would have lost it, and it
was prudent to wait till your luck changed. It was against my will that I
kept you in so mean an occupation until that calamity withdrew its foot
from the circle of your destiny. But now the obscurity of misfortune has
disappeared and the light of prosperity illumines the speculum of your
hopes. Do whatever you please; you are welcome to govern my kingdom.”
So saying, he seated the Khoja on the throne of intimacy, overwhelmed
him every moment with renewed kindness, and said to him: “I have a
foster-sister seated within the curtains of innocence and modesty; if you
marry her you will oblige me greatly.” The Khoja consented, and was for
the second time espoused to his own wife. When night set in the lady was
brought to the Khoja, who recognised her with no little astonishment,
exclaiming: “My love, I meet you again!” Said the lady: “Khoja, the
prince learnt the first night the true circumstances and has never
touched me, or even seen my face till the moment when he surrendered me
back to you.” Kasharkasha made the Khoja his vazír, and they all lived
happily together for many years until they at last quaffed the beverage
of death, left this rewardless abode, and departed to the mansions of
eternal joy.
* * * * *
When Khayrandísh had concluded this story he said: “Nassar, I have
related this narrative to impress on your mind that self-conceit and
presumptuousness are very great obstacles to happiness. Had Prince
Kasharkasha followed the advice of his minister Bihrúz when he succeeded
to the kingdom of Tytmyran, and not attacked Futtál Shah, his dominion
would have been permanent, and the autumnal blasts of misfortune would
not have injured the rose-garden of his comfort and happiness:
You will be happy in both worlds,
If you moderate your desires.”
CONTINUATION OF THE HISTORY OF NASSAR.
After the usual three days of hospitality had passed and Khayrandísh had
imparted his counsels to Nassar, he brought forth the deposit entrusted
to him by Nassar’s father, and handing it to him, said: “Almost twenty
years have elapsed since your father gave this casket into my charge, but
I know not what it contains; if you have no objection we will see what is
in it.” Nassar at once opened the packet and took out a mirror cut out of
a piece of emerald and surrounded with a number of other precious stones.
In the centre of the mirror was a peacock whose eyes were constantly
moving and whose feathers changed their colours every moment; and the
workmanship was so exquisite and delicate that Khayrandísh and Nassar
were perfectly amazed, while the former exclaimed: “My dear friend, no
sovereign has ever possessed so admirable an object, and it is probable
that you will not be able to sell it to a private individual except at a
price far below its real value. Therefore you should present it to some
mighty king, and it may thus become to you the cause of great prosperity.
Show it to no one during your journey, lest it should excite the cupidity
of some person.” Nassar most willingly promised to follow his friend’s
advice, and received from him a ring with the injunction that should any
calamity befall him he must go to Aleppo and show it to a pious recluse
called Abú Jurjás, who would do his utmost to help him. After taking
leave of Khayrandísh he departed in the company of some men who were
travelling to Egypt, where they all arrived in safety. Nassar happened to
meet the king of that country, who was on a hunting excursion with a very
numerous retinue. He saluted the monarch very humbly and presented to
him the mirror as a gift, which the king accepted, and on his return to
the capital invested Nassar with a robe of honour[39] in full court, and
also took into his hand the mirror, the workmanship of which he greatly
admired, as did also his courtiers. Then the king said to Nassar: “You
appear to be well educated. Pray, what is your greatest accomplishment?”
He replied: “Your majesty’s humble servant is skilled in several arts,
but especially in archery.” After this the king gave him in charge of one
of his officials, who took him to his house and showed him much attention.
During the night the official felt very unwell, and there being no
servant at hand, he went to a cupboard and taking out an apple began to
peel it; and while thus engaged some plaster fell down from the ceiling,
which caused him to run out of the room in great fear, and stumbling
in the dark he fell on the knife which he still held in his hand, and
received from it a wound in consequence of which he expired on the
spot. When this accident became known, the eunuchs, the servants, and
the inmates of the haram were so confused that they accused each other
of having murdered their master, and at last they came to blows, and
several of them were wounded and killed. In the morning the unfortunate
occurrence was reported to the king, who was much grieved at the loss of
a most faithful minister, and appointed his son to succeed him in the
service.
Some time afterwards Nassar ventured to make his appearance at court,
and was respectfully standing in the line of persons near the throne,
when the monarch observed him and exclaimed: “Young man, we have heard of
your archery but have never seen it. Now we wish to have a proof of it.”
Nassar desired that a ring should be tied to a hair and suspended at a
distance of seventy paces. Then he shot an arrow through the ring without
moving it, and repeated the feat thirty-nine times more.[40] The king and
his courtiers were astonished at his skill, while the spectators uttered
shouts of approbation; and the king was considering how to reward him
when an explosion of gunpowder took place in the manufactory close by,
which destroyed the building and killed more than a thousand persons; but
Nassar escaped unhurt. This catastrophe so occupied the mind of the king
that he rose up in a melancholy mood, forgot Nassar, and retired to his
private apartments.
In course of time the king resumed his customary duties and amusements,
and it happened one day while engaged in the chase that an eagle flew
near him, when he called out: “Is there any one who can strike that eagle
while he is flying?” Nassar immediately responded to the call, and the
eagle fell to the ground pierced through by his arrow. The king wished to
reward him on the spot, but the arrow, after passing through the eagle’s
body, having struck the eye of the king’s horse it became restive, began
to gallop, and a helter-skelter race followed, but the horse could not
be stopped, until, one of its legs going into a hole in the ground, it
threw its rider, and dragged him hanging by one foot in the stirrup,
into a very rapid stream. When the attendants beheld their sovereign
in such great peril they hastened to save him, which they did, but not
before he had swallowed a great quantity of water, was wounded, and more
dead than alive, and about five hundred men had been drowned. One of the
king’s servants said to Nassar: “Your archery is very unlucky, since for
every arrow that you shoot hundreds of men lose their lives.” The king
was taken in a litter to the palace, and only recovered his health after
forty days’ medical treatment.
When the bodies of the king’s followers were taken out of the water the
other attendants pierced the heart of Nassar with the shafts of irony
and disapprobation, and he concluded that, as he had been so many times
thwarted in his purpose of deserving the favour of the king, it would be
advisable for him to quit the scene of his exploits lest his life should
be endangered. He was yet undecided where to go when he perceived on
the opposite bank of the river a village, which he resolved to visit.
The current was very rapid, but he entered the water saying to himself:
“Let happen what will, my cup of bitterness is already brimful.” As he
was crossing, the water became so deep that his horse began to swim,
and the violence of the flood soon swept Nassar from its back. He was
a good swimmer, but his arms and accoutrements were heavy, so that he
was obliged to throw away everything, and landed on the other side in a
state of nudity. He waited for the evening, being ashamed thus to enter
the village, and when it was dark he roamed about the streets until
he found a mosque, in a corner of which he concealed himself, naked,
starving, and tired as he was. It happened that a party of thieves had
plundered the house of the village headman, and about midnight brought
their booty into the mosque for the purpose of dividing it. They kindled
lights and made some noise, and Nassar, awaking from sleep and dazzled
by the lights, fancied it was morning and that the people had come to
prayer. As he had a good voice, he said to himself: “Great blessings and
rewards are in store for those who call the faithful to prayer, and if I
do so, possibly the Most High may open the portals of abundance to my
destiny.” And so he ascended to the minaret and pronounced the usual form
of invocation, which when the robbers heard they weened that the morning
had already dawned while they had been so deeply absorbed in dividing
their plunder as to forget the lapse of time. Therefore they made haste
to finish the division, then extinguished the lights, and with their
bundles on their backs were flying from the mosque when they were met by
Nassar, who stopped them and said: “O ye bouquet-binders in the garden
of piety and devotion, now is the opportune time to seek the benefits
obtainable in the house of God, and this is the place for kindling the
lamp of prayer and supplication! Whither are you going? Have you not
heard that any person coming to the mosque for the performance of his
matutinal duty must remain there till sunrise?” The thieves took him for
the muezzin,[41] who wished to detain them till he could hand them over
to justice, and, one of them having given him a box on the ear, they all
ran off at the top of their speed. Nassar, now certain that they could
not be of the pious, ran after the thieves, and being an excellent boxer
and swordsman, attacked them boldly, and snatching the weapon from one of
them he struck about him to such purpose that he killed one and wounded
several of the others, upon which they abandoned their plunder and fled.
Nassar was at a loss what to do with the booty and the corpse, fearing
lest he should be held responsible for all that had occurred, and thus
fall into fresh danger. Some people, who lived near the mosque, having
been aroused from their slumbers by the untimely call from the minaret,
said one to another: “Surely that fellow has gone mad, since he calls to
morning prayer before midnight is past;” and when they heard the noise
of the scuffle they imagined that some vagabonds of the village, whom
Satan had seduced to adopt the doctrines of the Súfís, were holding their
nocturnal assembly in the mosque.[42] So they hastened thither to expel
the intruders; but when they entered they saw only Nassar, who was saying
to himself: “I wonder from what poor fellow the thieves have stolen this
property.” When the folk beheld a man standing alone and muttering to
himself they at once concluded he was a súfí in one of his ecstacies, who
had thus stripped himself naked; and as they walked according to the
commandments of the Most High and in conformity with the holy law of the
Prophet, and hated all súfís, innovators, and enthusiasts, they burst
into reproaches against them, crying: “O ye transgressors of the divine
commands and destroyers of the ordinances of the Refuge of Prophecy;[43]
who degrade the house of God to a brothel, by the wiles of Satan, who
has made you his own, and is your guide in irreligious proceedings! What
breach is this that you wish to make in Islám?” Nassar mistook them for
the thieves who had come back to recover their plunder and wished to
deceive him with such speeches, so he said: “You rogues, I shall not be
circumvented by your tricks,” and seizing the sword which was still near
him he wounded one of them and put the others to flight. Then he tied a
rope to the neck of the wounded man and said: “Come, tell the truth. From
what house have you stolen these goods?” But the man, knowing nothing of
the robbers, believed him to be a súfí in a trance, speaking nonsense,
and replied: “O you wretched vagabond and fanatic and transgressor of the
divine commands! I know not what you say. Have I not come hither from my
house on account of the tumult which you made?”
Meanwhile the other villagers who had been driven away by Nassar went
to the officials and thus addressed them: “Is Islám no longer dominant
in this country, that hypocrites and infidels are allowed to enter the
mosque and desecrate it with their orgies? People who live near the
mosque hear every night the diabolical revellings of a pack of vagabonds.
Last night they again entered the mosque, and, contrary to law, shouted
the call to prayer in the middle of the night. They have even sorely
wounded one of the faithful, and we do not know what has become of him.”
The officials ordered a party of constables to accompany them and to
seize the law-breakers; and when they entered the mosque they found
Nassar still engaged in examining his prisoner, and mistaking them also
for the thieves he wounded one of them likewise. “Súfí,” they exclaimed,
“what impudence and wickedness is this? Do pious and virtuous men ever
fight and kill the servants of God in the mosque?” Quoth Nassar: “You
vile robbers! you cannot deceive me. I intend to slay you all this night,
to deserve the reward of God.” When they saw him speaking so boldly,
naked as he was, they said: “Look at the presumption of this súfí, to
behave in such a manner in the mosque!” By this time, the morning having
dawned, numbers of the people came to prayer, and Nassar fled, with the
sword in his hand, and wounded several persons who attempted to stop him.
But he ran so fast that no one was able to overtake him, and his pursuers
then returned to their homes. Soon afterwards, however, a company of
súfís came into the village and were at once accused of having committed
the robbery; a general tumult ensued and many men were slain or wounded.
Ultimately the affair came before the king of Egypt, who caused the súfís
to be punished and fined, although they were entirely innocent of the
crime laid to their charge.
Nassar now wandered from town to town, pursued by misfortunes. One day
the king of Egypt asked his courtiers what had become of him, but they
could only reply that in consequence of the various calamities that
followed his archery feat he had disappeared. His majesty observed that
for these accidents Nassar was in no way accountable, because they had
all occurred by the decree of Fate, and he despatched messengers in
every direction to search for him. Nassar was at last discovered in a
village, in a very destitute and miserable condition. He was carried to
the capital, and before bringing him into the king’s presence it was
necessary to take him to the bath, after which his majesty received
him with great kindness and inquired of him: “Are you skilled in any
other things besides archery?” Nassar bowed his head and replied: “I am
acquainted with military tactics, mathematics, commerce, mineralogy,
boxing, fencing, and also with cooking.”[44] Quoth the king: “All
these accomplishments adorn the character of a man, none of them,
however, can equal your skill in archery; but when you acquired it your
destiny was unpropitious and the moon was evidently in the mansion of
the Scorpion.[45] It will therefore be proper for you to abstain from
shooting arrows and to practice other arts until the lucky hour comes
when these calamities have disappeared from your horoscope. This day I
wish to give a banquet, and you must exhibit your skill in boxing; and as
you tell me that you also possess a knowledge of the art of cooking, I
give you leave to prepare any dishes you please, for it is long since I
was able to relish any kind of food.”
Accordingly Nassar made various savoury dishes, and when he had finished
his work the king commanded him to show his skill in boxing until the
dinner hour. Nassar said that he was ready to box and wrestle with two
hundred men who excelled in these arts, and when they were produced he
very easily vanquished them one after another.[46] The king gave orders
that more men should be brought, but to his astonishment none could be
found willing to encounter such a formidable antagonist. But recollecting
that he possessed a Circassian slave named Fírúz Bakht, lately presented
to him by the Sultan of Turkey, who was skilled in wrestling, he ordered
him to attack Nassar. The slave caught Nassar about the loins so forcibly
that his own hands bled, but he was unable to move him a hair’s breadth
from the spot where he stood. To be brief, they wrestled long and
skilfully, the Circassian trying two hundred different tricks without
effect. At last, however, Nassar turned the game and lifted Fírúz Bakht
from the ground with as much ease as if he were a child; but the slave so
firmly grasped a pillar of the shed in which the sport was taking place
that Nassar could not pull him from it; and making a final effort he
tugged so hard that along with Fírúz Bakht he wrenched the pillar away,
which killed the slave and about twenty of the spectators by a portion of
the roof falling down on them after its support had been thus withdrawn.
The king, with all his attendants, fled from the place in alarm, and the
banquet, which was to be one of joy, became one of mourning.
Although the king was greatly affected by this sad accident he said to
his courtiers: “As this event only took place by the immutable decree
of Fate, I can in no way blame the young stranger; and if I lose my
life together with my kingdom, a thousand accidents such as this will
not influence me against him.” The courtiers tried to comfort the king,
but as he was very melancholy their efforts were fruitless. When the
table-decker made his appearance and announced that the dinner prepared
by Nassar was ready to be served up, the king said: “Though we have at
present no inclination to eat anything, yet, as the dinner is prepared,
cause it to be brought in.” When, however, the king had tasted some of
the dishes he found them to be more delicious than aught he had ever
eaten before; and, thus seduced, he ate so heartily that he became ill,
and having but lately recovered from sickness he was unable to digest the
food, and only recovered after a long course of medicine.
But that magnanimous and kind-hearted monarch, albeit he had never been
sick before he had come in contact with Nassar, would ascribe neither his
indisposition nor the other calamities to that circumstance, but to the
decrees of Fate, and bore him no ill-will. He invested Nassar with a robe
of honour, made him various presents, and was about to appoint him to
a high office, when one of the vazírs, who had by his natural sagacity
guessed the king’s purpose, said that, although his majesty was of a
liberal and kind disposition and Nassar a deserving person, yet it would
be inadvisable to bestow on him any great favours at the present time,
because experience had abundantly shown that the withering blasts of his
unfortunate destiny had not yet ceased to blow, and only mischief would
be the result. Therefore, he went on to say, it would be better to give
him a considerable sum of money and dismiss him, with the injunction to
remain in some other place until his destiny had changed for the better,
when he might return to the service of the king, whose favours, if now
bestowed, would be thrown away. He continued: “It is also certain that
in the same way as all efforts to aid persons who are predestined to be
unfortunate are in vain, so also the devotional and religious wishes of
silly though well-meaning men are of little avail to them.” The king
asked: “How is that?” Upon which the vazír related the
_Story of the Foolish Hermit_.
At the time of the rising of the Sun of Prophecy, the glance of an
angel of the Court of Unity[47] chanced to alight on the hermitage of
an ascetic, whom he beheld sedulously engaged in all the duties of
religion; and he was so pleased that he was curious to know what should
be the reward of all this piety. Then the allocution reached him from
the Lord of Omniscience: “Angel, pray that this mystery be revealed to
thee.” Accordingly the angel made his supplication and was informed that
the reward of the ascetic should be very inconsiderable; whereat he was
so astonished that he said: “O God! how can this be the reward of a whole
life of piety? I consider it as insufficient for a single day. What
wisdom is concealed in this matter?” Then he heard this order: “Visit
him in human form, and learn the state of the case.” The angel obeyed,
and, after being by the power of the Most High transformed into a man,
he visited the hermit and became so intimate with him that he lived for
several days in his cell, which being situated in a pleasant and fertile
region, with abundance of springs and flowers, the angel said one day
to the hermit: “Arise, let us enjoy a walk in this delightful place.”
Accordingly they went out together, and when they entered a paradise-like
meadow, and beheld the freshness of the parti-coloured vegetation,
they praised the Almighty. Said the angel: “Hermit, be grateful to God
for having adorned the neighbourhood of your cell like a paradise with
springs and flowers and crowned every blade of grass with the diadem
of loveliness and fertility.” The ascetic replied: “My dear brother, I
always enjoy the pleasantness of this locality because it abounds in
grass and water, so that many animals might be fattened here. But I am
constantly burning with grief that God has no ass whom I might comfort
and feed in this place, and might for his sake acquire a higher merit in
the next world.” When the angel was thus made aware of the littleness
of the hermit’s mind, by this silly wish, he left him, and resuming
his proper form the divine allocution reached him: “Have you seen the
intelligence and wisdom of the hermit?”[48]
* * * * *
The vazír continued: “A sovereign must also use very great care in the
choice of his ministers, otherwise he may fare like the king of Basra,
who had a very ambitious and wicked vazír.” Quoth the king of Egypt: “How
was that?” and the minister began to relate the
_Story of the Treacherous Vazír_.
In ancient times there was a king of Basra who was very kind-hearted and
liberal. He had a good vazír, worthy of his confidence, who assiduously
attended to all his duties and was very faithful; but death overtook him,
and the king, who was for some time undecided what to do, ultimately
appointed in his place a man of great ambition, who secretly entertained
a design of usurping the throne; and being in want of an accomplice he
bribed a eunuch to introduce him to one of the ladies of the haram. But
when he had become accustomed to the pleasures which awaited him in the
fond embraces of love, he thought that it would be dangerous to carry out
his purpose very hastily, so he drew the lady into his secret, and now
neglected the eunuch who had assisted him thus far and who consequently
made a vow to avenge himself on the ungrateful vazír.
One night the king had a very unpleasant dream: a scorpion crawled
from his sleeve into his shoe, and when he attempted to take it out it
bit him. In the morning the sultan related his dream to some of his
courtiers, and as they could offer no satisfactory explanation of it he
said: “You are only groping in the dark, and we must wait till a skilful
interpreter can be found.”
The eunuch, who had heard the attendants conversing on the subject and
thought this a favourable opportunity to revenge himself on the vazír,
said that he was able to interpret the dream; and on being brought before
the king spake as follows: “The interpretation is, that one of your
majesty’s highest officials has withdrawn his head from the circle of
obedience: by means of a eunuch he has gained admission into the royal
haram, which he visits every night, and carries on a love-intrigue with
one of the ladies; and moreover he entertains the most wicked design,
at a fitting opportunity, of depriving your majesty of life (which God
forbid!) and usurping the throne himself;—and there is a high degree of
probability that the official is no other than the vazír.” On hearing
this the king was wroth, but concealed his feelings, so that he should
not compromise his dignity, and exclaimed: “Base wretch! there is nothing
to warrant such a suspicion, unless, perhaps, some spite which you
harbour against the vazír, and in consequence of which you malign him;”
and he ordered the eunuch to be instantly put to death. But the king,
though inclined to give some credit to the eunuch’s story, could hardly
believe that a man such as his vazír, whom he had raised from a low
position and made a sharer in the government of the kingdom, could be so
ungrateful as to covet his throne and purpose depriving him of life.
During the past night the vazír had as usual visited his paramour, and
they had then agreed to murder the king on the following night, but they
wot not of what was in store for them. The king, who had been rendered
uneasy by the revelation of the eunuch, entered his private apartments
in the evening, and then secretly despatched a confidential servant to
see whether the vazír was in his own house. When the messenger returned
with the information that the vazír was not at home, the king had no
longer any doubts, and knew that if the vazír had entered the haram
he must have done so from the water-side. He quietly summoned all the
watchmen and said to them: “Last night I dreamt that thieves entered the
haram, and I am very uneasy; therefore I command you to kill any person
either entering or issuing from it.” After the sentries had returned to
their posts the king himself went into the haram, and, accompanied by
some trusty eunuchs, rushed into the room where he supposed the vazír
and the lady slept, and there discovering another guilty couple he slew
them, and the former escaped.[49] While a eunuch ran after the vazír and
his paramour, the king went out to see whether all the sentries were at
their posts; and as soon as they perceived him they stabbed him to death,
according to his own order. Meanwhile the eunuch pursued the vazír, who
also went out by the water-side, was also mistaken in the darkness for
a robber, and met the same fate as his master. Then the other eunuchs
who were in search of the vazír, and were not aware of the king’s order,
also issued by the same door and were all killed by the guards; so that
in the morning when the dead bodies were counted they amounted to forty.
On discovering the body of the king the people greatly deplored the
misfortune, and, considering that he with all his attendants had been
killed in consequence of a conspiracy, they laid hold of the watchmen and
put them to death, after which the kingdom fell into a state of anarchy.
* * * * *
The vazír added that this narrative exemplified how one individual may
become the cause of the death of many, and that from the misfortunes
which followed Nassar’s exploits it plainly appeared that he was also one
of the number of those ill-fated wretches, and that the misadventures of
Shoayb of Baghdád likewise supported his statement. Quoth the king: “How
is that?” whereupon the vazír related the
_Story of the Unlucky Shoayb_.
In days of yore there dwelt in the city of Baghdád a rich man called
Shoayb, but various calamities befell him so that he became extremely
poor and quitted the country, and his ill-luck followed him wheresoever
he went, and in spite of all his diligence and skill he was unable to
succeed in any affair which he undertook. One day he approached a river
and discovered three men engaged in fishing, and as he had never seen
this occupation exercised he looked on with much interest. The three
fishermen, seeing that he was in a very destitute condition, easily
induced him to enter their service, on condition that they should give
him as his wages one fish for breakfast and another for supper.[50] After
he had been a few days thus employed the river began to decrease in
volume and also the fish in number, so that they caught only a tenth of
the quantity which they used to get formerly. At last they could catch
only one fish in a whole day, and were reduced to such straits that they
resolved to go in quest of some other kind of work.
One day the sultan happened to pass that way and perceived to his
great astonishment that there was scarcely any water in the river. He
questioned the fishermen, who stated their case, when the vazír of the
king, who was a very intelligent man, asked them: “Has any stranger come
among you during these days and been taken into partnership with you?”
They pointed to Shoayb and said: “This man is a stranger among us.” Then
Shoayb was examined, and he recounted his former wealthy condition and
his present destitution in such appropriate and eloquent language that
the king and his vazír, as well as all the attendants, were greatly
amazed, and when he had ended his narrative the vazír said: “To stay any
longer in this place is contrary to the dictates of prudence!” So they
all returned to the city, and on their way the king asked the vazír:
“Why did you make those inquiries and then become so disconcerted by the
answers you received that, by your declaration that it would be unsafe
to stay any longer there, you almost forced us away from the place?”
The vazír saluted the king and thus replied: “Most gracious sovereign,
when your majesty asked for the cause of the river’s decrease I thought
of three causes: First, that perhaps these fishermen had for several
days forgotten God and the Prophet, and that therefore such a calamity
had befallen them; because it is certain that when men give way to evil
habits, the genii and demons are permitted to injure them and to destroy
their prospects even as the withering blasts of autumn deprive the roses
of their freshness and bloom. Secondly, that perchance these fishermen
had in some way injured either your majesty or the inhabitants of this
district, for which they were thus punished. Thirdly, that possibly a
stranger had come amongst these fishermen, and that on account of the
misfortunes which follow his heels they as his partners are compelled to
participate in them, and therefore I questioned that stranger regarding
his history; when I discovered that he had brought his ill-luck with him,
in consequence of which the river itself has nearly dried up.” Quoth the
king: “I have full confidence in your intelligence and experience, but I
put no faith in your theories of good and ill-luck, because both are mere
expressions and depend entirely upon circumstances. Thus, for instance,
if a man be intelligent and honest, and manage his affairs properly, he
will certainly have good luck, but a careless fool must naturally meet
with ill luck:
Every man is master of his own fortune
According to his character and strength of mind:[51]
One, as Lukman,[52] wise and opportune;
The other as crazy Majnún[53] you will find.
The bulbul[54] among roses dwells,
The owl in ruins dark abides;
But intellect every ascent tells,
And the fool his own folly chides.”
The vazír responded: “What your majesty says is but the sequel of my
assertion, because the intellectual qualities of every individual depend
upon his horoscope and the propitious or unpropitious positions of the
stars, and according to these a man is either lucky or unlucky. Moreover,
we frequently see that intelligent and good men do not prosper, while
fools and rogues succeed in all their undertakings.”[55] Quoth the
king: “This I believe, because sometimes an intelligent man has not that
practical turn required in the management of affairs and is thereby
unable to overcome difficulties.”[56] To this the vazír rejoined: “What
argument can your majesty adduce in favour of the prosperous condition of
Hindús, Jews, Christians, and infidels, who are more powerful than the
professors of Islám, most of whom are in need of the aid of those nations
addicted to error?” To this question the king could give no satisfactory
answer, but he nevertheless said: “No matter what arguments you may bring
forward, I shall not believe your assertion.” The conversation was still
turning on this subject when they entered the city, and the king said:
“Let this matter stand over until I can prove that I am right;” to which
the vazír replied: “If your majesty can prove the contrary of what I have
stated, I am willing that my blood be spilled and lapped by the dogs in
the streets.”
Next morning the king secretly called one of his confidential servants,
and handing him a bag of gold said: “Go without the knowledge of any one
to the river, take the young stranger to whom we spoke yesterday apart,
and give him this gold. Bid him leave the company of the fishermen, go
to the bath, put on good clothes, and wait the day after to-morrow on
horseback in such a place until farther orders.” The attendant set out
with the gold, and on coming up to the fishermen he was perplexed, as he
could not distinguish which of them was the stranger. At last he called
one of the fishermen aside and asked: “Which is the young stranger with
whom the vazír conversed yesterday?” Quoth the man: “Why do you want
him?” “I have some business with him,” answered the king’s messenger.
The fisherman, who was a cunning fellow, suspected that the vazír had
sent the stranger something, so he assumed a doleful aspect and said
in a melancholy voice: “I am that poor stranger,” on which the servant
took out the gold secretly, and giving it to the man, at the same time
delivered the king’s message; and the fisherman did not return to his
companions, but immediately ran to the city, where he purchased a fleet
horse and fled in the direction of Tabríz.
On the appointed day the king took the vazír towards the river, and
looked in all directions for Shoayb, whom they could not discover, until,
reaching the bank, they saw him with two of the fishermen. The king at
once surmised that the absence of the third was to be ascribed to the
mistake of his servant; accordingly he said nothing to his vazír, but
when he returned to the palace he reprimanded the careless attendant and
sent him to prison. Then he took another bag of gold and delivered it to
an intelligent servant with the same directions as before. He went to
the river, and calling Shoayb privately apart, asked him: “Are you the
stranger among the fishermen?” But Shoayb, suspecting that this man might
be the precursor of a caravan of fresh misfortunes, answered: “I am one
of the fishermen.” Then said the man: “Go and send the young stranger to
me.” Shoayb went and told one of the fishermen that a servant of the king
wanted to see him, and when he came the man handed him the bag of gold,
without asking any questions, delivered the king’s orders, and departed.
The fisherman was at first astonished at his good luck, but afterwards
said to himself: “Gifts such as this are merely tokens of the munificence
of sovereigns. Probably when the king was here and saw our distress the
Most High inspired him with pity for us.” So he concealed the bag at a
distance from Shoayb and his companion; but the latter, having watched
all his movements and observed that a servant of the king had given him
something which he was now hiding, resolved to make away with him and
possess the treasure. Accordingly, having sent Shoayb to the city on some
errand, he took the net and said to his comrade: “Come, let us throw the
net, for I have just seen a very large fish.” His unsuspecting partner
complied, and when he drew near, the intending murderer pushed him into
the river, but his own hand becoming entangled in the net he also fell
into the water and both perished.
It happened that the fisherman who intended to flee to Tabríz was not
well acquainted with the road, and after travelling all day lay down to
sleep. When he awoke he found that his horse had strayed away and went in
pursuit of it; but having proceeded some distance he recollected that he
had left the bag of gold, which was under his head while he slept, and
returned for it, but in his haste he missed the spot, not only for an
hour or two but he was utterly unable to discover it after three days’
search, during which period he had nothing to eat or drink. He found
his way back to the capital in a state of great exhaustion, and had no
alternative but to betake himself again to his old business on the river.
When he arrived there he beheld Shoayb alone and asked him where his two
comrades had gone. Shoayb told him that they had sent him four days ago
to the town on an errand, and when he returned they were absent and had
not yet made their appearance.
Meanwhile the king again made an excursion with the vazír, and when they
reached the bank of the river they saw Shoayb with another man. Therefore
the king concluded that the gold had been again received by the wrong
person and he became very angry. On his return to the palace he punished
the servant, and said to himself: “I am surely singular among kings,
not to possess a man able to execute this business properly.” Then he
despatched a third attendant to the river, telling him that he would
see there two men, one of whom belonged to the country, the other was a
stranger, and to be sure he brought the latter with him. When the servant
came up to the two men he asked: “Which of you two is the stranger?”
The fisherman, having obtained the second bag of gold on pretence of
being the stranger and believing that the king was conferring gifts on
such persons and that the servant had brought more money, replied: “I
am the stranger who has no share in the comforts of this world. What
do you want with me?” Quoth the servant: “The king wishes to see you.”
But when the fisherman heard the king mentioned, reflecting that he had
received the bag of gold on the previous occasion without having a right
to it, he began to tremble; he had no excuse, however, and followed the
messenger. When he was brought into the royal presence the king at once
saw that he was not the man he had sought to benefit and resolved to
punish him. “Are you,” demanded he, “the stranger who lives with the
fishermen?” The man replied: “Yes.” Then quoth the king: “As you are the
fellow in consequence of whose unpropitious advent the water of the river
has become diminished and the fish in it few in number, you are worthy
of death.” On seeing his joyous expectations come to such an end the
fisherman began to moan and said: “May it please your majesty, I am not
that stranger. But as this world is not our permanent abode, and we are
all sojourners in it, I said that I am a stranger.” But the king’s wrath
was not appeased by the man’s supplications, and he was immediately made
to drink of the beverage of death. Thus on account of the misfortunes of
Shoayb all the three fishermen lost their lives.
Shoayb, who had remained by the river, now reflected that, as the
king’s messengers had several times been there and always asked for the
stranger, and as his companions had disappeared, it would not be safe for
him to continue longer in that place, especially as it appeared probable
that the king bore enmity to strangers; and therefore he betook himself
to the city, so that when the king again sent a messenger he could find
no one, and his majesty was once more disappointed in his well-meant
efforts to assist the poor stranger.
One night the king was walking about the city in disguise,[57]
accompanied by some of his courtiers, when he saw a crowd in the bazár
assembled round a man whose hands were tied, and addressing him in this
strain: “In consequence of the unpropitious sight of your unhallowed
person, that misfortune has befallen Khoja Naym. He was so rich that
every morning and evening one thousand men partook of the banquet of his
liberality, and by your ill luck he was overwhelmed by such a calamity.”
When the king looked well at the man he recognised Shoayb as the object
of the reproaches and vituperation of the crowd. So he went aside and
said to his attendants: “Save this man in any way you can from the grasp
of this mob; for he is the individual we are in search of.” The courtiers
mixed with the crowd and asked: “Who is this man? And what has he done to
Khoja Naym?” The people answered: “Yesterday morning the Khoja was riding
out to meet the caravan from Egypt, with the intention of purchasing some
goods, and as soon as his eye caught sight of this fellow he immediately
fell down from his horse and expired.[58] We have been some time in
search of him, and now that we have found him we are going to retaliate
on him the death of Khoja Naym.” The royal attendants said: “Such events
take place by the decrees of Providence. You persecute this guiltless man
in vain, for according to the law no crime can be brought home to him.
You ought rather to give alms and solace the poor, to please God, and
for the pardon of the Khoja. Indeed, should any evil happen to this man
you will have to account for it to the king.” But the people of Khoja
Naym would not listen to reason, and pulled the man on one side while the
courtiers, who were not recognised in the darkness, pulled him on the
other side, and the quarrel resulted in a fight, during which several
persons were wounded and one of the courtiers was killed. Amidst the
confusion, however, Shoayb contrived to make his escape.
When the people of Khoja Naym had fled and the crowd was dispersed, the
king walked away with his attendants, who carried the body of the slain
courtier along with them. On their way to the palace they were met by
the police, who mistook them for robbers carrying a dead comrade, and
attempted to arrest them. The king and his men drew their swords and
resisted, so that a fight again ensued, which ended in the whole party
being captured after several persons had been killed and wounded on both
sides. On taking their prisoners to the guard-house the police discovered
that they had arrested their own king and became so terrified that they
took to their heels. The king arrived at the palace, with his courtiers,
so fatigued and wounded that he was unable to rise from his couch for
several days. Nevertheless he issued orders to fine, imprison, and punish
the people of Khoja Naym, who had during the night attacked certain
persons in the bazár and had even killed one of their number.
On the following evening the king ordered two intimate friends to come to
his private apartments, when he spoke to them as follows: “Although at
present all appearances are in favour of the vazír’s assertion, yet I am
unwilling to concede that it is true. You must go again in search of that
stranger, and possibly we may at last get hold of him.” But the courtiers
replied: “It is not advisable that your majesty should take any more
trouble in this matter, lest it should result in greater misfortunes.”
“I see,” said the king, “that I cannot entrust this service to any one,
and therefore I must go myself.” Accordingly, when evening was somewhat
advanced, he set out with a number of attendants, and while strolling
through the bazárs, he chanced to look into the public bath-house, and
there he saw Shoayb sitting in earnest conversation with the fireman, and
sent a servant to call him out. When Shoayb had come into the street his
majesty said to him: “I am in great favour with the king. I had a brother
resembling you in stature and features who was also in the royal service,
and just when he had been appointed to a high office an accident hastened
him to the next world. No one, however, knows of this but myself; and as
I am very desirous that the position to which he was promoted should be
enjoyed by a member of my family, I propose to substitute you in his
stead, and present you to the king; and after you receive his favours
you will be sent to your post in the country, whereby the dark night of
your reverses will be changed to the bright morning of happiness.” Shoayb
joyfully agreed to this proposal, and the king, handing a purse to an
attendant, said to him: “Take charge of this man; to-morrow take him to
the bath, and purchase with this gold whatever is required. I shall also
send the necessary costume and on the following day present him to his
majesty.”
As Shoayb and the royal servant were proceeding along together, the
latter asked Shoayb to carry the gold for a short while, and just then
one of the king’s elephants, that had become mad and broken loose,
rushing through the street overthrew the servant and trampled him to
death. This so frightened Shoayb that he would not remain in the place,
and having no other acquaintance, he returned to the fireman of the
bath-house. When Shoayb entered, the man perceived the bag in his hand,
and fancied he had brought some delicious food; but as Shoayb showed
no signs of wishing him to partake of it, he resolved to possess it
by a stratagem. He kindled some dry wood over the bath, and, suddenly
affecting to be in great distress, exclaimed: “Woe is me! the roof has
caught fire, and as the bath-house is close to the bazár it will also
become a prey to the flames!” Then handing a bucket to Shoayb, he said:
“Brother, fill this bucket at the river and come back quickly that we
may extinguish the fire, from which the whole world is in danger!”
Shoayb took the bucket and went out; but as soon as he had disappeared
the cupidity of the fireman would not allow him first to extinguish the
flames, but impelled him to examine the bag, and when to his astonishment
he found it full of gold he exclaimed joyfully: “This is indeed great
luck!” But while he was concealing the treasure in an aperture in the
wall the flames increased so much that they enveloped the whole roof,
and some sparks falling on the heaps of fuel around the building kindled
them, and attracted the people of the quarter to the scene, where they
found the covetous man burnt to a cinder. Meanwhile the conflagration
increased, being fanned by the wind, and it was only put out with great
labour, and after much property was destroyed and many persons lost their
lives.
While Shoayb was going to fetch water he lost his way, and met a party
of thieves carrying on their backs the plunder which they had just taken
from a house. As soon as they caught sight of him they compelled him also
to carry a burden, and proceeded to the town-wall, which they scaled by
throwing up a rope-ladder, and in the same manner they descended on the
other side. They walked on until they reached a cemetery, where they
deposited their booty, and then proposed to kill Shoayb, but one of
the gang, more merciful than his comrades, said: “Friends, is it not
enough that we steal, but we must also commit murder? This man can do
us no harm.” Others, however, replied: “A head which is cut off cannot
speak;” and the discussion was becoming very warm when one of the king’s
spies chanced to pass by, and hearing voices issuing from the vault, he
listened and soon ascertained what was going on. Then he rode quickly
to the town and brought a number of armed men, with whom he rushed into
the vault, and killed all the thieves. After they had examined the
plunder and were beginning to remove it, they discovered in a corner a
man crouching down, with his hands tied, and asked him: “Who are you?”
Shoayb replied that he was a poor stranger who had been robbed and was
just about to be killed when they arrived. The men bade him take of the
plunder whatever belonged to him, and he was not slow in appropriating
a Kurán[59] with several other articles and walked away. As soon as
the morning dawned and the city gates were opened Shoayb entered; but
as the householder who had been robbed immediately gave notice to the
authorities, they were on the alert; and he himself happening to be
near the gate by which Shoayb entered at once recognised his own Kurán
and the other things the unlucky man was carrying. The servants of the
householder caught hold of him and said: “Where have you got these
articles?” He replied: “They are my property.” Shoayb was, of course,
taken for a thief, and the servants tied his hands and were about to
bring him before the authorities, when the armed men who had slain the
robbers returned, after having secreted the plunder and thrown the bodies
into the river. When they found Shoayb in this difficulty, they knew that
if he were tortured he would make a confession and bring all of them into
trouble, and that they would not be credited with having taken their
plunder from the thieves but would be considered as robbers themselves,
and thus forfeit their lives. So they determined to liberate Shoayb,
and, assembling a great number of their friends, they demanded that the
innocent prisoner should be delivered to them. This was refused, and a
fight ensued which swelled to such dimensions that about a thousand men
were killed, and a rumour spread that an enemy had invaded the capital.
The king at once despatched a body of ten thousand men, with orders to
quell the tumult at any price, which they did, and brought a multitude
of prisoners, including Shoayb, into the presence of the king.
Now the vazír, when the king discussed the subject of Shoayb’s
misfortunes with him, knew that his majesty would endeavour to disprove
his assertions, so he had appointed some men to watch occurrences day and
night, and to keep a record of every misfortune which should befall the
people on account of Shoayb. They performed their duties very faithfully,
and had by this time compiled a document of considerable length. And
when the king discovered Shoayb among the prisoners and the wounded who
had been brought before him, he inwardly acknowledged his error and
was convinced that the vazír was right. The first man whom he called
forth from the assembly was the owner of the stolen property, which
he identified in the hands of Shoayb of Baghdád, and many others bore
witness to the truth of his statement. Then quoth the king to Shoayb:
“I know that you are not a thief and a robber, and it is probable that
he who is not a thief is also not a liar. I therefore command you to
give a true account of this business.” The poor fellow in reply related
every circumstance from his going to fetch water till his falling among
thieves, and so on to the end. Then the king thus spake to the armed men
of his spy: “Cupidity spoils everything in this world. Had you simply
captured the thieves and brought them to me you would have deserved a
reward. But by taking their plunder you have become their accomplices
and the cause of so great confusion and slaughter. You are worthy of
death, but as you have slain the thieves I pardon you; at the same time
I command you to restore the goods to the owners and leave the city
together with Shoayb.” After the people had been dismissed the vazír
produced the document in which the calamities connected with Shoayb were
recorded, and it was found that within the space of twelve days one
thousand five hundred men had lost their lives, besides the injuries
suffered by those who had been wounded and had lost their property.
CONCLUSION OF THE HISTORY OF NASSAR.
Having thus ended his third example, the vazír added: “As this story
likewise clearly shows the truth of my assertion, your majesty would
do well to dismiss Nassar to a distant country until the rust of his
misfortunes is wiped off the mirror of his circumstances, when you may
safely receive him again into your royal favour.” The king of Egypt
approved of this advice, and ordered the vazír to give Nassar a thousand
dínars and send him away. The vazír immediately sent for Nassar and gave
him the money; he even apologised to Nassar, and desired him to return
after his fortune had become more propitious, when his majesty would
receive him most graciously, and reward him handsomely.
Nassar was very sad and knew not where to go, till he recollected that
Khayrandísh had given him a ring which he was to show at Aleppo to his
friend Abú Jurjás, if he should fall into any troubles and be in need
of assistance. So he set out for that city. On the way he came to a
delightful meadow, adorned with trees and flowers, and as he was fatigued
he lay down near a beautiful spring, and, placing the gold he had
received from the vazír under his head, soon fell asleep. Presently he
was awoke by a voice exclaiming: “Young man, this is a perilous place for
resting or sleeping in. Arise, and save your life!” He leaped up hastily
and fled. After a while he recollected that he had forgotten his gold,
but was afraid to return; and considering this also as a consequence of
his ill-luck he continued his journey.
When he arrived in the vicinity of the hermitage of Abú Jurjás, he beheld
it in a state of neatness and cleanliness. From its walls blessings and
felicities radiated; but he could find no trace of the hermit. After
looking all round, he perceived a man sleeping on a couch, and said to
himself: “This must be the hermit, who has probably spent the night in
devotion and is now sleeping.” Accordingly he waited till evening, but
the hermit did not move. Then thought Nassar: “Although it is uncivil to
awaken any one from sleep, yet as this man would be sorry to miss the
time for evening prayers I must disturb him.” He therefore went forward
and shook the hermit slightly, but still he did not move. He perceived a
slip of paper on the pillow which contained these words:
“Fortunate youth! on the bank of the river of life no tree grows which
is not blown down by the wind of Fate. In a vision I was informed that
you would come hither, but whilst I was alive I expected you in vain.
But since the goblet of my existence has become filled to-day, I could
not postpone my departure, and, bowing my head obediently to the summons
of the omnipotent Sovereign, I laid myself down on my death-bed. I
am perfectly aware of what you have come to seek. Dread nothing: all
your reverses will soon be turned to prosperity. Friend, I have three
injunctions to communicate to you: First, that you wash my corpse and
bury it in this place; secondly, that as soon as you have the means you
build a chapel here, so that whenever people see it they may remember
me, and their kind wishes may rejoice my soul, for nothing is more
useful to those who sleep on the pillow of death than the prayers of
the living for their pardon; and, thirdly, that every Friday[60] night
frankincense or other perfumes be burnt over my tomb, because wherever
that is done angels of mercy alight. On account of the hardships which
you have hitherto suffered, your fortune will henceforward be very great.
In the neighbourhood of this spot there is a spring called the Fountain
of Al-Kamyss, which was a place where Muslim fairies were wont to amuse
themselves, and therefore infidel genii have dried it up. You must during
the space of forty days[61] go to that place every day and pray God to
cause the water again to flow. As soon as by divine command the water
reappears, you must perform the sacred ablution of gratitude to the
Almighty, when all the filth of your misfortunes will be removed and the
fairies will everywhere shower happiness on your head.”
After Nassar had read the paper he washed and buried the body of the
hermit. Then he betook himself to the fountain and prayed during forty
days, at the end of which period the water again began to flow and fishes
appeared in it, by order of the Almighty, and each fish bore a jewel in
its ear and a ring in its mouth. The fishes exclaimed: “Praise be to
the Most High!” and saluted Nassar, who was very much astonished at the
spectacle. Then a white fish more beautiful than all the others raised
its head from the water, brought the purse of gold which Nassar had left
in the meadow when he was scared away by the warning voice, and said:
“Happy young man! this is your property. Be not amazed at the sight of
us, for, though we are now in the form of fishes, we are in reality
fairies, and live according to the ordinances of Islám; and for this
reason we usually assume the shape of fish, because they are the most
innocent of God’s creatures.[62] This fountain is our abode and place
of amusement. When the malevolent genii had, on account of their enmity
towards us, dried up this spring, we were compelled to wander about; but
now that, by the blessing of your advent, the water has again appeared,
we are engaged in praising God and in thanking you. Young man, in the
meadow where you slept near a fountain we warned you to depart, because
that region is the abode of a tremendous dragon which has destroyed
numberless people by its fiery breath, and no one has been able to kill
it. The astrologers have predicted that a stranger will destroy the
monster, and the king of the country, who has no offspring, has made
a vow that he will abdicate the throne in favour of that fortunate
stranger. We shall reward your good deed by killing the dragon and
bringing you a sign, whereby you shall obtain the bride of royalty and
gain every day a hundredfold more than your father Khoja Humáyún has
lost.”
Then the fairies brought forth various savoury dishes, of which they
invited him to eat, while they went and slew the dragon, after which
they vanished. But soon a great tempest and dust enveloped the whole
firmament in confusion and darkness; and when all the noise and turmoil
had passed away, the surface of the fountain became slightly agitated,
and the fishes again appeared, and placed the head of the dragon, which
was of monstrous size, on the brim of the spring. Then one of the fairy
fishes addressed Nassar, saying: “This dragon was sleeping in the shadow
of a mountain; we went with seventy thousand fairies to the spot where
the monster lay, and separating half of the mountain threw it on the
dragon, which immediately perished—its last agonies caused the tempest
and darkness. Although the service which we have thus done to you is
as nothing compared with the favour you have conferred upon us, yet as
every return, be it ever so slight, is acceptable, we have been happy to
serve you; and, please God, we shall hereafter consider it as our highest
pleasure to gratify every one of your wishes. And now you may depart to
the city.”
Nassar went away accordingly; and when the people saw the head of the
dragon they notified the event to the capital, from which immense crowds
issued, so that not less than twenty thousand persons met Nassar and
escorted him with great pomp into the city, the people constantly bowing
and thanking him for the great benefit he had conferred on them. Just
then the good king was on his deathbed, and, having no son, his ministers
did not know who should be his successor. But when they heard of Nassar’s
entrance into the city they instantly conveyed him before the dying king,
who was rejoiced to learn that the dragon was slain, kissed Nassar on
the forehead, offered his thanksgivings to the Most High, murmuring:
“If I must die, I have now no other wish.” Then he handed his diadem
and royal signet to Nassar, and said to the vazír: “He is indeed a good
servant who obeys his sovereign on his deathbed; therefore now let every
one who loves me pay his allegiance to Nassar.” With one accord the
ministers and others who were present did homage to Nassar and elevated
him to the throne of royalty.
When the king died Nassar began to govern. He fulfilled the last wishes
of the hermit. He sent messengers to Baghdád to bring his father Khoja
Humáyún with all his relatives, and on their arrival, with great ceremony
and pomp, the father rejoiced to meet his son like Jacob when he was
brought to Joseph. Nassar appointed his father to be his vazír and
bestowed high stations on all his kindred; he also wrote a letter to the
king of Egypt, which he sent with many gifts, informing him of the happy
turn his destiny had taken. Thus Nassar, although for some time in the
gripe of various misfortunes, became ultimately very happy and spent his
life in great comfort.
HISTORY OF FARRUKHRÚZ.
HISTORY OF FARRUKHRÚZ, THE FAVOURITE OF FORTUNE.[63]
CHAPTER I.
HOW THREE BROTHERS SET OUT ON A TRADING JOURNEY—HOW THE
YOUNGEST IS CRUELLY ABANDONED BY HIS ELDER BRETHREN—HOW HE
MEETS WITH ROYAL FAVOUR.
In ancient times there lived in Kashmír a jeweller called Khoja Marján,
who was very lucky in all his dealings and amassed great wealth. He had
three sons, the two elder of whom were of a foolish and lazy disposition,
and one day the Khoja said to them: “According to the requirements of
this world, everyone must do something for his living. You may have
heard that at first I was only the servant of a jeweller, yet I have, by
dint of industry, overcome all obstacles, so that in this city there is
no person who is richer than myself. It would be a pity if you were, in
your folly, to trust in my opulence and engage in no occupation, because
in this way many who had the greatest expectations were disappointed
and reduced to misery. If any man, though he be rich, knows only how to
spend and never to gain, it is very probable that he will exhaust all his
resources. Therefore as our business is commerce, which is promoted by
trading in different places, I desire you to gain your livelihood in that
manner as long as I am alive, and for this purpose I shall give to each
of you some goods, and thus you may carry on business.”[64]
The name of the Khoja’s third son was Farrukhrúz; he was a great deal
more intelligent than his brothers and therefore loved his father more;
so, after the Khoja had delivered the promised goods to his two elder
sons, he privately handed to Farrukhrúz a small casket, saying: “My dear
son, the true touchstone of young men is travel, by which their ability
appears. Although none of you has yet made a journey, the results of
which might show your skill and intelligence, yet my paternal love
whispers to me that you are the worthiest of my sons. In this casket
there is a cock which skilful artisans have carved from a single ruby and
inserted inside of it various contrivances, so that it is such a great
curiosity that its like has not been seen in the world. Keep it secret
from your brothers, so that should you fall into trouble you may still
help yourself by presenting it as a gift to some king.”
The three brothers, having received each his portion of goods from
their father, began to journey to Irán, and arrived first at the city
of Herát, which was at that time governed with justice and equity. In
that delightful place the two elder sons of Khoja Marján spent all their
time in pleasure, but Farrukhrúz engaged himself in business. One day
he ventured to admonish his brothers, but they stretched forth the neck
of impudence and refused to listen to his advice. At last, however,
their dissipated ways reduced them to poverty, and such was their misery
that they purposed committing suicide. Farrukhrúz took pity on them and
gave them some of his own goods, saying: “Dear brothers, you have only
yourselves to blame for what has happened.” They soon squandered their
brother’s bounty, and when he requested them to continue the journey,
they replied that they had no resources at all and would not move from
that place. So Farrukhrúz was obliged to leave them and proceeded to the
city of Shíráz, where he traded for some time, gained much wealth, and
became acquainted with a most excellent man named Zayn al-Mofáherin, who
presented him with a ring when he was about to depart and said: “As men
are everywhere beset by dangers, especially in travelling, I give you
this ring, and in case you should fall into distress you must show it to
a friend of mine in Mosúl, whose name is Habíb, and he will aid you.”
Farrukhrúz then departed for Tabríz, where he opened a shop, and having
made very large profits he resolved to proceed to the country of the
Franks, and purchased various kinds of merchandise required in that part
of the world, which he placed on the backs of twenty strings of camels.
On reaching Baghdád he stopped there for some time on account of his
commercial transactions; and it happened one day, when he was walking
about the bazár as usual, that he remarked among the porters two men
exactly resembling his brothers, but they were so dirty and ragged, with
their hair and beards unkempt, that he was at first unwilling to approach
them, and they did not appear to recognise him. He ordered one of his
servants to call them aside, and when they came he burst into tears, and
they also wept and were ashamed to look in his face. He gave to each of
them a quantity of goods, saying: “My dear brothers, those that walk in
the streets of safety will never be assailed by the dust of trouble. You
may return home with the goods I have given you.” But they replied: “Why
should we separate from so kind and loving a brother? We wish to obey and
follow you wherever you go.”
In short, the three brothers left Baghdád together and travelled towards
the country of the Franks. But when the two ne’er-do-well brothers
discovered the wealth of Farrukhrúz the flames of envy and cupidity were
kindled in the oven of their hearts, and one said to the other: “What is
the use of such a life, that we should be subject to our younger brother?
We shall earn only shame in the sight of our father and everybody, and so
long as we live the stain of despondency and poverty will never disappear
from our characters, while he will always enjoy honour and respect. We
must in some way cause his death, so as to obtain possession of his
property, after which we may return home and say that a fatal mishap has
befallen him.” Thus did those two ungrateful men wipe from the tablets of
their minds, with the water of treachery and faithlessness, the benefits
they had received, and having agreed about the crime they watched for an
opportunity to perpetrate it.
On arriving in the vicinity of the Frank country they embarked in
a vessel, which carried a skiff, and one day the brothers said to
Farrukhrúz: “Come, let us all three get down into the boat, which is
quite empty, and we may rest ourselves better in it than in this ship.”
Farrukhrúz consented, and when they had all gone down into the skiff the
two seniors said it would be more comfortable to have some bedding, and
went back into the ship to fetch it, leaving Farrukhrúz in the little
boat, who presently perceived to his great consternation that it had been
cast loose and was gradually drifting away from the vessel. The sailors
noticed this occurrence when it was too late to recover their boat.
Farrukhrúz at once concluded that this had been done by his brothers,
but, considering that lamentation is of no avail, he thanked God that he
had nothing more to fear from his brothers, and trusting to the mercy
of the Most High, who is able to deliver us from all dangers, he fell
asleep. Nor did he indeed encounter the least peril, for on the third day
his skiff arrived safely on the coast of Yaman.[65]
Farrukhrúz went on shore, hoping to discover some inhabited place, when
the king of Yaman, who happened to be on a hunting excursion, came in
sight with a splendid cavalcade, so he drew near the prince, made his
obeisance, and spoke as follows: “Your majesty’s humble servant has
tasted of the bitterness of misfortune, and hope impels him to prostrate
himself at your feet.” The king stopped and looked at Farrukhrúz,
who took out the cock given to him by his father and presented it to
his majesty, who was greatly pleased with the gift. To all questions
Farrukhrúz returned very intelligent answers, and in a few days he so
won the affection of the king that he said to him: “I thank God for
having become acquainted with such a prudent and honest man as you are.
Speak your mind freely to me on all subjects.” Farrukhrúz replied: “May
the light of your majesty’s most happy government always remain shining
in the assembly of prosperity, and may it always be protected in the
lantern of divine favour from every wind of adversity! Your humble
servant desires only to behold the glory of your majesty; and, as he
has experienced reverses of fortune, he craves merely permission to
sojourn for a time under the protection of this government.” The king
readily agreed to his request, and assigned a lodging with the means of
subsistence to Farrukhrúz, who was assiduous in attending court, and
succeeded in ingratiating himself so well that he became one of the
favourites of the king, and was appointed to so high a station that the
other counsellors, secretaries, and great officials became such in name
only, because the authority of Farrukhrúz had in all matters become
paramount.
CHAPTER II.
THE HERO’S QUEST OF A THRONE OF MARVELLOUS GEMS.
This elevation of a stranger to the highest post did not fail to excite
universal jealousy and envy, and all the courtiers sought an opportunity
of removing Farrukhrúz. On a certain occasion the king gave a great
banquet, at which the wonderful cock was exhibited, and when the repast
was over the king thus addressed his guests: “You have all seen the
world, but you have at no royal court beheld a curiosity such as this
which Farrukhrúz has presented to me.” The envious courtiers replied:
“That is true; but we conceive that if your majesty were to order a
throne to be constructed of white chrysolites, yellow emeralds, and red
diamonds, it would surpass anything ever possessed by any sovereign.”
Quoth the king, smiling: “You are wishing for an impossibility, because
I have never heard that there exist white chrysolites, yellow emeralds,
or red diamonds; but if so, they are probably so rare that sufficient
of them could not be obtained for a ring, not to speak of a throne.”
The courtiers rejoined: “Any affair that can possibly be accomplished
is open to the competition of skilful and experienced persons.” In this
strain they continued until they succeeded in exciting in the king a
desire to possess such a throne, so he asked them: “Who then can procure
a sufficient quantity of such precious stones with which to construct
a throne?” To this question they unanimously replied: “The business may
be accomplished by a very intelligent man, and we know of no other than
Farrukhrúz who is qualified to undertake it, seeing that he has already
brought a curiosity the like of which is not to be found in the world.”
But the king said that, as Farrukhrúz had become so useful to him, he
could not dispense with his presence. Farrukhrúz, however, rose from his
place and offered his services, promising to return within the space of
forty days.[66] So the king gave him the required leave of absence, and
he proceeded, according to the advice of Zayn al-Mofáherin, to Mosúl, in
search of the hermit Habíb, whom he found in a cave near that town.
The hermit was a devout old man, reposing himself in perfect innocence
and piety in the mansion of tranquillity and asceticism, with a mind free
from the shackles of animal passions, and engaged in humbly praising
and worshipping the Bestower of all gifts. Farrukhrúz made his salám,
presented the ring of Zayn al-Mofáherin, and was welcomed by the hermit,
who said: “I am glad to see you—I know the ring of my friend; and as it
has been during my whole life a pleasure to assist all true believers, I
request you to inform me of your wants.” Farrukhrúz explained his case,
after which the hermit continued: “Although no one has ever returned
disappointed from this place, I must inform you that your enemies have
contrived to send you in search of objects the attainment whereof they
conceived to be impossible, and indeed the affair is a very difficult
one. Let us however trust in God, who is able to help us.”
About sunset the hermit offered up the customary prayers, after which he
said to Farrukhrúz: “By divine inspiration I learn that in Syria there
is a mountain near which is a spot inhabited by genii and fairies, who
possess many of the precious stones you require. They are stored in the
treasury of their king, but no man has dared to approach the place since
the time of King Sulayman (on whom be blessings!). At present, however,
a son of the king of the fairies is suffering from lunacy, which greatly
distresses his father. All physicians who tried to cure him entirely
failed; but I shall teach you a prayer which will restore him to health,
and the king will very gratefully reward you.” Then the hermit taught
Farrukhrúz the prayer, and giving him a staff, said: “This staff is made
from the cocoa-nut tree of Ceylon, one of whose numerous properties
is that it conveys its owner safely through all dangers to the place
of its destination.[67] The various genii and sorcerers harbouring
enmity towards mankind assume different forms and infest the road, and
accomplish the ruin of many travellers. There is no doubt but they will
also lay snares for you, and should you be so foolish as to lose this
staff you will fall into troubles from which you may never escape.”
Farrukhrúz then took his leave of the hermit, started on his journey,
and arrived after several days within the dominions of the fairies,
entering a pleasant meadow adorned with beautiful flowers and rivulets.
The fragrant vegetation and salubrious air which he inhaled exhilarated
Farrukhrúz, and invited him to walk about in that delightful spot.
He soon perceived a group of beauteous fairies sitting around one of
their own sex, who seemed to be their queen, on seeing whom he was so
fascinated by her attractions that he stood still as if petrified, but
his heart palpitated violently. A fairy presently approached him, and
taking him by the hand drew him into the circle. He completely forgot
the admonitions of the hermit, and chatted with the fairy damsel very
pleasantly, till they all leapt up nimbly and taking him along with
him, walked till they came to a palace which the ladies entered, but
Farrukhrúz was turned away by the male attendants with these words: “This
is not a place where any stranger may freely go in and out.” Accordingly
he sat down in melancholy and expectation, and after a short space one
of those heart-ravishers issued forth to call him. Farrukhrúz quickly
arose to obey the joyful summons, but a gate-keeper met him half-way,
saying: “The laws of courtesy prohibit any one from entering the private
apartments of high personages armed; it would be highly improper for
you to pay your respects to the queen of this country with a staff in
your hand.” Then he took the staff from Farrukhrúz, who rushed in as if
intoxicated with the desire of beholding the object of his adoration.
When he entered, he found himself in a paradise-like place containing a
throne ornamented with innumerable gems, on which that beauty reposed
like the world-illuming sun, with all the attendant ladies seated around
her, conversing, playing on musical instruments, laughing, eating, and
drinking.
Farrukhrúz was rejoiced at beholding this scene, and flattered himself
that he might soon become more closely acquainted with the occupant
of the throne, considering himself as already happier than a thousand
kings of Yaman. Nor was he disappointed in his expectations; for the
charming queen addressed him in the most gratifying terms; dallied with
him amorously; and having asked for a goblet of wine she sipped some
of it, and handing it to him desired him to quaff the contents. But no
sooner had Farrukhrúz done so than he became transformed into a monkey,
with dugs full of milk, and several young monkeys tugging at them, in
the midst of a shoreless ocean, and floating on a piece of timber. He
looked in all directions, but perceived no land, and awaking, in his
bitter grief, from his sleep of carelessness, he recollected the advice
of Habíb the hermit and the loss of his staff. But his self-reproaches
availed him nothing, while the little monkeys pulled away at the teats
and were even manifesting their enmity; but the maternal kindness of a
monkey, with which he had been invested, prevented him from retaliating.
In this manner he spent several days without food, drink, sleep, or rest,
suffering from the burning heat of the sun, and imploring the mercy
of the Almighty to rescue him from this peril, till at last after the
expiration of seven days a ship came in sight, from which a beautiful
lady descended into a skiff with two attendants. The skiff was rowed
about the sea till it approached the piece of timber on which Farrukhrúz
was sitting, when he began to moan most pitifully after the manner of
monkeys, which attracted the attention of the lady and she said to her
attendants: “Unless I am greatly mistaken, I again behold an effect
of the wickedness of that God-forgetting fairy, who has changed this
poor wretch into a monkey.” Then she uttered a magic spell, upon which
Farrukhrúz sneezed and immediately recovered his human shape. The piece
of timber drew near the skiff, and as soon as Farrukhrúz stepped into it
he perceived he was in a garden with the beautiful lady and several other
persons, when he exclaimed: “Praise be to God! I experience wonderful
changes!” The lady took him by the hand, congratulated him on his
delivery, and said: “Be of good cheer. I have, by divine Providence, been
guided to this spot, and have thus been enabled to save you. Others have
fallen into the same snare like yourself and have lost their lives, while
you have come forth unscathed from the whirlpool of calamity.”
For a while the lady promenaded with Farrukhrúz, and then they proceeded
to a splendid mansion, wherein was a throne encrusted with jewels on
which she took her seat, and was waited upon by legions of attendants.
Presently most delicious food was brought to Farrukhrúz, who broke his
fast of seven days, and having satisfied his hunger and recovered his
strength he was obliged to relate his adventures. Then quoth the lady:
“Since cunning and hatred have brought so much trouble on your head,
perhaps kindness may now do somewhat to aid you. Know that the wicked
fairy who has injured you is my sister. Her name is Nafísa, and we are
both the daughters of King Núbahár, who reigned supreme over all the
fairies of this country; but after our father’s death my sister was for
some time led astray from the true faith by an infidel genie who got her
into his power, and even now she tries to injure Muslims as much as she
can.” Having thus spoken, she whispered to a fairy, who went away and
returned with the staff which the hermit Habíb had given to Farrukhrúz,
and of which the other fairies had deprived him. Farrukhrúz thanked the
queen, who then said: “I should be glad if you were to remain here and
live with me, but I wish not to detain you. Yet I beseech you to return,
because that comfort which you may enjoy here you will never find among
men and their follies. In the meanwhile, however, you may go in quest of
the precious stones you are in want of: the king whose son is subject
to fits of lunacy is my uncle, and he possesses a countless store of
the gems you require, but is in great distress on account of his son’s
malady.” Then she sent one of her courtiers with Farrukhrúz to inform her
uncle that he would cure the prince.
Farrukhrúz left the park with the fairy courtier, and at the gate there
was a box wherein he was requested to take his position and close his
eyes, and on opening them after a moment he perceived that he had
been transported into a royal palace, the like of which, for beauty,
magnificence, and decoration, no human eye had ever beheld. There he saw
a monarch seated on a throne with great pomp and surrounded by numerous
courtiers, all of whom were in deep mourning. He was presented by his
guide to the king, who said to him: “Young man, considering that human
beings excel all other earthly creatures in beneficence and happiness,
I welcome your advent. I am informed that you have come to cure my
son, and if you do so I shall feel myself indebted to you as long as
I live.” Farrukhrúz replied: “Exalted sovereign, although every cure
depends in the first place upon the mercy of the Most High, your humble
servant possesses a supplication in which he has the fullest confidence,
and hopes by means of it to effect a cure.” The king then gave orders
to produce the prince, who was accordingly brought forth in bonds and
chains. He wept by turns like a vernal cloud and smiled like a fresh
rose; he had also fits of a violent character. As soon as Farrukhrúz cast
his eyes upon the afflicted prince he opened the portals of eloquence
with the name of God and recited the prayer which he had learned of
Habíb the hermit. When he had completed the invocation the prince
recovered the perfect use of his intellect and was cured; he sneezed a
few times, thanked God, and asked: “For what cause have I been put in
chains?” At these words the king manifested his joy, kissed the prince,
and delivered him from his chains, and all the fairies rejoiced. Then
quoth the sultan to Farrukhrúz: “I cannot express to you my gratitude
in words, nor am I able to reward you. May God requite you!” Farrukhrúz
opened the lips of civility, saying: “I am delighted with the fortunate
result of my prayer,” and preferred his request for the precious stones,
when the king immediately caused immense quantities of white chrysolites,
yellow emeralds, and red diamonds to be brought from the treasury, and
ordered a skilful genie to construct a throne with the gems, which was
instantly done. When it was evening a genie called Tahmatán, who moved
with the celerity of lightning, departed with the throne to the kingdom
of Yaman, accompanied by Farrukhrúz, to whom the king of the fairies said
affectionately: “Take this ring, which has been kept for many ages in the
treasury of my ancestors, and the possession of which is connected with
numerous blessings; keep it always on your finger, and it will preserve
you from all misfortunes, except when you are in a state of ceremonial
uncleanness, because the Ineffable Name is written on it;[68] and if
you keep it with you when in such a condition you will become subject to
fits of epilepsy and lunacy, and it will return to our treasury, nor will
any mortal be able to cure you except ourselves. Whenever any difficulty
occurs to you, turn the ring on the forefinger of your right hand, and
ask aid of the victorious spirit of Sulayman (on whom be blessing!), when
instantly a genie will make his appearance, to whom you may entrust any
service and he will accomplish it. But you must not let it be seen by
wicked demons, who are the sworn enemies of mankind, lest they should
deprive you of this talisman.” Farrukhrúz thanked the king and was taken
up by Tahmatán with the throne at midnight and set down in Yaman before
daybreak.
When Farrukhrúz had departed in quest of the wonderful gems, the envious
vazírs and secretaries were delighted, believing that he would never
return. But the king was grieved at being separated from his favourite
and impatiently counted the days of his absence. At last he said to
his courtiers: “What need had I of such a throne, since the society of
such a friend was more valuable to me than a thousand thrones of king
Sulayman? Perchance Farrukhrúz has been unable to attain his object and
is ashamed to return.” The vazírs professed to agree with the king’s
opinion, being afraid to contradict him. On the fortieth day, however,
Farrukhrúz brought the throne to the palace before any of the vazírs
or secretaries had made their appearance. At the joyful sight the king
embraced and kissed him affectionately, and ordered all the great drums
of gladness to be beaten. The grandees, who were yet in their own houses,
were astonished at the sounds they heard, and when they learned what
had happened they were confused and dismayed. On going to the palace,
and seeing that the honour which Farrukhrúz had before enjoyed was
greatly increased, they said one to another: “The luck of this man is
truly marvellous, since he has accomplished what everybody considered an
impossibility.”
CHAPTER III.
THE HERO GOES IN QUEST OF FOUR TREASURE-TREES, AND IS MARRIED
TO THE QUEEN OF THE FAIRIES.
The king of Yaman again gave a grand banquet, at which the wonderful cock
was exhibited beside the magnificent throne which Farrukhrúz had brought
from fairyland, and which was greatly admired by the assembled people.
The vazírs were obliged to conceal their malevolence, and after giving
utterance to many expressions of admiration they said: “Although your
majesty’s humble servants and well-wishers are unable to produce anything
themselves, yet they consider it their duty to suggest anything which
might increase your glory. If four date-trees of gold, having fruits and
leaves of jewels, were placed at the four corners of this throne there
is no doubt your majesty would be unequalled as the possessor of costly
and rare objects, and no monarch on earth could pretend to the least
shadow of equality with our king.”[69] The sultan smiled disdainfully
and said: “Such a wish cannot be realised; for, though I have perused
many biographical and historical works, I have never read that anything
of this kind exists in the world.” They replied: “May it please your
majesty, there is nothing which will not yield to skill and intelligent
efforts.” Quoth the king: “Who, then, is able to procure those objects?”
“Farrukhrúz is the man,” said the vazírs. “God forbid,” exclaimed the
king, “that I should burden him with this affair, seeing that I am
already under great obligations to him. Propose some one else.” After
the conversation had thus continued for some time, Farrukhrúz stood up
and said: “If your majesty will give me leave, I shall be most happy
to undertake this business.” The king hesitated long, but ultimately
permitted him to go, on condition that he returned at the end of six
months.
Farrukhrúz accordingly departed in quest of the treasure-trees, and
when he was well out of the city he took the signet-ring given to him
by the king of the fairies and put it on his finger, when immediately
an afrít[70] of dreadful aspect, large as an elephant and fierce as a
dragon, appeared before him, and bowing humbly said: “I am Kashank the
afrít whom the king of the fairies has sent to serve you, and I have
come to execute your orders.” “I wish to see her majesty the queen of
the fairies,” rejoined Farrukhrúz, upon which the afrít Kashank drew the
finger of obedience over the eyes of acquiescence, and taking Farrukhrúz
on his back ascended into the sky.
After the fairy queen had despatched Farrukhrúz to her cousin to cure
his son, she sent a number of afríts for her sister Nafísa, who had
ill-treated Farrukhrúz, and when she was brought the queen spoke to
her thus: “Sinful woman! how is it that you always afflict Muslims,
who are of all men by their piety and devotion the greatest favourites
in the courts of Unity? How had poor Farrukhrúz offended you that you
should change him into a monkey?” Then the queen would have punished
her, but all the fairies pleaded in her favour and Nafísa was pardoned.
But so far from feeling grateful for this clemency, Nafísa, to avenge
the humiliation which she had been forced to endure at the court of her
sister, plotted with a number of malevolent genii against Queen Bánú.
Knowing that her sister wished to marry Farrukhrúz, and that he had cured
the prince and obtained from his father such a powerful talisman as the
signet-ring, she said to her complotters: “It is likely that the love
which Farrukhrúz entertains for Queen Bánú will induce him to visit her
presently, and as she has so deeply insulted me you must kill him and
thus disappoint her. Let one of my damsels be dressed to resemble Queen
Bánú, and send her with a suitable retinue to meet Farrukhrúz, who will
mistake her for the queen and marry her. In his attentions to her he
will become careless about the ring, so that you will be able to take it
from his finger and then easily put him to death.” Matters having been
thus arranged, they waited for the appearance of Farrukhrúz. It happened
also that Kashank the afrít, whom the king of the fairies had sent to
Farrukhrúz, was a friend and well-wisher of Nafísa, so he informed her
of his errand, and she in return disclosed to him her scheme, upon which
he said: “Be not dismayed; make all arrangements for your damsel to meet
Farrukhrúz in the spot where you first saw him, and I shall bring him
thither.”
* * * * *
When Kashank took up Farrukhrúz he ascended higher than any flight of
imagination could conceive, but on coming over the country of Syria
he gradually lowered himself and set Farrukhrúz down in the fairy
park, saying: “Happy mortal! as the secrets of our minds are known to
our true friends and reflected to each other in the mirrors of their
hearts, the queen has obtained the glad tidings of your propitious
advent, and will to-day throw a halo of felicity by meeting you with a
numerous company in this very place. I have brought you here to see your
love.” Farrukhrúz was charmed with this information, and presently was
introduced to one of Nafísa’s maids, dressed to personate Queen Bánú,
seated on a throne, and surrounded by numerous attendants, in great pomp
and dignity. He was deceived by her striking resemblance to the queen,
and, losing self-possession, eagerly ran to meet her, and they fell into
each other’s arms. After the first ebullition of joy was over, she
invited him to seat himself on the throne by her side, and conversed
with him on his adventures. On being informed of the envy of the vazírs
she said: “Beloved friend, are you not disgusted to live among persons
who are unable to appreciate your merits and send you on such errands?
I entreat you by your love not to expose yourself to farther dangers,
and never to return to that place. Remain with me, and let us both be
happy.” While she was thus cajoling Farrukhrúz her attendants gradually
disappeared, and when they were quite alone she threw her arms around
his neck and kissed him. Farrukhrúz had no sooner yielded to the impulse
of his passions than he felt that his mind was becoming deranged; his
head became dizzy and he closed his eyes, and on opening them again he
could find no trace of his mistress, and the whole scene was changed. He
heard the wind blowing and thunders roaring; his mind was confused; he
began to babble incoherently, and at last was drowned in the ocean of
unconsciousness. When he recovered from his trance he found that he had
assumed the form of an old barber in Damascus, and was just then engaged
in shaving the head of a customer, having in his shop the utensils
required in the trade and a number of apprentices standing round him. He
was amazed at this new scene, and thought within himself: “What have I
come to?” and recollecting the signet-ring, with the injunction of the
king of the fairies, he began to weep bitterly.
The man whom he was shaving saw him moving his lips, muttering something,
and shaking his head; so he said to him: “Barber, what is the matter
with you? Perhaps you are calculating the income of your trade, or have
been long in the bath, the fumes of which have muddled your brains, that
you have stopped shaving my head.[71] Be quick! The police magistrate
has invited a large number of high personages to be his guests to-day,
and there is no one except myself to make the necessary arrangements for
the repast.” But Farrukhrúz was so absorbed in his thoughts about Queen
Bánú that he paid not the least attention to what his customer said, at
which the latter became wroth and expostulated, whereupon Farrukhrúz,
who imagined him to be the afrít Kashank, threw away his razor, and tore
his own clothes from top to bottom, strewed dust on his head, struck
the man several times, began to weep, and exclaimed: “Wicked afrít! the
king of the fairies warned me to be on my guard against such as you, and
not let them see the ring. I disregarded this injunction and trusted
in you. By your perfidy I have lost a talisman which is more valuable
than the diadem of Iskandar or the goblet of Jamshíd![72] I have been
deprived of the society of my mistress and become subject to fits of
lunacy and epilepsy, and have lost my happiness. You are not satisfied
with having thus reduced me to misery, but you even now rail at me.” The
customer jumped up, bareheaded as he was, and ran into the bazár, pursued
by Farrukhrúz shouting: “Muslims! seize on Kashank the afrít, who has
deeply wronged me, and destroyed my peace of mind!” As he was thus
bawling and running after the man, his girdle became loose and falling to
his feet he stumbled and fell to the ground, breaking his brow and losing
a great quantity of blood.
When the people saw the servant of the police magistrate running
bare-headed, and a decrepit old barber pursuing him and falling down
wounded, as they knew the other man to be a very bad character, they
concluded that he must have injured the barber, so they assailed
Farrukhrúz with questions, to all of which he only replied: “Seize the
afrít Kashank, who has done me damage of the value of a thousand tománs!”
The people said: “We know him to be the servant of the police magistrate
and a very great scoundrel. He may have injured you, but his name is
not Kashank the afrít. He has now escaped, but if you submit your case
to his master he will be punished.” Then the people bound up his wound
and accompanied him to the magistrate. Farrukhrúz tumbled headlong into
the office and shouted: “Muslims, by the treachery of Kashank the afrít
my happiness has been destroyed!” Several high personages happened to
be with the magistrate just then and were astonished at the intrusion,
but still more so when Farrukhrúz threw a stone in their midst; and as a
few days before an astrologer had predicted that bloodshed and slaughter
would take place in the country, they considered this as an omen and all
ran away, while the magistrate retired to his women’s apartments.[73]
Farrukhrúz rushed into the street, calling out: “Seize Kashank the
afrít, who has changed the spring of my peace into the autumn of misery!”
The people fancied that a thief had escaped from the magistrate’s house
and many of them ran after the fugitives shouting: “Catch Kashank the
afrít, who has run away from the house of the magistrate!” But no one
knew who Kashank was.
It happened that a very tall, dark-complexioned fellow, with a long
dishevelled beard and hair, and dressed in rags, had arrived from the
desert and was walking about the streets. As he had never before seen
such a mob, he got frightened at the noise and began to run like a goblin
of the wilderness, and the people, thinking him to be either Kashank the
afrít or the escaped thief, seized and bound him. Farrukhrúz the maniac,
taking the man for Kashank, then sprang forward, and striking him,
exclaimed: “Perfidious wretch! why have you deprived me of my mistress
and my ring, and thus precipitated me into the abyss of misery?” The man
of the desert was astonished, but thought that it might possibly be the
custom thus to speak to outsiders who intruded themselves into the city.
When the mob perceived the embarrassed countenance and uncouth figure of
the stranger, they also took him for Kashank the afrít and said: “There
is no doubt but he has greatly injured the barber.” At last many people
assembled, and seeing Farrukhrúz lamenting in the most pitiful manner
they began to reproach the stranger, saying: “O Kashank, are you not
ashamed of having done such wrong to this old barber?” The man of the
desert, who had during his whole life never been in a town, supposed this
to be the usual mode of accosting strangers, so he made no reply, merely
shaking his head like the goat of Akhfash.[74] The Amír of the city
happened to return at this time from a hunting excursion, and, seeing the
excited crowd in the street through which he passed, sent a chamberlain
to make inquiries. He returned with the information that a fellow,
Kashank the afrít by name, had deprived the barber of his wife, together
with a costly ring. When Farrukhrúz beheld the royal cavalcade he shouted
the more, but all that the Amír and his courtiers could learn from him
was: “Woe is me! The whirlwind of the treachery of Kashank the afrít has
extinguished the lamp of my happiness, and the fire of his oppression
has melted my soul and my life!” The Amír was of a very kind disposition
and would not suffer even the poorest of his subjects to be wronged, and
he said: “It appears that this peasant has so injured the poor old barber
as to cause him to lose his senses;” then calling to the stranger, who
was now greatly confused, he exclaimed: “Wretch, why have you wronged
this poor man?” The man of the desert, unable to say anything, merely
shook his head as before. At this the Amír smiled and observed: “Here
we have a strange plaintiff and an equally strange defendant, neither
of whom we are able to understand.[75] Is any one present who was a
witness of the outrage?” Hereupon several persons came forward who had
been in the shop when the barber was shaving the servant of the police
magistrate, and next day the latter appeared at the court, but nothing
could be elicited inculpating either him or the man from the desert, and
they were merely required to give securities for their good behaviour,
while Farrukhrúz was sent to the hospital for lunatics.
* * * * *
As soon as Nafísa had, with the assistance of Kashank, succeeded in
deranging the mind of Farrukhrúz, they sought for the ring but could
not find it. Then quoth Nafísa: “My object was not so much to obtain
possession of the ring as to prevent Queen Bánú from meeting her lover,
and therefore we must kill him.” But Kashank, who had some experience of
life, replied: “O queen of the universe, though, for the sake of gaining
your approbation, I have become unfaithful to my sovereign, I shall not
commit this new crime, the consequences of which were irreparable. This
young man has done much good by curing the son of the king, who will be
highly displeased at what has happened, but if we execute this second
part of your scheme we shall certainly jeopardise our own lives.” So it
was concluded to spare the life of Farrukhrúz, whom the afrít transported
to Damascus, where he arrived early in the morning, and perceived only a
barber’s shop open, the owner of which he seized and threw into the sea,
putting Farrukhrúz in his stead after having by a magic spell caused him
to assume the form of the old man. For this reason, wise and intelligent
men have warned people never to open their shops before sunrise, because
if they do so they become liable to be injured by genii and demons.
After committing this diabolical crime, Kashank waited the next day on
the king of the fairies, who immediately asked about Farrukhrúz. The
afrít replied: “May it please your exalted majesty, a misfortune has
befallen Farrukhrúz. He was merely sent by the king of Yaman on some
business to the river Nile, and when I brought him thither the water
became very rough, and the afrít Hankál, who is one of his enemies, and
dwells in Egypt, and persecutes human beings, issued from the stream
with seventy afríts of extraordinary power, and as I was unable to cope
with them, they dragged Farrukhrúz under the water and separated his
head from his body, which immediately rose again to the surface and
became the prey of voracious beasts, so that I was compelled to return
in great distress.” At first the king believed this statement, but his
vazír Akhtár said to him: “As I know the evil disposition of Kashank, I
intended to dissuade your majesty from appointing him to this business,
especially as he had been still more led astray by Nafísa, and it is most
probable that she has had something to do in this matter, since she has
on a former occasion injured Farrukhrúz and bears bitter enmity towards
Queen Bánú.” Then the king examined Kashank more closely but without
effect, and finally imprisoned him till farther orders.
The following day one of the treasurers came before the king with a
ring in his hand and said: “This is the ring which your majesty gave to
Farrukhrúz, and which has returned to the treasury.” This betokened that
Farrukhrúz was still alive, and the king sending for Kashank showed him
the ring and told him that he would extort the truth from him by force.
Just then one of the king’s serving genii, who had for some time been
wandering among men for the purpose of avenging his brother’s death,
made his appearance, and stated that he had seen at Damascus a lunatic
who was constantly complaining of Kashank and was probably Farrukhrúz.
The king at once delivered the ring to an afrít with orders to bring
Farrukhrúz, which was done accordingly, and as soon as Farrukhrúz saw the
king he wept bitterly, but the king embraced and comforted him. Then the
king of the fairies sent for Kashank, Nafísa, and Queen Bánú, the two
former of whom he reproved and imprisoned, and to the latter he said:
“Though it is not customary for fairies to marry human beings, yet as
this young man has conferred great benefits on us, I have resolved to
espouse him to you after the orthodox Muslim manner.” Queen Bánú replied:
“Noble uncle! I consider you as my father and shall obey you as long as
I live.” The matrimonial ceremony was celebrated in due form and the
happy couple were full of joy. Some time afterwards Farrukhrúz informed
the king of his promise to the sultan of Yaman, and said that if he were
allowed a year’s leave of absence he would then return and never more
separate from them. The king and the queen Bánú consented, and caused the
required four treasure-trees to be carried to Yaman by seventy faithful
afríts, whom Farrukhrúz accompanied.
CHAPTER IV.
HOW THE HERO PRETENDED TO VISIT PARADISE, AND CAUSED ALL HIS
ENEMIES TO PERISH.
Now the courtiers of the sultan of Yaman had been all the time exulting
in the belief that Farrukhrúz would not return; but the king was
confident that he would soon make his appearance. One month before the
leave had expired news was brought that Farrukhrúz was come back with
the treasure-trees on four elephants and himself riding on a fifth. The
king at once marched out with his army to meet him, and when they were
in sight of each other they alighted and embraced with the greatest
manifestations of joy.[76] They rode side by side into the city amidst
the acclamations of the people, and in the palace a throne was placed for
Farrukhrúz, on which he seated himself. When the four golden date-trees
were set around the sultan’s throne and everything was arranged with the
utmost splendour, the envious vazírs and secretaries were full of chagrin
and said to each other: “This man’s luck is most extraordinary, for he
succeeds in whatever he undertakes, and he has so eclipsed us that the
king cares little for any person besides him.”
The golden date-trees being placed one at each corner of the throne
which Farrukhrúz had first procured, with the wonderful cock in front
of it, and all the grandees being assembled, the king said: “What else
besides these rare objects and so dear a friend can contribute to augment
the happiness and glory of a monarch?” Quoth the envious courtiers:
“May your majesty live for ever! Indeed there is nothing in this world
so splendid as this spectacle we at present behold; and to make your
felicity complete it would only be necessary to convey this news to the
eternal world—to inform the forefathers of your majesty who now occupy
the chief places in Paradise; and, as they enjoy the closest intimacy
with the angels of mercy and their prayers meet with acceptance, it would
be well to request a prolongation of your life, which would doubtless
be granted.” The king replied, full of astonishment: “You ask indeed
something very foolish and unattainable.” But they said: “May it please
your majesty, all things in this world depend upon good luck, and as long
as it serves a man he will easily succeed in anything he may undertake;
and, praise be to the Most High, such is your majesty’s case.”
As opinions expressed by different persons find generally an approbative
response, though they may be absurd, and the flames into which they fan
the imagination cannot be extinguished by every intellect, so these
suggestions made an impression on the mind of the king, who thought
there could be no harm in discussing the matter, so he inquired: “Who can
undertake such a business?” To this the envious vazírs replied with one
voice: “Farrukhrúz is the happy man who is successful in everything!”
But the king said: “I have scarcely recovered from the grief I suffered
on account of his absence and only begun to enjoy the happiness of his
presence; how, then, could I again separate from him? You must propose
some one else.” Farrukhrúz, seeing the turn things had taken, arose and
thus addressed the king: “As long as your majesty’s slave is alive, he
is always ready to obey your behests. If I obtain leave for one year I
shall accomplish the business.” As no other person offered his services,
the king reluctantly consented to part with his favourite. Farrukhrúz
suggested that all the letters should be prepared, and that every one who
had a relative or friend in the other world might send him a message.
Accordingly the king dictated to one of his secretaries the following
epistle:
“In consequence of the intimation of the Sovereign of the decrees of
Fate, of whose power the existence of all creatures is but one sign, our
glorious relatives and ancestors have left this terrestrial abode for the
eternal Paradise, and having thus been delivered of all the vicissitudes
of Fortune, they have left me to inherit their just and righteous
government, so that I have, by the boundless favour of the Giver of all
gifts, become very happy and have no wishes unfulfilled. I have therefore
sent this letter by my devoted servant Farrukhrúz to set the minds of
my beloved ancestors at rest on this subject. And as I am aware that
they are immersed in the shoreless ocean of the divine mercy, and I fear
lest the thread of my life may be suddenly snapped, I cannot enjoy my
happiness as I ought; and since those denizens of the holy regions of the
Kingdom of Pardon are closely connected with and befriended by the angels
of mercy and the cherubim of the courts of Unity, I trust they will
be able to obtain the prolongation of the terrestrial existence of my
life. I do not venture to draw out this request to greater length; and,
making my obeisance, I crave that the bearer of this, Farrukhrúz, who is
indispensable to my comfort, be not detained beyond the space of a few
days.”
The vazírs and secretaries followed the example of their sovereign and
also wrote affectionate letters to their beatified relatives; and when
all the letters were written the king sealed them and gave them to
Farrukhrúz. When the sultan asked Farrukhrúz how he meant to depart for
the next world, he requested a large quantity of dry wood to be piled
up. After more than a thousand ass-loads of fuel had been accumulated,
Farrukhrúz kissed the sultan’s hand, bade him farewell, and desired
the fire to be kindled at the four corners of the pile; and when he
was enveloped in smoke he put the magic ring on his finger and was in
a twinkling transported by afríts to the presence of the king of the
fairies and the queen Bánú, to whom he related his adventures, and they
highly approved of his stratagem.
In that delightful region Farrukhrúz spent a whole year joyfully with his
beloved spouse Bánú, and when his leave of absence was almost expired
he told her that this was the last service he should perform for the
sultan of Yaman, after which he should be entirely devoted to her. The
king of the fairies said they wished only to please him, and he might
act as he thought fit. So Farrukhrúz wrote various replies on the part
of the spirits in Paradise for the sultan of Yaman and his vazírs and
secretaries, after which the afríts conveyed him to Yaman.
The sultan and all the people were sorely grieved at the departure of
Farrukhrúz on his last enterprise, but not so the vazírs, who rejoiced
and said one to another: “It is wonderful that a young man who was so
very intelligent should have thus voluntarily destroyed himself! He
cannot possibly return.” And even the king almost despaired of again
seeing his favourite; nevertheless on the day appointed for his return he
held a grand levee, at which all the grandees were ordered to be present.
The vazírs of course obeyed the summons, whispering to each other: “Our
sultan is indeed a fool! A whole year has elapsed since he saw a man
burnt to ashes and now he expects him to return.” Their exultation was,
however, soon ended on hearing the approach of Farrukhrúz announced among
tumultuous acclamations of joy; and when he actually appeared the king
was almost frantic with ecstasy, kissed him fervently, and exclaimed:
“Now am I the happiest of men!” Then his majesty made inquiries regarding
his blessed ancestors, and Farrukhrúz took out the letters, saying: “Most
exalted sovereign, no man is able to describe the multifarious pleasures
of Paradise—the sweetness of the climate, the beauty of the flowers,
the graces of the húrís, the splendid palaces of that beatified abode;
and your majesty will not have any idea of them until you participate
yourself in those delights. Indeed I was very reluctant to leave that
blessed region. Your majesty’s exalted father is in paradise, and your
mother is his partner;[77] your other relatives enjoy appropriate
dignities and are waited upon by many húrís and slaves.” Farrukhrúz
having concluded, the sultan thanked him, and began to read the letter
from Paradise, which contained many compliments, and stated that his
ancestors had prepared for his acceptance many costly presents which they
would entrust to such of his vazírs, secretaries, and other officials
whose names were written in a list given to Farrukhrúz, and for this
purpose they were to come at once to Paradise—their own relatives
moreover being extremely desirous of seeing them; therefore they were in
no way to elude this command, on pain of incurring the displeasure of
the Most High, but, as they were necessary to carry on the government of
Yaman, they should be sent back to the earth at the end of forty days.[78]
This message having been communicated to the vazírs and other officials,
the king commanded them to be ready next morning to set out for Paradise,
and they at once perceived that their lives were in danger. The sultan,
reading their thoughts in their terrified countenances, exclaimed: “O
ye besotted fools! All intelligent and pious men labour during their
whole lives to attain Paradise, and you ought to be delighted with the
message you have just received. Get quickly ready to depart!” Accordingly
they were obliged to feign acquiescence and prepare for death. Then said
Farrukhrúz to the sultan: “Though there are many roads, none is shorter
than that by which your majesty’s humble servant departed.” So the
sultan caused a great quantity of wood to be piled up and about fifty
of those wicked and envious men to be placed upon it. When the fire was
kindled and began to distress them, they pleaded for mercy, and said: “We
acknowledge our fault and repent of it. Hereafter we shall never envy or
slander any one.” But their entreaties were not heeded and they became a
prey to the flames.
After this the sultan counted the days, and when the fortieth arrived he
said to Farrukhrúz: “To-day our friends should return, and I am expecting
them.” But when it was evening and there was no sign of them, the sultan
said to his favourite: “Wise men have said that the road to the next
world is full of dangers, and I begin to fear that some accident has
befallen our friends.” Hereupon Farrukhrúz exclaimed: “May it please
your majesty, that is a road which not everybody can travel upon,” and
proceeded to relate the truth of the whole affair, adding: “The greatest
service I have rendered your majesty was to purge the kingdom of those
villains, because they would, by their conspiracies and treacherous
machinations, at last have succeeded in ruining the country.” When the
sultan became fully aware of the wickedness of the vazírs he thanked
Farrukhrúz and said: “So long as I have you what more vazírs do I need?
And as I possess no offspring I make you my successor.” Farrukhrúz
kissed the ground of obedience and replied: “May power and dominion
ever belong to your majesty! I have sojourned here to serve you and to
remove those wretches. But as I am connected with the fairies, I have
no longer the option to remain here. I shall however bring my parents
and relatives, and beg your majesty to receive them under the shadow
of your protection.” The sultan agreed to this proposal and by order
of Farrukhrúz the afríts brought his whole family to Yaman, and they
were most happy to meet him. The sultan made Khoja Marján, the father
of Farrukhrúz, his vazír, and appointed his other relatives to various
stations.
When the leave of Farrukhrúz had expired he bade adieu to the sultan and
his relatives, and departing to the land of the fairies he joined his
spouse Queen Bánú, and whilst he lived never omitted to visit his friends
at Yaman once every six months. At last, however, all responded to the
unavoidable behest of the sovereign of destiny, and, being divested of
the borrowed garments of this perishable life, departed to the regions of
eternity.
THE KING AND HIS FOUR MINISTERS.
THE KING AND HIS FOUR MINISTERS.
Though the commands of royalty pervade
The world, yet sovereigns ever should remember,
The light of justice must direct their path.
_Hindú Drama._
There was a city called Alakápuri, famous for all the riches that sea and
land can yield, and inhabited by people speaking different languages. In
that city reigned a king named Alakésa,[79] who was a storehouse of all
excellent qualities. He was so just a king that during his reign the cow
and the tiger amicably quenched their thirst side by side in the same
pond, and the kite and the parrot laid their eggs in the same nest, as
though they were “birds of a feather.”[80] The women never deviated from
the path of virtue, and regarded their husbands as gods.[81] Timely
rain refreshed the soil, and all Alakésa’s subjects lived in plenty and
happiness. In short, Alakésa was the body and his subjects the soul of
that body, for he was upright in all things.
_Story of the Lost Camel._
Now there was in Alakápuri a rich merchant who lost a camel one day. He
searched for it without success in all directions, and at last reached
a road which he was informed led to another city, called Mathurapuri,
the king of which was named Mathurésa. He had under him four excellent
ministers, whose names were Bodhaditya, Bodhachandra, Bodhavyapaka, and
Bodhavibhishana. These four ministers being, for some reason, displeased
with the king quitted his dominions, and set out for another country.
As they journeyed along they observed the track of a camel, and each
made a remark on the peculiar condition of the animal, judging from its
footsteps and other indications on the road.[82] Presently they met the
merchant who was searching for his camel, and, entering into conversation
with him, one of the travellers inquired if the animal was not lame in
one of the legs; another asked if it was not blind in the right eye;
the third asked if its tail was not unusually short; and the fourth
inquired if it was not suffering from colic. They were all answered in
the affirmative by the merchant, who was convinced that they must have
met the animal, and eagerly demanded where they had seen it. They replied
that they had seen traces of the camel, but not the camel itself, which
being inconsistent with the minute description they had given of it, the
merchant accused them of having stolen the beast, and immediately applied
to King Alakésa for redress. On hearing the merchant’s story, the king
was equally impressed with the belief that the travellers must know what
had become of the camel, and sending for them threatened them with his
displeasure if they did not confess the truth. How could they know, he
demanded, that the camel was lame or blind, or whether the tail was
long or short, or that it was suffering from any malady, unless they had
it in their possession? In reply, they each explained the reasons which
had induced them to express their belief in these particulars. The first
traveller said: “I noticed in the footmarks of the animal that one was
deficient, and I concluded accordingly that it was lame in one of its
legs.” The second said: “I noticed that the leaves of the trees on the
left side of the road had been snapped or torn off, whilst those on the
right side were untouched, whence I concluded that the animal was blind
of his right eye.” The third said: “I saw some drops of blood on the
road, which I conjectured had flowed from the bites of gnats or flies,
and I thence concluded that the camel’s tail was shorter than usual, in
consequence of which he could not brush the insects away.” The fourth
said: “I observed that while the forefeet of the animal were planted
firmly on the ground the hind ones appeared to have scarcely touched
it, whence I guessed that they were contracted by pain in the belly of
the animal.” When the king heard their explanations he was much struck
by the sagacity of the travellers, and, giving 500 pagodas[83] to the
merchant who had lost the camel, he made the four young men his principal
ministers, and bestowed on each of them several villages as free gifts.
From that time these four young men became the confidential advisers
of King Alakésa in all important affairs of state, and, as night is
the house of sins, they in turn kept a regular watch in the city of
Alakápuri, each patrolling the streets during three hours of the night.
Thus they continued to faithfully serve King Alakésa, till, one night,
the _First Minister_, when his watch was over, proceeded, as usual,
to see whether the royal bedchamber was properly guarded; after which
he went to the temple of the goddess Kálí, where he heard what seemed
to him the voice of a woman, lamenting and sobbing in great distress.
Concealing himself behind the _vád_-tree of the temple, he called out:
“Who are you, poor woman? And why do you thus weep?” At once the cries
ceased, and a voice from the temple inquired: “Who art thou that thus
questionest me?” Then the minister knew that it was Kálí herself who
wept; so he threw himself on the ground, and, rising up, exclaimed: “O
my mother!—Kálí!—Sambhavi!—Mahámayi![84] Why should you thus bitterly
weep?” Quoth Kálí: “What is the use of my revealing it to thee? Canst
thou render any assistance?” The minister said that, if he had but her
favour, there was nothing he could not do. Then the goddess told him that
a calamity was about to come upon the king, and fearing that such a good
monarch was soon to disappear from the world she wept. The thought of
such a misfortune caused the minister to tremble; he fell down before the
goddess, and with tears streaming from his eyes besought her to save him.
Kálí was much gratified to observe his devotion to his master, and thus
addressed him:
“Know, then, that your king will be in danger of three calamities
to-morrow, any one of which were sufficient to cause his death. First of
all, early in the morning there will come to the palace several carts
containing newly-reaped paddy grains. The king will be delighted at this,
and immediately order a measure of the paddy to be husked and cooked
for his morning meal. Now, the field in which that paddy grew was the
abode of serpents, two of which were fighting together one day, when
they emitted poison, which has permeated those grains. Therefore, the
morning meal of your king will contain poison, but only in the first
handful will it take effect, and he will die. Should he escape, another
calamity is in store for him at noon. The king of Vijayanajara[85] will
send to-morrow some baskets of sweetmeats. In the first basket he has
concealed arrows. King Alakésa, suspecting no treachery, will order the
first basket to be opened in his presence, and will meet his death by
that device. And, even should he escape this second calamity, a third
will put an end to his life to-morrow night. A deadly serpent will
descend into his bedroom, by means of the chain of his hanging cot, and
bite him. But, should he be saved from this last misfortune, Alakésa will
live long and prosperously, till he attains the age of a hundred and
twenty years.”
Thus spake Kálí, in tones of sorrow, for she feared that the king should
lose his life by one of these three calamities. The minister prostrated
himself on the ground, and said that if the goddess would but grant him
her favour he was confident he could contrive to avert all the threatened
evils from the king. Kálí smiled and disappeared; and the minister,
taking her kind smile as a token of her favour, returned home and slept
soundly.
As soon as morning dawned, the _First Minister_ arose, and, having made
the customary ablutions, proceeded to the palace. He took care to reveal
to no one the important secret communicated to him by the goddess—not
even to his three colleagues. The sun was not yet two _ghatikas_[86]
above the horizon when several carts containing the finest paddy grains,
specially selected for the king’s use, came into the courtyard of the
palace. Alakésa was present, and ordered a measure of it to be at once
husked and cooked. The coming in of the carts and the king’s order so
exactly coincided with Kálí’s words that the minister began to fear
that he was quite unequal to the task of averting the fatality; yet
the recollection of the smile of the goddess inspired him with fresh
resolution, and he at once went to the palace-kitchen and requested the
servants to inform him when the king was about to go to dinner. After
issuing orders for the storing of the grain, King Alakésa retired to
perform his morning ablutions and other religious duties.
Meanwhile a carriage containing the pots of sweetmeats sent by the king
of Vijayanajara drove up to the palace, and the emissary who accompanied
the present told the royal servants that his master had commanded him
to deliver it to King Alakésa in person. The _First Minister_ well
understood the meaning of this, and, promising to bring the king, went
into the palace, caused one of the servants to be dressed like Alakésa,
and conducted him to the carriage. The officer of the Vijayanajara king
placed the first pot before the supposed Alakésa, who at once opened it,
when, lo! there darted forth several arrows, one of which pierced his
heart, and he fell dead on the spot.[87] In an instant the emissary was
seized and bound, and the officers began to lament the death of their
good king. But the fatal occurrence spread rapidly through the palace,
and soon the real Alakésa made his appearance on the scene. The officers
now beheld one Alakésa dead and fallen to the ground, pierced by the
arrow, and another standing there alive and well. The _First Minister_
then related how, suspecting treachery, he brought out a servant of the
palace dressed like the king, and how he had been slain in place of his
royal master. Alakésa thanked the minister for having so ingeniously
saved his life, and went into the palace. Thus was one of the three
calamities to the king averted by the faithful Bodhaditya.
When it was the hour for dinner, the king and his courtiers all sat
down, with the exception of the _First Minister_, who remained standing,
without having taken a leaf for his own use.[88] The king, observing
this, with a smile pointed out a leaf to him, but Bodhaditya would not
sit: he wished to be near the king and to abstain from eating on that
occasion. So the king allowed him to have his own way. The food having
been served on the leaves, the hands of all, including the king, were
mingling the rice, ghí, and dhal for the first course. Near the king
stood his faithful minister Bodhaditya, and when the king raised the
first handful to his mouth, “Stop, my master,” cried he; “I have long
hoped for this handful as a present to me from your royal hands. I pray
you give it to me, and feed upon the rest of the rice on your leaf.” This
was uttered more in a tone of command than of request, and the king was
highly incensed at what he naturally considered as insolence on the part
of the minister. For such a request, especially when made to a king,
is deemed nothing less than an insult, while to refuse it is equally
offensive. So, whatever thoughts may have passed through Alakésa’s mind,
recollecting how the minister had that morning saved his life, he gave
him the handful of rice, which Bodhaditya received with delight, feeling
grateful for the favour of the goddess in being the means of averting
this second calamity. Far different, however, were the sentiments of the
king and the assembled company. One and all declared Bodhaditya to be an
insolent, proud fellow; but the king, while secretly blaming himself for
having allowed him to use so much familiarity, suppressed his anger, in
consideration of the important service the minister had rendered him in
the affair of the arrows.
On the approach of night the heart of the _First Minister_ throbbed
violently, for the third calamity predicted by the goddess was yet to
be encountered. His watch being ended, before retiring to rest he went
to examine the royal bedroom, where he saw the light burning brightly,
and the king and queen asleep side by side in the ornamented swing-cot,
which was suspended from the roof by four chains. Presently he perceived
with horror a fierce black snake, the smell of which is enough to kill
a man, slowly gliding down the chain near the head of the queen. The
minister noiselessly went forward, and, with a single stroke of his sharp
sword, cut the venomous brute in two. Bodhaditya, to avoid disturbing any
person at such an hour of the night, threw the pieces over the canopy of
the bed, rejoicing at having thus averted the third and last calamity.
But a fresh horror then met his eyes: a drop of the snake’s poison had
fallen on the bosom of the queen, which was exposed in the carelessness
of slumber. “Alas, sacred goddess!” he muttered, “why do you thus raise
up new obstacles in my efforts to avert the evil which you predicted? I
have done what I could to save the king, and in this last trial I have
killed his beloved queen! How can I remove the poison from her bosom?
How can I profane that sacred spot with my hand? But I regard her even
as my own mother; and do not children draw their nourishment from the
breasts of their mothers?” Having thus briefly reflected, he wiped off
the poison from the queen’s bosom with the tip of his little finger,
and in case the contact of the venom with his finger should endanger
his own life he cut the tip of it off and threw it on the canopy. Just
then the queen awoke, and perceiving a man hastily leaving the room she
cried: “Who are you?” The minister respectfully answered: “Most venerable
mother, I am your son Bodhaditya,” and at once retired. Upon this the
queen thought within herself: “Alas, is there a good man in this world?
Hitherto have I regarded this Bodhaditya as my son; but now he has basely
taken the opportunity of thus disgracing me when my lord and I were sound
asleep. I shall inform the king of this affair, and have that wretch’s
head struck off before the morning.” Accordingly she gently awakened the
king, and, with tears trickling down her beauteous face, she told him
what had occurred, and concluded with these words: “Till now, my lord,
I considered that I was wife to you alone; but this night your First
Minister has made me doubt it, since to my question, ‘Who are you?’
he answered, without any shame, ‘I am Bodhaditya,’ and went away.” On
hearing of this violation of the sanctity of his bedchamber. Alakésa was
greatly enraged, and determined to put to death such an unprincipled
servant, but first to communicate the affair to his three other ministers.
* * * * *
When the _Second Minister’s_ watch was over he went to inspect the guard
at the royal bedchamber, and Alakésa hearing his footstep inquired who
was there. “Your servant, Bodhachandra, most royal lord,” was the reply.
“Enter, Bodhachandra,” said the king. “I have somewhat to communicate
to you.” Then Alakésa, almost choking with rage, told him of the gross
offence of which his colleague the First Minister had been guilty, and
demanded to know whether any punishment could be too severe. Bodhachandra
humbled himself before the king, and thus replied: “My lord, such a
crime merits a heavy requital. Can one tie up fire in one’s cloth,[89]
and think that, as it is but a small spark, it will do no harm? How,
then, can we excuse even slight deviations from the rules of propriety?
Therefore, if Bodhaditya be really guilty he must be signally punished.
But permit me to represent to your majesty the advisability of carefully
inquiring into this matter before proceeding to judgment. We ought to
ascertain what reasons he had for such a breach of the zanána[90] rules;
for should we, carried away by anger, act rashly in this affair, we may
repent when repentance is of no avail. As an example I shall, with your
majesty’s permission, relate a story.” The king having at once given his
consent, the _Second Minister_ began to relate the
_Story of the Hunter and his Faithful Dog_.
There dwelt in a certain forest a hunter named Ugravira, who was lord of
the woods, and as such had to pay a fixed sum of money to the king of
the country. It chanced once that the king unexpectedly demanded of him
one thousand five hundred _pons_.[91] The hunter sold all his property
and realised only a thousand pons, and was perplexed how to procure the
rest of the required amount. At length he bethought him of his dog, which
was of the best kind, and was beloved by him more than aught else in
the whole world. He took his dog to an adjacent town, where he pledged
him to a merchant named Kubéra for five hundred pons, at the same time
giving the merchant his bond for the loan. Before going away, the
hunter, with tears in his eyes, thus addressed the intelligent animal:
“Mrigasinha[92]—O my faithful friend! do not leave thy new master until I
have paid him back the money I have borrowed of him. Obey and serve him,
even as thou hast ever obeyed and served me.”
Some time after this, the merchant Kubéra had to leave home and proceed
with his goods to foreign countries; so he called the hunter’s dog to
his side, and bade him watch at his doors and prevent the intrusion of
robbers and other evil disposed persons. The dog indicated, both by his
eyes and his tail, that he perfectly understood his instructions. Then
the merchant, having enjoined his wife to feed the dog three times every
day with rice and milk, set out on his travels. The dog kept his watch
outside of the house, and for a few days the merchant’s wife fed him
regularly three times a day. But this kind treatment was not to continue.
She had for her paramour a wicked youth of the Setti caste,[93] who,
soon after the departure of Kubéra, became a constant visitor at the
merchant’s house. The faithful dog instinctively surmised that his new
master would not approve of such conduct; so one night when the youth
was leaving the house Mrigasinha sprang on him like an enraged lion,
and, seizing him by the throat, sent that evil-doer to the other world.
The merchant’s wife, hearing the scuffle, ran to the spot to save her
lover, but found him dead. Though extremely grieved at the loss of her
paramour, she had the presence of mind to immediately carry the body to
the garden at the back of the house, where she concealed it in a great
pit, and covered it with earth and leaves, vainly thinking that she had
thus concealed her own shame. This was not done, however, without being
observed by the watchful dog; and henceforth the merchant’s wife hated
him with a deadly hatred. She no longer gave him food, and the poor
creature was fain to eat such grains of rice as he found adhering to the
leaves thrown out of the house after meals, still keeping guard at the
door.
After an absence of two months the merchant returned, and the dog, the
moment he saw him, ran up to him and rolled himself on the ground at
his feet; then seizing the merchant’s cloth he dragged him to the very
spot in the garden where the youth’s body was hidden, and began to
scratch the ground, at the same time looking into the merchant’s face and
howling dismally, from which Kubéra concluded that the dog wished him
to examine the place. Accordingly he dug up the spot and discovered the
body of the youth, whom, indeed, he had suspected of being his wife’s
paramour. In a great fury he rushed into the house and commanded his
wife, on pain of instant death, to relate the particulars of this affair
without concealing anything. The wretched woman, seeing that her sin was
discovered, confessed all, upon which her husband exclaimed: “Disgrace
of womankind! you have not a fraction of the virtue possessed by this
faithful brute, which you have, out of revenge, allowed to starve. But
why should I waste words on thee? Depart, and let me see your face no
more!” So saying, he thrust her out of the house. Then the merchant fed
the dog with milk, rice, and sugar, after which he said to that lion of
beasts: “Thou trusty friend! language fails to express my gratitude to
thee. The five hundred pons which I lent thy old master the hunter are as
nothing compared with thy services to me, by which I consider the debt
as more than paid. What must be the feelings of the hunter without thy
companionship! I now give thee leave to return to him.” The merchant took
the hunter’s bond, and tearing it slightly at the top as a token that it
was cancelled, he placed it in the dog’s mouth, and sending him back to
his former master, the dog set off to the forest.
Now by this time the hunter had contrived to save up the five hundred
pons, and with the money and interest due thereon he was going to the
merchant to redeem his bond and reclaim the dog. To his great surprise,
he met Mrigasinha on the way, and as soon as the dog perceived him he
ran up to him to receive his caresses. But the hunter immediately
concluded that the poor brute, in his eagerness to rejoin him, had run
away from the merchant, and determined to put him to death. Accordingly
he plucked a creeper, and fastening it round the dog’s neck tied it to a
branch of a tree, and the faithful creature, who was expecting nothing
but kindness from his old master, was by him most cruelly strangled. The
hunter then continued his journey, and on reaching the merchant’s house
he laid down the money before him. “My dear friend,” said Kubéra, “the
important service your dog rendered me, in killing my wife’s paramour,
has amply repaid your debt, so I gave him permission to return to you,
with your bond in his mouth. Did you not meet him on your way? But why
do you look so horrified? What have you done to the dog?” The hunter,
to whom everything was now only too clear, threw himself on the ground,
like a huge tree cut at the roots, and, after telling Kubéra how he had
inconsiderately slain the faithful dog, stabbed himself with his dagger.
The merchant, grieved at the death of both the dog and the hunter, which
would not have occurred had he waited until the latter came to redeem his
bond, snatched the weapon out of the hunter’s breast and also stabbed
himself. The news of this tragedy soon reached the forest, and the wife
of the hunter, not wishing to survive her lord, threw herself into a well
and was drowned. Lastly, even the wife of the merchant, finding that so
many fatalities were due to her own misconduct, and that she was despised
by the very children in the streets, put an end to her wretched life.
* * * * *
“Thus,” added the _Second Minister_, “five lives were lost in consequence
of the hunter’s rashness. Therefore I would respectfully beseech your
majesty to investigate the case of Bodhaditya, and to refrain from acting
merely under the influence of anger.” Having thus spoken, Bodhachandra
obtained leave to retire to his own house.
* * * * *
At the end of the third watch of the night, Bodhavyapaka, the _Third
Minister_ of King Alakésa, went to see whether the royal bedchamber
was properly guarded, and the king, summoning him into his presence,
told him of the First Minister’s crime, upon which Bodhavyapaka, after
making due obeisance, thus spake: “Most noble king, such a grave crime
should be severely punished, but it behoves us not to act before having
ascertained that he is guilty beyond doubt; for evil are the consequences
of precipitation, in proof which I know a story, which I will relate,
with your majesty’s leave:
_Story of the Bráhman’s Wife and the Mungús_.
On the banks of the Ganges, which also flows by the most holy city of
Benáres, there is a town named Mithila, where dwelt a very poor Bráhman
called Vidyadhara. He had no children, and to compensate for this want,
he and his wife tenderly nourished in their house a mungús.[94] It was
their all in all—their younger son, their elder daughter—their elder son,
their younger daughter, so fondly did they regard that little creature.
The deity Visvesvara[95] and his spouse Visalakshi observed this, and
had pity for the unhappy pair; so by their divine power they blessed
them with a son.[96] This most welcome addition to their family did not
alienate the affections of the Bráhman and his wife from the mungús; on
the contrary, their attachment to it increased, for they believed that
it was because of their having adopted the pet that a son had been born
to them. So the child and the mungús were brought up together, as twin
brothers, in the same cradle.
It happened one day, when the Bráhman had gone out to beg alms of the
pious and charitable, that his wife went into the garden to cull some
pot-herbs, leaving the child asleep in his cradle and by his side the
mungús kept guard. An old snake, which was living in the well in the
garden, crept into the house and under the cradle, and was beginning to
climb into it to bite the child when the mungús fiercely attacked it and
tore it into several pieces, thus saving the life of the Bráhman’s little
son, and the venomous snake, that came to slay, itself lay dead beneath
the cradle. Pleased at having performed such an exploit, the mungús ran
into the garden to show the Bráhman’s wife its blood-smeared mouth, but
she rashly mistook the deliverer of her child for his destroyer, and with
one stroke of the knife in her hand, with which she was cutting herbs,
she killed the faithful creature, and then hastened into the house to see
her dead son. But there she found the child in his cradle alive and well,
only crying at the absence of his little companion the mungús, and under
the cradle lay the great serpent cut in pieces. The real state of affairs
was now evident, and the Bráhman presently returning home, his wife told
him of her rash act and then put an end to her life. The Bráhman, in his
turn, disconsolate at the death of the mungús and his wife, slew his
child and then killed himself.
* * * * *
“And thus,” added the _Third Minister_, “by one rash act four creatures
perished, so true is it that precipitation results in a series of
calamities. Do not, then, condemn Bodhaditya before his guilt is clearly
proved.” Alakésa having then given Bodhavyapaka the signal to retire, he
quitted the presence and went home.
* * * * *
When the watch of the _Fourth Minister_, Bodhavibhishana, was terminated,
he visited the private apartments of the king (who had been meanwhile
pondering the stories he had heard), and was called into the sleeping
chamber by Alakésa, and informed of his colleague’s unpardonable offence.
The Minister, after due prostration, thus addressed his royal master:
“Great King, I can scarcely bring myself to believe that Bodhaditya could
ever be guilty of such a crime, and I would respectfully remind your
majesty that it would not be consistent with your world-wide reputation
for wisdom and justice were you to pronounce judgment in this case
without having inquired into all the circumstances. Evil and injustice
result from hasty decisions and actions, of which a striking illustration
is furnished in the
_Story of the Faithless Wife and the Ungrateful Blind Man_.
In the town of Mithila there lived a young Bráhman who, having a quarrel
with his father-in-law, set out on a pilgrimage to Banáres. Going through
a forest he met a blind man, whose wife was leading him by means of a
stick, one end of which she held in her hand, and her husband holding
the other end was following her. She was young and fair of face, and the
pilgrim made signs to her that she should go with him and leave her blind
husband behind. The proposal thus signified pleased this wanton woman, so
she told her husband to sit under a tree for a few minutes while she went
and plucked him a ripe mango.[97] The blind man sat down accordingly,
and his wife went away with the Bráhman.[98] After waiting a long time
in expectation of his wife’s return, and no person coming near him (for
it was an unfrequented place), her infidelity became painfully apparent
to him and he bitterly cursed both her and the villain who had enticed
her from him. For six days he remained at the foot of the tree, in
woeful condition, without a morsel of rice or a drop of water, and he
was well-nigh dead when at length he heard the sound of footsteps near
him, and cried faintly for help. A man of the Setti caste and his wife
came up to him, and inquired how he happened to be in such a plight. The
blind man told them that his wife had deserted him and gone away with a
young Bráhman, whom they had met, leaving him there alone and helpless.
His story excited the compassion of the Setti and his wife. They gave
him to eat of the small quantity of rice they had with them, and, having
supplied him with water to quench his thirst, the Setti bade his wife
lead him with his stick. The woman, though somewhat reluctant to walk
thus in company with a man who was not her husband, yet reflecting that
charitable actions ought never to be left undone, complied with her
lord’s request, and began to lead the blind man. After travelling in this
manner for a day, the three reached a town, and took up their abode for
the night in the house of a friend of the Setti, where the latter and his
wife gave the blind man a share of their rice before tasting a morsel
themselves.
At daybreak the next morning they advised him to try to provide for
himself in some way in that town, and prepared to resume their journey.
But the blind man, forgetting all the kindness they had shown him, began
to raise an alarm, crying out: “Is there no king in this city to protect
me and give me my rights? Here is a Setti rascal taking away my wife with
him. As I am blind, she denies that I am her husband, and follows that
rogue. But will not the king give me justice?” The people in the street
at once reported these words to the king, who caused inquiry to be made
into the matter. The fact of the Setti’s wife having led the blind man
seemed to indicate that the latter, and not the Setti, was the woman’s
husband, and the king foolishly concluded that both the Setti and his
wife were the real criminals. Accordingly he sentenced the Setti to the
gallows, because he had attempted to entice away a married woman, and
his wife to be burnt in the kiln, as she had wished to forsake her
husband, and he a blind man. When these sentences were pronounced the
blind man was thunderstruck. The thought that by a deliberate lie he had
caused the death of two innocent persons now stung him to the heart. By
this lie he expected that the Setti only should be punished, and that the
woman should be made over to him as his own wife, but now he found that
she also was condemned to death. “Vile wretch that I am!” said he. “I do
not know what sins I committed in a former life to be thus blind now.[99]
My real wife, too, deserted me; and I, heaping sins upon sins, have
now by a false report sent to death an innocent man and his wife, who
rescued me from a horrible fate and tended to all my wants last night.
O Mahámayi! what punishment you have in reserve for me, I know not!”
This soliloquy, being overheard by some bystanders, was communicated to
the king, who, bitterly reproaching himself for having so rashly acted,
at once released the good Setti and his wife, and caused the ungrateful
blind man to be burnt in the kiln.
* * * * *
“Thus you see, my lord,” added the _Fourth Minister_, “how nearly that
king had plunged into a gulf of crime by his rashness. Therefore, my
most noble king, I would respectfully and humbly request you to consider
well the case of Bodhaditya, and punish him severely if he be found
really guilty.” Having thus spoken, he obtained leave to depart.
* * * * *
The night was now over: darkness, the harbourer of vice, had fled away;
the day dawned. King Alakésa left his bedchamber, bathed and made his
religious ablutions, and after breakfasting summoned a council of all his
father’s old ministers and advisers. Alakésa took his seat in the midst
of the assembly: anger was clearly visible in his countenance; his eyes
had lost their natural expression and had turned very red; his breath
was as hot as that of a furnace. He thus addressed them: “Know ye all,
the ministers of my father and of myself, that last night, during the
first watch, my First Minister, Bodhaditya, while I and my queen were
asleep in our chamber, came and touched with his finger the bosom of my
queen. Consider well the gravity of this crime, and express your opinions
as to what punishment he merits.” Thus spake King Alakésa; but all the
ministers, not knowing what answer to return, hung down their heads in
silence. Among those present was an aged minister named _Manuniti_, who
called Bodhaditya to his side and privately learned the whole story. He
then humbly bowed before the king, and thus spake: “Most noble king, men
are not always wise; and, before replying to your majesty’s question, I
beg permission to relate in your presence the story of a king in whose
reign a certain benevolent action was repaid with disgrace and ignominy:
_Story of the Wonderful Mango Fruit_.
On the banks of the Kávéri there was a city called Tiruvidaimarudur,
where ruled a king named Chakraditya. In that city there lived a poor
Bráhman and his wife, who, having no children, brought up in their house
a young parrot as tenderly as if it had been their own offspring. One
day the parrot was sitting on the roof of the house, basking itself in
the morning sun, when a large flock of parrots flew past, talking to
each other about certain mango fruits. The Bráhman’s parrot asked them
what were the peculiar properties of those fruits, and was informed that
beyond the seven oceans there was a great mango tree, the fruit of which
gave perpetual youth to the person who ate of it, however old and infirm
he might be. On hearing of this wonder the Bráhman’s parrot requested
permission to accompany them, which being granted, they all continued
their flight. When at length they arrived at the mango tree, all ate of
its fruit; but the Bráhman’s parrot reflected: “It would not be right
for me to eat of this fruit; I am still young, while my adopted parents,
the poor Bráhman and his wife, are very old. So I shall give them this
fruit, and they will become young and blooming by eating it.” And that
same evening the good parrot brought the fruit to the Bráhman, and
explained to him its extraordinary properties. But the Bráhman thought
within himself: “I am a beggar. What although I should become young and
live for ever or should die this very moment? Our king is very good and
charitable. If such a great man should eat of this fruit and renew his
youth, he would confer the greatest benefits on mankind. Therefore I will
give this mango to our good king.”
In pursuance of this self-denying resolution, the poor Bráhman proceeded
to the palace and presented the fruit to the king, at the same time
relating how he had obtained it, and its qualities. The king richly
rewarded the Bráhman for his gift and sent him away. Then he began
to reflect thus: “Here is a fruit which can bestow perpetual youth
on the person who eats it. I should gain this great boon for myself
alone, and what happiness could I expect in such circumstances, without
corresponding friends and subjects? I shall therefore not eat this mango
fruit, but plant it carefully in my garden, and it will in time become a
tree, which will bear much fruit having the same wonderful virtue, and my
subjects shall, every one, eat of the fruit and, with myself, be endowed
with everlasting youth.” So calling his gardener the king gave him the
fruit and he planted it in the royal presence. In due course of time the
fruit grew into a fine tree, and during the spring season it began to bud
and blossom and bear fruit. The king, having fixed upon an auspicious
day for cutting one of the mango fruits, gave it to his domestic
chaplain, who was ninety years old, in order that his youth should be
renewed. But no sooner had the priest tasted it than he fell down dead.
At this unexpected calamity the king was both astonished and deeply
grieved. When the old priest’s wife heard of her husband’s sudden death,
she came and prayed the king to allow her to perform _sati_ with him on
the same funeral pyre, which increased the king’s sorrow; but he gave her
the desired permission, and himself superintended all the ceremonies of
the cremation.
King Chakraditya then sent for the poor Bráhman and demanded of him
how he had dared to present a poisonous fruit to his king. The Bráhman
replied: “My lord, I brought up a young parrot in my house, in order to
console me for having no son. That parrot brought me the fruit one day,
and told me of its wonderful properties. Believing that the parrot spoke
truth, I presented it to your majesty, never for a moment suspecting it
to be poisonous.” The king listened to the poor Bráhman’s words, but
thought that the priest’s death should be avenged. So he consulted his
ministers, who recommended, as a slight punishment, that the Bráhman
should be deprived of his left eye. This was done accordingly, and on
his return home, when his wife saw his condition, she asked the reason
of such mutilation. “My dear,” said he, “the parrot we have fostered
so tenderly is the cause of this.” And they resolved to break the
neck of the treacherous bird. But the parrot, having overheard their
conversation, thus addressed them: “My kind foster parents, everyone must
be rewarded for the good actions or punished for the evil deeds of his
previous life.[100] I brought you the fruit with a good intention, but
my sins in my former life have given it a different effect. Therefore, I
pray you to kill me and bury me with a little milk in a pit. And, after
my funeral ceremony is over, I request you to undertake a pilgrimage to
Banáres to clear yourself of your sins.” So the old Bráhman and his wife
killed their pet parrot and buried it as directed, after which, overcome
with grief, they set out on a pilgrimage to the holy city.
Meanwhile the king commanded his gardener to set guards over the
poison-tree, and to allow no one to eat of its fruit; and all the
inhabitants soon came to know that the king had a mango tree in his
garden, the fruit of which was deadly poison. Now there was in the city
an old washerwoman, who had frequent quarrels with her daughter-in-law,
and one day, being weary of her life, she left the house, threatening
to eat of the poison-tree and die. The young parrot who was killed for
having brought the poisonous mango fruit was re-born as a green parrot,
and was waiting an opportunity to demonstrate the harmless nature of the
tree; and when he saw the old woman approach with a determination to
put an end to her life by eating of its fruit, he plucked one with his
beak and dropped it down before her. The old woman rejoiced that Fate
sanctioned her death, and greedily ate the fruit, when, lo! instead of
dying she became young and blooming again. Those who had seen her leave
the house a woman over sixty years of age were astonished on seeing her
return as a handsome girl of sixteen and learning that the wonderful
transformation was caused by the supposed poisonous mango tree. The
strange news soon reached the king, who, in order to test the tree still
farther, ordered another fruit of it to be brought and gave it to a
goldsmith of more than ninety years of age, who had embezzled some gold
which had been entrusted to him to make into ornaments for the ladies of
the palace, and was on that account undergoing imprisonment.[101] When he
had eaten the fruit, he, in his turn, became a young man of sixteen.
The king was now convinced that the fruit of this mango tree, so far from
being poisonous, had the power of converting decrepit age into lusty and
perennial youth. But how did the old priest die by eating of it? It was
by a mere accident. One day a huge serpent was sleeping on a branch of
the mango tree, and its head was placed over a fruit: poison dropped from
its mouth and fell on the rind of that fruit. The gardener, who had no
knowledge of this, when asked to bring a fruit for the priest, happened
to bring the one on which the poison had fallen, and the priest having
eaten it died. And now the king caused proclamation to be made throughout
his kingdom that all who pleased might come and partake of the mango
fruit, and everyone ate of it and became young. But King Chakraditya’s
heart burnt within him at the remembrance of his ill-treatment of the
poor Bráhman, who had returned with his wife from Banáres. So he sent for
him, explained his mistake, and gave him a fruit to eat, which having
tasted, the aged Bráhman became young, and his eye was also restored to
him. But the greatest loss of all, that of the parrot who brought the
fruit from beyond the seven oceans, remained irreparable.
* * * * *
“Thus, my lord,” continued the aged minister, _Manuniti_, “it behoves
us not to act precipitately in this affair of Bodhaditya, which we must
carefully sift before expressing our opinion as to the punishment he may
deserve at your majesty’s hands.”
* * * * *
When Manuniti had concluded his story of the wonderful mango fruit, King
Alakésa ordered his four ministers to approach the throne, and then, with
an angry countenance, he thus addressed Bodhaditya: “What excuse have you
for entering my bedchamber without permission, and thus violating the
rules of decency?” The _First Minister_ humbly begged leave to relate
to his majesty a story of how a Bráhman fed a hungry traveller, and had
afterwards to endure the infamy of having caused that traveller’s death,
and on King Alakésa signifying his consent, thus began:
_The Story of the Poisoned Food_.
There was a city called Vijayanagara, to the north of which flowed a
small river with topes[102] on both banks. One day a young Bráhman
pilgrim came and sat down to rest by the side of the stream, and,
finding the place very cool and shady, he resolved to bathe, perform his
religious ablutions, and make his dinner off the rice which he carried
tied up in a bundle. Three days before there had come to the same spot
an old Bráhman, whose years numbered more than threescore and ten; he
had quarrelled with his family, and fled from his house to die. Since
he reached that place he had tasted no food, and the young pilgrim
found him lying in a pitiable state, and placed near him a portion of
his rice. The old man arose, and proceeded to the rivulet in order to
wash his feet and hands, and pronounce a holy incantation or two before
tasting the food. While thus engaged, a kite, carrying in its beak a
huge serpent, alighted upon the tree at the foot of which was the rice
given by the pilgrim to the old man, and while the bird was feasting
on the serpent, some of its poison dropped on the rice; and the old
Bráhman, in his hunger, did not observe it on his return; he greedily
devoured some of the rice, and instantly fell down dead. The young
pilgrim, seeing him prone on the ground, ran to help him, but found that
life was gone; and, concluding that the old man’s hasty eating after
his three days’ fast must have caused his death, and being unwilling to
leave his corpse to be devoured by kites and jackals, he determined to
cremate it before resuming his journey. With this object he ran to the
neighbouring village, and reporting to the people what had occurred on
the tope, requested their assistance in the cremating of the old man’s
body. The villagers, however, suspected that the young pilgrim had killed
and robbed the old Bráhman; so they laid hold of him, and, after giving
him a severe flogging, imprisoned him in the village temple of Kálí.
Alas, what a reward was this for his kind hospitality! and how was he
repaid for his beneficence! The unhappy pilgrim gave vent to his sorrows
in the form of verses in praise of the goddess in whose temple he was
a prisoner; for he was a great pandit, versed in the four Vedas,[103]
and the six Sastras,[104] and the sixty-four varieties of knowledge.
On hearing the pilgrim’s verses, the rage of the goddess descended on
the villagers who had so rashly accused and punished him for a crime
of which he was innocent. Suddenly the whole village was destroyed by
fire, and the people lost all their property and were houseless. In
their extremity they went to the temple of Kálí, and humbly requested
the goddess to inform them of the cause of the calamity which had thus
unexpectedly come upon them. The goddess infused herself into the person
of one of the villagers, and thus responded: “Know ye, unkind villagers,
that ye have most unjustly scourged and imprisoned in our presence
an innocent, charitable, and pious Bráhman. The old man died from the
effects of poison, which dropped from a serpent’s mouth on some rice
at the foot of a tree when it was being devoured by a kite. Ye did not
know of this; nevertheless, ye have maltreated a good man without first
making due inquiry as to his guilt or innocence. For this reason we
visited your village with this calamity. Beware, and henceforward avoid
such sins.” So saying, Kálí departed from the person through whom she had
manifested herself.[105] Then the villagers perceived the grievous error
into which they had fallen. They released the good pilgrim and implored
his forgiveness, which he readily granted. And thus was an innocent man
charged with murder in return for his benevolent actions.
* * * * *
“Even so,” continued Bodhaditya, “my most noble sovereign, I have
this day had to endure the infamy of having violated the zanána for
saving your valuable life.” He then sent for a thief who was undergoing
imprisonment, and gave him the handful of rice which he had the
preceding day snatched from the king at dinner, and the thief having
eaten it instantly died.[106] He next caused a servant to go to the royal
bedchamber, and fetch from the canopy of the couch the pieces of the
serpent and his little finger-tip, which he laid before the wonder-struck
king and the counsellors, and then addressed his majesty as follows: “My
most noble king and ye wise counsellors, it is known to you all that we
four ministers keep watch over the town during the four quarters of the
night, and mine is the first watch. Well, while I was on duty the day
before yesterday, I heard a weeping voice in the direction of the temple.
I proceeded to the spot, and discovered the goddess sobbing bitterly. She
related to me how three calamities were awaiting the king on the morrow.
The first of them was the arrows despatched by the king of Vijayanajara
as sweetmeats to our sovereign; the second was the poisoned rice, and the
third the serpent. In trying to avert these calamities I have committed
the offence of entering the zanána.” And he thereupon explained the
affair from first to last.
King Alakésa and the whole assembly were highly delighted at the fidelity
and devotion of Bodhaditya; for it was now very evident that he had done
nothing amiss, but had saved the life of the king on three occasions,
and indeed also the life of the queen by wiping off the serpent’s poison
which had fallen on her bosom. Then Alakésa, in explanation of the
saying, “eating the protector,” related the
_Story of the Bráhman and the Rescued Snake_.
In the country of Uttara there lived a Bráhman named Kusalanadan, who had
a wife and six sons. All were in a state of prosperity for some time, but
the entrance of Saturn into the Bráhman’s horoscope turned everything
upside down. The once prosperous Bráhman became poor, and was reduced to
go to the neighbouring woods to gather bambú-rice with which to feed his
hungry family.[107] One day, while plucking the bambú ears, he saw a bush
close by in flames, in the midst of which was a serpent struggling for
its life. The Bráhman at once ran to its rescue, and stretching towards
it a long green stick the reptile crept on to it and escaped from the
flames, and then spread its hood and with a hissing sound approached
to sting its rescuer. The Bráhman began to weep and bewail his folly
in having saved the ungrateful creature, which being observed by the
serpent it asked him: “O Bráhman, why do you weep?” Said the old man:
“You now purpose to kill me; is this the reward for my having saved your
life?” “True, you have rescued me from a terrible death, but how am I
to appease my hunger?” replied the serpent. The Bráhman said: “You speak
of your hunger, but who is to feed my old wife and six hungry children
at my house?” The serpent, seeing the anxiety of the Bráhman, emitted a
precious gem from its hood,[108] and bade him take it home and give it to
his wife for household expenses, after which to return to the wood to be
devoured. The old man agreed, and, solemnly promising to return without
fail, went home. Having given the gem to his family, and told them of his
pact with the serpent, the Bráhman went back to the wood. The serpent had
meanwhile reflected upon his own base ingratitude. “Is it right,” thought
he, “to kill him who saved me from the flames? No! I shall rather perish
of hunger, if I cannot find a prey to-day, than slay my protector.” So,
when the old Bráhman returned, true to his word, the serpent presented
him with another valuable gem, and after expressing a wish that he should
live long and happily with his wife and children, went its own way, while
the Bráhman returned joyously to his home.
* * * * *
“Even as the serpent purposed acting towards its benefactor,” continued
the king, “so did I, in my rage, intend putting to death my faithful
minister and the protector of my life, Bodhaditya; and to free myself
from this grievous sin there is no penance I should not undergo.”
* * * * *
Then King Alakésa ordered a thousand Bráhmans to be fed every day
during his life, and many rich gifts to be distributed in temples as
atonement for his great error. And from that day Bodhaditya and his
three colleagues enjoyed still more of the royal favour. With those four
faithful ministers King Alakésa lived a most happy life and had a most
prosperous reign.
MAY THERE BE PROSPERITY TO ALL!
THE ROSE OF BAKÁWALÍ.
THE ROSE OF BAKÁWALÍ.
PROEM.
Every praise is due to that Almighty Creator whose mercy has given
grace and perfection to this garden of the earth. The flowers, like the
loveliest brides, reflect the lustre of his beauty; what power, then, has
the pen, a dry and withered reed as it is, to record his excellencies?
Each blushing rose-leaf still exhales
Those heavenly paradisal gales,
Creator, which thy power proclaim,
And make the bulbul praise thy name.
The unexpanded buds confess
Thy glory, and thy power express;
And all the loveliness of earth
From thee alone has taken birth.
The light of Layla’s[1] beauty glows
Apparent in the blushing rose;
And in Narcissus still we find
Sad Majnún’s hair tossed by the wind.[109]
O if his mercy rain on me,
’Twill wash out my impurity,
And crown my hopes with verdancy;
But if his wrath its head should rear,
’Neath Ahmed’s[110] shade we must repair.
Thousands of blessings be upon that glorified Prophet, for whom the
heavens and the earth were created,[111] and the footmarks of whose
Burák[112] are impressed on the foreheads of the sun and moon. From the
whole collected works of his power, the world is but a single volume, and
life a single chapter. When he found the earth required his presence, he
left heaven, and, clothed in human flesh, descended here below. Let us
turn now to the praise of the king of heroes, namely, Alí.[113]
When the sun had irradiated the face of the earth I determined to dive
into the river of contemplation, with a view of gaining some pearls of
ideas therefrom. Many came to hand, yet I was wondering how to use them,
when a voice reached my ear, saying: “O thou, immersed in thought, these
gems befit only one, and he is Alí: may peace be on him! Open thy mouth
in his eulogy, because he is an emperor, the lustre of whose countenance
has cast a shade of paleness on the moon, and has redoubled the radiance
of the sun. If he would give loose to the reins of his charger in the
seventh heaven, it would raise disturbance among the stars.”
O King of kings, my request from thy mercy is, that thou wouldst prove a
shelter to me on the day of judgment, and admit me into the ranks of thy
white-faced servants. What shall I add, when it is presumption on my part
to address thee long!
CHAPTER I.
THE ASTROLOGERS’ PREDICTION AT THE BIRTH OF OUR HERO—HIS FATHER
IS STRUCK WITH BLINDNESS—HIS FOUR BROTHERS SET OUT IN QUEST
OF THE ROSE OF BAKÁWALÍ, TO RESTORE THEIR FATHER’S SIGHT—HE
SECRETLY FOLLOWS THEM—THEY FALL INTO THE TOILS OF DILBAR, AN
ARTFUL COURTESAN, WHO FLEECES THEM AND MAKES THEM PRISONERS.
They relate that a king named Zayn ul-Mulúk[114] reigned over a city
in the eastern part of Hindústán. He had already four sons who were
well trained in all the arts and sciences of the time and for courage
compared to Rustam,[115] when Providence bestowed on him a fifth, who
was beautiful as the moon in her fourteenth night, which scatters the
darkness of the world. Zayn ul-Mulúk, full of joy, gave on this occasion
a grand feast, and by the advice of the astrologers called the newly born
Táj ul-Mulúk.[116] The same astrologers, having cast the horoscope[117]
of the infant prince, declared that he would be endowed with courage
far superior to any other mortal, and that genii and men would be
subservient to him; but if unfortunately his father should look on him,
that very instant he would be deprived of his sight. The king, with
mixed sensations of pleasure and grief, gave order to his chief vazír
to put the child and his mother in a palace at some distance from the
court, which was done accordingly. After several years the prince became
accomplished in every science. Being a lover of sport, it chanced one day
that he went far into the thick of a forest in pursuit of a deer. True
it is that what is written by Fate can never be erased. It so happened
that the king was also hunting in the same forest that very day, and
encountered the prince. There is a well-known saying to the effect that
the wounded part is always sore, notwithstanding our efforts not to be
hurt again, and the fugitive slave, fly wherever he will, is sure to
be overtaken by his pursuer. The moment that the eyes of the king fell
upon his son he was struck blind. His minister at once divined the cause
of his blindness. The king observed, that the sight of a son generally
increases the light of his father’s eyes, but in his case the reverse
had occurred. Hence it was proper that such a son should be expelled the
realm, and the queen, his mother, made to sweep the apartments of his
haram.
Then physicians equal to Avicenna[118] in learning and skill were called
to remove the king’s blindness, and they all declared that the only
remedy was the Rose of Bakáwalí. Zayn ul-Mulúk despatched messengers
throughout the land to proclaim that whosoever should procure that
wonderful flower, or tell where it was to be found, should be handsomely
rewarded; but without success. Thus year followed year, the king passing
all his time lamenting and weeping, like Jacob when he mourned for
Joseph, and like the prophet Job, waiting with impatient anxiety.[119]
At last his four sons besought him that they should be allowed to go in
quest of the Rose of Bakáwalí. The king at first refused, not wishing
that the bright lamps of his house should be exposed to dangers, but was
ultimately prevailed upon to yield to their entreaties, and gave order to
his vazír to prepare everything needful for their journey—money, beasts
of burden, tents, and attendants. The princes departed and traversed many
miles at random.
By accident they met their brother, Táj ul-Mulúk, who was dragging his
weary feet far away from his native land. He enquired who they were and
whither they were going. In reply they told him how Zayn ul-Mulúk, their
father, had lost his sight, and that they were journeying in search
of the Rose of Bakáwalí, prescribed for the removal of his blindness.
The prince on hearing this said to himself: “I must try my fortune and
experience on the touchstone of the gold of my fate. Perchance I shall
succeed in filling the skirt of my gown with the roses of my desire.”
Having thus resolved, he went to a nobleman named Syíd, who on looking at
him perceived that the light of his countenance surpassed the glory of
the sun, and the dark cluster of his locks, falling upon the fairness of
his forehead, resembled the gloom of the clouds passing over the lustre
of the moon. He asked him: “Who are you, and whence have you come?” Táj
ul-Mulúk answered: “I am a traveller far away from my country, with no
one to sympathise with me in my misfortunes, and none to cheer me with
the soothing music of the voice of a friend. There is no one to assist
and comfort me.” Syíd on hearing the words of this second Joseph[120] was
highly affected and agreed to befriend him.
It is related that Táj ul-Mulúk after a long journey reached the city of
Firdaus,[121] which was then governed by King Rizwán. It was evening.
Standing on the bank of a river, he intended to take up his abode in that
town for some time. When the sun had finished his diurnal travel, and
the moon, riding on her sable charger, had commenced her ramble in the
east, the four princes, mounted on their swift-footed horses, entered the
city. Their eyes fell on a splendid palace, every window of which was
hung with screens of the richest brocade. They asked one of the citizens:
“Whose palace is this?” He answered: “The owner of this mansion is Dilbar
Lakhí.”[122] The princes asked: “How has she obtained such a palace?”
And the man replied: “This lady is unequalled. In beauty and grace she
has no rival on this earth. The sun even would sacrifice himself on her
charms as the moth does on the light of the taper;[123] and the moon
would hide her diminished glory before the lustre of her charms. For
those who court her society she keeps a drum hung on the door, on beating
which, should they be rich enough to pay a lakh of rupís, they will
have the happiness of meeting her.” At these words, the young princes,
proud of their social position and wealth, wished to gratify their love
of pleasure, so they approached the door and loudly beat the drum. When
Dilbar heard the sound she could not contain her joy. “Well, well!” she
said, “since the prey seeks to enter my net, it must be caught. Women
of my trade are always in hopes that some one void of sense and with a
full purse will fall into their hands.” She quickly adorned herself with
rubies, emeralds, diamonds and pearls and sat down to receive the sons of
Zayn ul-Mulúk. She made them sit on a golden seat, and then rosy-cheeked
slave-girls came and presented them with wine in cups of gold, and with
different kinds of food in dishes of silver. When half of the night had
passed in drinking and talking, this artful woman proposed to them that
they should play at backgammon by way of amusement, and the princes
assented with pleasure. The board was brought, and she placed a lamp on
the head of a cat, which she had taken great pains to train up to her
designs, and staked a lakh of rupís on the first game. Before the night
was over the princes lost fifteen lakhs of rupís. In the morning they
took leave of Dilbar and returned to their tents. The following night
they again went to the mansion of Dilbar, and that designing woman won
from them not only all their money but also their horses, elephants,
and camels. Then she said to them: “Young men, seeing that nothing now
remains to you, I think you had better go home.” “No,” said they; “allow
us once more to hang on the scale of experiment the gold of our fortune.
If the scale incline to our side, we depart with all our property; if it
fall to your side, we lose everything and become your slaves.” Dilbar
accepted this proposal and in the twinkling of an eye won the game, and
thus became absolute mistress of the goods and persons of the sons of
Zayn ul-Mulúk, who were sent at once to keep company with many others in
the same predicament. The attendants of the four princes, on learning
their fate, like the petals of the rose which fall in autumn, were in
great trouble and excitement.