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.
Let us now return to Bakáwalí, whom we left asleep on her beautiful
couch. When she awoke she fastened her bodice, put her dress in order,
drew the comb through her hair, and went to the lake where grew her
cherished Rose. On reaching the bank she discovered that the precious
flower was gone, and at the same moment perceived that she wore a
different ring from her own. “O Heaven!” cried she, “is it a dream or the
effect of magic? But no; only a man could have done this deed, for none
but a human being could elude the vigilance of the dívs. None is equal
to thee in daring, and an ordinary man I am sure thou art not. Gold and
silver are stolen by thieves; but thou art not a common robber. If I
could but see thee I would lay thy hands on my eyes and kiss them over
and over. Thou hast made a mine in my bosom and stolen away my heart. To
thy satisfaction thou hast not seen me; but I doubt not thou hast feasted
thy eyes with a sight of these lips, and who knows, but thou mayest
have tasted the honey therefrom? Thou hast stolen the gold, and the
casket only is here.” Bakáwalí then returned into her palace and summoned
her attendants in order to have them punished for their carelessness,
forgetting the maxim that “when the arrow of Fate is shot none can arrest
it with the shield of prudence,” and said to them: “If you wish to live,
bring the thief to me immediately.” They did as desired, but no trace
whatever of the thief could be found. Bakáwalí resolved to go herself
in quest of him. Rendering herself invisible to all eyes, she reached
the capital of Zayn ul-Mulúk, where she beheld everywhere preparations
being made for a festival, and heard on all sides the sound of musical
instruments. Curious to know the cause of these rejoicings, she assumed
the form of a young man, and inquired of the first person she met: “What
is the reason of the mirth which prevails among the inhabitants of this
city?” “The king,” replied the citizen, “was blind; but his sons, after
searching a long time and coming through unheard-of trials, have at
last succeeded in obtaining the Rose of Bakáwalí, which has restored
his sight. On this account the padisháh has ordered that every one
should give himself up to pleasure for a year, and that the sound of the
_naubat_[150] should everywhere be heard.”
Bakáwalí, delighted to hear tidings, at least, of her Rose, was in hopes
of soon discovering the person who had stolen it from her. Returning
to the bank of the river, she bathed in order to refresh herself after
the fatigue of her journey, and having dressed, she proceeded to the
royal palace. She was introduced to Zayn ul-Mulúk, who inquired of her
who she was, and whence and why she had come. Bakáwalí answered thus,
very composedly: “Your slave comes from the country of the west which
is called Farrukh.[151] I have left my home in the hope of entering the
service of your majesty, and I venture to express the wish that I may be
admitted among the number of officers attached to your royal person.” “I
accept your services,” said the king; “remain with me.” For some time
Bakáwalí performed her new duties, till one day the four sons of the king
presented themselves at court. Zayn ul-Mulúk, according to his custom,
received them most affectionately, pressed them to his bosom, kissed
their heads and eyes, and made them sit beside himself. Bakáwalí asked
an attendant who these personages were, and was informed that they were
the king’s own sons. Then with the touch-stone of discernment she tested
the gold of their countenances, and felt convinced that it was not pure.
“Has the king no other son,” she inquired, “who went with these in search
of the Rose of Bakáwalí?” “He has not,” was the answer.[152] The fairy
princess loved him who had taken possession of her ring, and her heart
told her that he was of a quite different stamp from these four sons
of Zayn ul-Mulúk. In despair, that after so many difficulties she had
discovered traces of her Rose, but still could not find out the one who
had plucked it, she cursed the fate which had sported with her prudent
devices, and remained convinced that these princes had not plucked the
Rose and that the king had another son. So she resolved to be patient and
see what should come from behind the veil of mystery.
* * * * *
When the four wicked brothers of Táj ul-Mulúk had deprived him of the
Rose of Bakáwalí he was at first confounded, but soon afterwards followed
them, and when he arrived at the frontiers of his father’s country, and
found himself in a dense jungle full of wild beasts, he recollected
the hair which Hammála had given him, and placed it on a fire which he
lighted by means of a flint. There was not a quarter of it burnt when
the fairy presented herself before him, accompanied by a thousand dívs,
and asked him in what way she could be of service to him. The prince,
after apologising for the liberty he had taken in summoning her, replied
that he wished to have, then and in that spot, a palace equal to that
of Bakáwalí, upon which the fairy despatched some of her followers to
the four corners of the earth, to fetch the rubies of Badakshán, the
carnelians of Yaman, and abundance of gold and silver and all kinds of
precious stones. Within three days the dívs returned laden with treasures
and at once began to erect a palace as instructed by the sháh-záda. It
was soon finished, and one would have said that it was actually the
palace of Bakáwalí. One fourth of the precious stones brought by the
dívs could not be used and were deposited in the treasury of the palace.
When all was ready, Hammála reminded the prince that what she had just
done for him was on account of her love for Mahmúda, and counselled him
never to soil with the dust of sorrow the robe of that damsel, and then
departed.
Táj ul-Mulúk proceeded in great state to seek Dilbar and Mahmúda at the
place where they were to wait for him. He provided them with palankíns,
which were decorated with priceless gems and beautiful brocaded curtains,
and preceded by slaves on horseback, carrying sticks of gold and silver
in their hands. In this manner did he bring them to his palace, where
they passed the time very agreeably.
One day, as a slave of the prince, named Sa’íd, was strolling through the
forest he came upon some woodcutters, and asked them whither they were
carrying the faggots they had prepared. “We are,” said they, “men of
the east country, and it is by the sale of our wood that we support our
families.” The slave desired them to convey their burdens to the house of
his master, promising they should be richly recompensed. The men answered
that they had never seen any sign of a habitation in that forest. “Follow
me,” said the slave, “and you will soon be convinced I speak the truth,
and that my master’s house is not far distant.” The woodcutters complied
in the hope of gain, and soon arrived near the palace of Táj ul-Mulúk.
As the precious stones of which its walls were built reflected the rays
of the sun, they thought it was a great fire. “May God preserve us,”
they cried, “from the devil, who has been stoned![153] We will not go a
step farther.” “Calm yourselves,” replied Sa’íd; “what you see is not
fire, but the brilliancy of the stones which cover the walls. Continue to
follow me, and fear nothing.” When they reached the palace, Sa’íd brought
them before Táj ul-Mulúk, who received them with great kindness, and gave
to each a handful of pearls and precious stones, saying to them that if
they would come and stay with him he would give them every day twice
as much as they had just received. So they left their own country and
settled there. The news spread far and wide, and many others followed
the example of the wood-men, and those who went remained in this new
city. Every day the Kutwál[154] was complaining to the minister of Zayn
ul-Mulúk of the migration of his subjects, and how even in one night a
thousand had quitted the capital. The minister inquired whither they had
gone. “I have heard,” said the kutwál, “that in a forest a city has been
built on foundations of gold, and that a palace has been erected which is
unequalled in earth. The generosity of the king of that city bids fair to
erase the name of Hatim[155] from the minds of the people; and such is
the fame of his justice that the glory of Núshírván is eclipsed.”[156]
The minister asked: “How can a man do what is beyond the power of mortals
to perform?” “But I have been credibly informed of it many times,” said
the kutwál. “And that powerful God who transformed a man into a woman and
metamorphosed a woman into a man can also bestow wealth (which is like
a beautiful woman) on a human being. Have you not heard of the princess
who borrowed virility from a dív and married a wife?” “No,” answered the
vazír. “Attend then,” said the kutwál:
_Story of the Princess and the Dív who exchanged sexes_.
In ancient times there lived a king, who had a hundred beautiful girls
in his haram yet had no issue by any one of them. At length one of them
gave birth to a daughter, and afterwards she bore three other children,
but every time a female. When she was pregnant for the fourth time the
king swore that if a daughter was born again he would have both the child
and the mother destroyed. It happened that a daughter was again born; but
lovely and fairy-like was the infant. The mother, anxious to preserve
the life of her darling, gave out that it was a son, and prevailed upon
the astrologers to counsel the king not to see the child’s face for ten
years, for should he do so harm would come to him, and the father agreed
to do as they desired.
When the girl grew up in years and understanding, and the prescribed
period was near expiring, the mother explained matters to her, and
requested her to assume the garb of a young man and thus appear before
the king, so that in this way both their lives might be preserved. The
daughter followed her mother’s instructions, and in due course she was
betrothed to the daughter of another monarch. When the wedding-day
approached, the king caused her to be clothed in rich garments, and,
placing her in a golden litter, despatched her to the country of the
bride. The girl sometimes wept and sometimes laughed at the situation in
which she was placed. At last when she reached a dense forest, where she
had occasion to stay for the night, she could bear her shame no longer,
and finding life nothing less than a burden, she left her litter secretly
and wandered far into the wood, trusting that some beast of prey would
destroy her.
After roaming about for some time, she found herself under the branches
of a tall, umbrageous tree, in which dwelt a dív, who immediately fell
in love with her beauty. In the shape of a young man he appeared to her,
and inquired the cause of her distress. The girl told her story frankly,
upon which the heart of the dív melted, and he offered to change her
into a man and himself into a woman for a short time. She consented to
this, and the transformation took place at once, after which she took
her leave, with a light and happy heart, and rejoined her attendants
unperceived by any of them. In a few days more they reached the country
of the bride. The marriage was consummated and the old king returned to
his own country. The prince who was originally a princess remained with
his spouse until a child was born to him, and then he set out on a visit
to his father. In passing through the forest he sought out the tree
and found the dív sitting there in the form of a woman. “O dív,” cried
the prince, “through thy favour I have obtained the wish of my heart.
Take back your virility and restore my womanhood to me.” But this the
dív could not do, as in the form of a woman he had fallen in love with
another dív and expected soon to become a mother. “Therefore,” added the
dív, “do thou retain thy manhood: I am content to remain a woman.”[157]
* * * * *
The kutwál having finished his story, the vazír remarked: “God is great
and powerful. I do not doubt this; but how a man can act so miraculously
as you say the ruler of that new city has done, I cannot understand.
Do you, however, go and inspect that wonderful palace and bring me an
account of all that you see.” So the kutwál at once proceeded to Mulk-i
Nighárín,[158] accompanied by a large body of cavaliers. Táj ul-Mulúk,
on hearing of his approach, ordered all the ponds to be filled and the
fountains to be set playing, and that he should be received in the
ruby-room. When the prince graced the throne with his presence the kutwál
rose, made his obeisance to him, and spoke as follows: “The news of your
residence in this jungle, where you have a palace and a city, has reached
the ears of the king, my master, who has sent me to verify the fact. Now
permit me to explain to you that if you wish to remain independent, you
must quit this place without delay. If not, you must put your neck in the
collar of submission and present yourself at the court of the king, for
one scabbard cannot hold two swords nor one country be governed by two
sovereigns.” “It is true,” replied Táj ul-Mulúk, “that I have constructed
buildings in a place inhabited by wild beasts, but I am only occupied
here in the service of the Most High, and I do not covet sovereignty, but
wish to be regarded as friendly towards your king.” The kutwál, satisfied
with this declaration, returned to the vazír and related to him all
that he had seen and heard, whereupon the vazír communicated it to Zayn
ul-Mulúk. The fairy Bakáwalí, who was still in the king’s service, heard
the news with joy: she now beheld the Aurora of hope emerge from the
night of despair.
Meanwhile Zayn ul-Mulúk bent his head for some time in the collar of
reflection, then expressed his fear that this new city might one day be
the ruin of his kingdom. But the vazír represented to him that it was a
maxim of the sages, that discretion should be practised towards an enemy
who could not be conquered, and therefore he recommended that the king
should enter into an allegiance with the stranger. “I consent,” replied
the monarch; “and, as no one can arrange this affair so well as yourself,
do you go, and kill the serpent without breaking the stick.”[159] The
sagacious vazír accordingly went in great state to visit Táj ul-Mulúk,
and was accorded a reception suited to his exalted rank. “You have
already received a visit of a servant of my master, the king,” said the
vazír. “He has spoken so highly of your qualities that the anger which
had become kindled in the heart of the padisháh, on hearing of your
settlement here, has been extinguished, and he purposes himself paying
you a visit. What can be better than a union of two rivers of goodness
and generosity?” Táj ul-Mulúk replied: “I accept with great pleasure the
message which you bring me on the part of your royal master. I ought to
have made the first advance, for the king’s wish which you have conveyed
to me is also my own.” It was then arranged that the king should come in
a week, and, after the vazír had dined with Táj ul-Mulúk in the most
sumptuous manner, he returned and gave his master a faithful account of
his interview and the wonders of the new city.
That very night the sháh-záda placed Hammála’s hair on the fire, and
immediately she appeared with a thousand dívs. Mahmúda rose to greet her
mother, who kissed and embraced both her children, and inquired if they
were in health. Táj ul-Mulúk answered: “In your safety is our happiness
and all our wants are supplied. But in eight days the king of the East
will visit me, and I wish you to cause carpets of wool and red and green
velvet to be spread on the ground from my palace to his, and erect at
the distance of every two miles tents made of fine ermine, with strings
of gold texture, screens of satin and brocade, and hooks of gold and
silver. These tents must be so numerous that every attendant of the king
may be accommodated separately.” Hammála gave the necessary orders to her
followers and returned to her own country.
On the day appointed, the king set out to visit Táj ul-Mulúk, mounted on
an elephant, in an _amári_[160] of gold, accompanied by his ministers
and a great number of cavaliers. The four sons of the king, mounted on
their own elephants, were also of the party, while Bakáwalí attended as
an officer of the royal household. Táj ul-Mulúk went one day’s march to
meet his father.[161] He paid his respects to him and led him with joy to
his palace, and made him sit down in the room of emeralds. The king was
so astonished that he fell into a kind of stupor. Bakáwalí, on her part,
almost lost her reason, when she beheld the prince. His handsome features
pointed him out to her as the stealer of her Rose, and she was confirmed
in this when she recognised that the palace was an exact copy of her own,
for she felt sure that he who had designed it had seen the original. She
wished at once to make herself known, but her natural timidity restrained
her, and she resolved to wait patiently for a favourable opportunity to
accomplish her purpose. Meanwhile a splendid feast was spread out, and
music and song diffused pleasure over all. When every amusement was over,
the king and Táj ul-Mulúk began to converse, and the prince inquired how
many sons he had. The king pointed to the four princes and said that
these were his only children. “I had one more,” he added, “by gazing
on whose countenance I lost my eyesight. Thanks be to God that I have
regained it now; but there is no knowing where that child has gone.” Táj
ul-Mulúk asked how it was that the prince had turned away his face from
duty and left his father’s house, and farther inquired whether any one in
the company would be able to recognise him. On this Zayn ul-Mulúk gave
a detailed account of the birth of the lost prince as well as a history
of his own blindness. He then pointed out one of his vazírs, who, he
said, might be able to identify him. The prince turned towards him and
inquired whether among all present he saw any one who bore a resemblance
to Táj ul-Mulúk. The old and experienced man, after gazing steadfastly in
the countenance of the speaker, replied that none but the prince himself
presented any likeness to that person.
Hardly were these words uttered than Táj ul-Mulúk threw himself at the
feet of his father, exclaiming: “I am that unfortunate son, who has
wandered so long from your court in consequence of an adverse destiny
and my sorrowful horoscope. Blessed be God who has at last permitted me
to behold your venerable face and embrace your knees!” The king, deeply
moved, pressed his young son to his bosom; then he returned thanks to
God, saying to Táj ul-Mulúk that the astrologers who were consulted at
his birth had predicted his present illustrious condition. “But tell
me, dear son,” he continued, “have you remained free till now, like the
cypress, without uniting yourself to some beautiful lady?” The prince
replied: “I have two wives, whom I shall have the honour to present to
your majesty,” and at once he went into the women’s apartments and led
out Dilbar and Mahmúda, who, however, stopped at the threshold of the
hall and would not advance farther. The king impatiently exclaimed: “Why
do they not come near me, that my eyes may be illumined and my heart
delighted by beholding them?” The prince answered: “My sovereign, it is
shame that restrains them. The four princes, your sons, were once in
bondage to one of them, and bear the tokens on their backs. If you have
any doubt of this, you can satisfy yourself.” At these words the pallor
of confusion overspread the faces of the four princes, who immediately
retired, fearing to be disgraced in public.[162] Then the wives of Táj
ul-Mulúk were introduced to the king, and the prince related their
history; how he bore away the flower from the garden of Bakáwalí and saw
her asleep in all her beauty; how his brothers had deprived him of the
flower; and how he had built his palace in the forest. Zayn ul-Mulúk
immediately thought of the mother of his son. “You,” said he, addressing
the prince, “have restored my eyesight and opened the gates of joy to
me. It is now incumbent on me to communicate the happy tidings to your
mother, and relieve her from the pains of absence, by restoring her
long-lost son to her.” He then arose to depart; and the same night he
paid a visit to Táj ul-Mulúk’s mother, begged a thousand pardons for all
that he had done to her, and informed her of the return of her son.