TURKISH FAIRY TALES
[Illustration:
TURKISH FAIRY TALES
AND FOLK TALES
Collected by Dʳ. Ignácz Kúnos
Translated from the Hungarian version
BY
R.NISBET.BAIN.
Illustrated by
Celia Levetus
London
A. H. Bullen
18 Cecil Court, W.C.
1901]
PREFACE
These stories were collected from the mouths of the Turkish peasantry by
the Hungarian savant Dr. Ignatius Kunos, during his travels through
Anatolia,[1] and published for the first time in 1889 by the well-known
Hungarian Literary Society, “A Kisfaludy Társaság,” under the Title of
_Török Népmések_ (“Turkish Folk Tales”), with an introduction by
Professor Vámbery. That distinguished Orientalist, certainly the
greatest living authority on the primitive culture of the Turko-Tartaric
peoples, who is as familiar with Uzbeg epics and Uiguric didactics as
with the poetical masterpieces of Western Europe, is enthusiastic in his
praises of these folk-tales. He compares the treasures of Turkish
folk-lore to precious stones lying neglected in the byways of philology
for want of gleaners to gather them in, and he warns the student of
ethnology that when once the threatened railroad actually invades the
classic land of Anatolia, these naively poetical myths and legends will,
infallibly, be the first victims of Western civilization.
The almost unique collection of Dr. Ignatius Kunos may therefore be
regarded as a brand snatched from the burning; in any case it is an
important “find,” as well for the scientific folk-lorist as for the
lover of fairy-tales pure and simple. That these stories should contain
anything absolutely new is, indeed, too much to expect. Professor
Vámbery himself traces affinities between many of them and other purely
Oriental stories which form the bases of _The Arabian Nights_. A few
Slavonic and Scandinavian elements are also plainly distinguishable,
such, for instance, as that mysterious fowl, the Emerald Anka, obviously
no very distant relative of the Bird Mogol and the Bird Zhar, which
figure in my _Russian Fairy Tales_ and _Cossack Fairy Tales and Folk
Tales_ respectively, while the story of the _Enchanted Turban_ is, in
some particulars, curiously like Hans Andersen’s story, _The Travelling
Companion_. Nevertheless, these tales have a character peculiarly their
own; above all, they are remarkable for a vivid imaginativeness, a
gorgeous play of fancy, compared with which the imagery of the most
popular fairy tales of the West seem almost prosaically jejune, and if,
as Professor Vámbery suggests, these _Népmések_ provide the sort of
entertainment which beguiles the leisure of the Turkish ladies while
they sip their mocha and whiff their fragrant narghilies, we cannot but
admire the poetical taste and nice discrimination, in this respect, of
the harem and the seraglio.
I have Englished these tales from the first Hungarian edition, so that
this version is, perhaps, open to the objection of being a translation
of a translation. Inasmuch, however, as I have followed my text very
closely, and having regard to the fact that Hungarian and Turkish are
closely cognate dialects (in point of grammatical construction they are
practically identical), I do not think they will be found to have lost
so very much of their original fragrance and flavour.
I have supplemented these purely Turkish with four semi-Turkish tales
translated from the original Roumanian of Ispirescu’s _Legende sau
Basmele Românilorŭ_. Bucharest, 1892. This collection, which I commend
to the notice of the Folk-Lore Society, is very curious and original,
abounding as it does in extraordinarily bizarre and beautiful variants
of the best-known fairy tales, a very natural result of the peculiar
combination in Roumanian of such heterogeneous elements as Romance,
Slavonic, Magyar, and Turkish.
R. NISBET BAIN.
_July 1896_
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE STAG-PRINCE 1
THE THREE ORANGE-PERIS 12
THE ROSE-BEAUTY 30
MAD MEHMED 42
THE GOLDEN-HAIRED CHILDREN 53
THE HORSE-DEVIL AND THE WITCH 74
THE CINDER-YOUTH 84
THE PIECE OF LIVER 97
THE MAGIC TURBAN, THE MAGIC WHIP, AND THE MAGIC CARPET 102
THE WIND-DEMON 112
THE CROW-PERI 134
THE FORTY PRINCES AND THE SEVEN-HEADED DRAGON 143
THE WORLD’S MOST BEAUTEOUS DAMSEL 154
THE PADISHAH OF THE FORTY PERIS 166
THE SERPENT-PERI AND THE MAGIC MIRROR 176
STONE-PATIENCE AND KNIFE-PATIENCE 188
THE GHOST OF THE SPRING AND THE SHREW 196
ROUMANIAN FAIRY TALES
PAGE
THE STORY OF THE HALF-MAN-RIDING-ON-THE-WORSE-HALF-OF-A-LAME-HORSE 209
THE ENCHANTED HOG 222
BOY-BEAUTIFUL, THE GOLDEN APPLES, AND THE WERE-WOLF 244
YOUTH WITHOUT AGE, AND LIFE WITHOUT DEATH 260
TURKISH FAIRY TALES
THE STAG-PRINCE
Once upon a time, when the servants of Allah were many, there lived a
Padishah[2] who had one son and one daughter. The Padishah grew old, his
time came, and he died; his son ruled in his stead, and he had not ruled
very long before he had squandered away his whole inheritance.
One day he said to his sister: “Little sister! all our money is spent.
If people were to hear that we had nothing left they would drive us out
of doors, and we should never be able to look our fellow-men in the face
again. Far better, therefore, if we depart and take up our abode
elsewhere.” So they tied together the little they had left, and then the
brother and sister quitted their father’s palace in the night-time, and
wandered forth into the wide world.
They went on and on till they came to a vast sandy desert, where they
were like to have fallen to the ground for the burning heat. The youth
felt that he could go not a step further, when he saw on the ground a
little puddle of water. “Little sister!” said he, “I will not go a step
further till I have drunk this water.”
“Nay, dear brother!” replied the girl, “who can tell whether it be
really water or filth? If we have held up so long, surely we can hold up
a little longer. Water we are bound to find soon.”
“I tell thee,” replied her brother, “that I’ll not go another step
further till I have drunk up this puddle, though I die for it,”--and
with that he knelt down, sucked up every drop of the dirty water, and
instantly became a stag.
The little sister wept bitterly at this mischance; but there was nothing
for it but to go on as they were. They went on and on, up hill and down
dale, right across the sandy waste till they came to a full spring
beneath a large tree, and there they sat them down and rested. “Hearken
now, little sister!” said the stag, “thou must mount up into that tree,
while I go to see if I can find something to eat.” So the girl climbed
up into the tree, and the stag went about his business, ran up hill and
down dale, caught a hare, brought it back, and he and his sister ate it
together, and so they lived from day to day and from week to week.
Now the horses of the Padishah of that country were wont to be watered
at the spring beneath the large tree. One evening the horsemen led their
horses up to it as usual, but, just as they were on the point of
drinking, they caught sight of the reflection of the damsel in the
watery mirror and reared back. The horsemen fancied that perhaps the
water was not quite pure, so they drew off the trough and filled it
afresh, but again the horses reared backwards and would not drink of it.
The horsemen knew not what to make of it, so they went and told the
Padishah.
“Perchance the water is muddy,” said the Padishah.
“Nay,” replied the horsemen, “we emptied the trough once and filled it
full again with fresh water, and yet the horses would not drink of it.”
“Go again,” said their master, “and look well about you; perchance there
is some one near the spring of whom they are afraid.”
The horsemen returned, and, looking well about the spring, cast their
eyes at last upon the large tree, on the top of which they perceived the
damsel. They immediately went back and told the Padishah. The Padishah
took the trouble to go and look for himself, and raising his eyes
perceived in the tree a damsel as lovely as the moon when she is
fourteen days old, so that he absolutely could not take his eyes off
her. “Art thou a spirit or a peri?”[3] said the Padishah to the damsel.
“I am neither a spirit nor a peri, but a mortal as thou art,” replied
the damsel.
In vain the Padishah begged her to come down from the tree. In vain he
implored her, nothing he could say would make her come down. Then the
Padishah waxed wroth. He commanded them to cut down the tree. The men
brought their axes and fell a-hewing at the tree. They hewed away at the
vast tree, they hewed and hewed until only a little strip of solid trunk
remained to be cut through; but, meanwhile, eventide had drawn nigh and
it began to grow dark, so they left off their work, which they purposed
to finish next day.
Scarcely had they departed when the stag came running out of the forest,
looked at the tree, and asked the little sister what had happened. The
girl told him that she would not descend from the tree, so they had
tried to cut it down. “Thou didst well,” replied the stag, “and take
care thou dost not come down in future, whatever they may say.” With
that he went to the tree, licked it with his tongue, and immediately the
tree grew bigger round the hewed trunk than before.
[Illustration: The Damsel and the Old Witch.--p. 5.]
The next day, when the stag had again departed about his business, the
Padishah’s men came and saw that the tree was larger and harder round
the trunk than ever. Again they set to work hewing at the tree, and
hewed and hewed till they had cut half through it; but by that time
evening fell upon them again, and again they put off the rest of the
work till the morrow and went home.
But all their labour was lost, for the stag came again, licked the gap
in the tree with his tongue, and immediately it grew thicker and harder
than ever.
Early next morning, when the stag had only just departed, the Padishah
and his wood-cutters again came to the tree, and when they saw that the
trunk of the tree had filled up again larger and firmer than ever, they
determined to try some other means. So they went home again and sent for
a famous old witch, told her of the damsel in the tree, and promised her
a rich reward if she would, by subtlety, make the damsel come down. The
old witch willingly took the matter in hand, and bringing with her an
iron tripod, a cauldron, and sundry raw meats, placed them by the side
of the spring. She placed the tripod on the ground, and the kettle on
the top of it but upside down, drew water from the spring and poured it
not into the kettle, but on the ground beside it, and with that she kept
her eyes closed as if she were blind.
The damsel fancied she really was blind, and called to her from the
tree. “Nay but, my dear elder sister! thou hast placed the kettle on the
tripod upside down, and art pouring all the water on the ground.”
“Oh, my sweet little damsel!” cried the old woman, “that is because I
have no eyes to see with. I have brought some dirty linen with me, and
if thou dost love Allah, thou wilt come down and put the kettle right,
and help me to wash the things.” Then the damsel thought of the words of
the little stag, and she did _not_ come down.
The next day the old witch came again, stumbled about the tree, laid a
fire, and brought forth a heap of meal in order to sift it, but instead
of meal she put ashes into the sieve. “Poor silly old granny!” cried the
damsel compassionately, and then she called down from the tree to the
old woman, and told her that she was sifting ashes instead of meal. “Oh,
my dear damsel!” cried the old woman, weeping, “I am blind, I cannot
see. Come down and help me a little in my affliction.” Now the little
stag had strictly charged her that very morning not to come down from
the tree whatever might be said to her, and she obeyed the words of her
brother.
On the third day the old witch again came beneath the tree. This time
she brought a sheep with her, and brought out a knife to flay it with,
and began to jag and skin it from behind instead of cutting its throat.
The poor little sheep bleated piteously, and the damsel in the tree,
unable to endure the sight of the beast’s sufferings, came down from the
tree to put the poor thing out of its misery. Then the Padishah, who was
concealed close to the tree, rushed out and carried the damsel off to
his palace.
The damsel pleased the Padishah so mightily that he wanted to be married
to her without more ado; but the damsel would not consent till they had
brought her her brother, the little stag: until she saw him, she said,
she could have not a moment’s rest. Then the Padishah sent men out into
the forest, who caught the stag and brought him to his sister. After
that he never left his sister’s side. They lay down together, and
together they rose up. Even when the Padishah and the damsel were
wedded, the little stag was never far away from them, and in the evening
when he found out where they were, he would softly stroke each of them
all over with one of his front feet before going to sleep beside them,
and say--
“This little foot is for my sister,
That little foot is for my brother.”
But time, as men count it, passes quickly to its fulfilment, more
quickly still passes the time of fairy tales, but quickest of all flies
the time of true love. Yet our little people would have lived on happily
if there had not been a black female slave in the palace. Jealousy
devoured her at the thought that the Padishah had taken to his bosom the
ragged damsel from the tree-top rather than herself, and she watched for
an opportunity of revenge.
Now there was a beautiful garden in the palace, with a fountain in the
midst of it, and there the Sultan’s damsel used to walk about. One day,
with a golden saucer in her hand and a silver sandal on her foot, she
went towards the great fountain, and the black slave followed after her
and pushed her in. There was a big fish in the basin, and it immediately
swallowed up the Sultan’s pet damsel. Then the black slave returned to
the palace, put on the golden raiment of the Sultan’s damsel, and sat
down in her place.
In the evening the Padishah came and asked the damsel what she had done
to her face that it was so much altered. “I have walked too much in the
garden, and so the sun has tanned my face,” replied the girl. The
Padishah believed her and sat down beside her, but the little stag came
also, and when he began to stroke them both down with his fore-foot he
recognized the slave-girl as he said--
“This little foot is for my sister,
And this little foot is for my brother.”
Then it became the one wish of the slave-girl’s heart to be rid of the
little stag as quickly as possible, lest it should betray her.
So after a little thought she made herself sick, and sent for the
doctors, and gave them much money to say to the Padishah that the only
thing that could save her was the heart of the little stag to eat. So
the doctors went and told the Padishah that the sick woman must swallow
the heart of the little stag, or there was no hope for her. Then the
Padishah went to the slave-girl whom he fancied to be his pet damsel,
and asked her if it did not go against her to eat the heart of her own
brother?
“What can I do?” sighed the impostor; “if I die, what will become of my
poor little pet? If he be cut up I shall live, while he will be spared
the torments of those poor beasts that grow old and sick.” Then the
Padishah gave orders that a butcher’s knife should be whetted, and a
fire lighted, and a cauldron of water put over the fire.
The poor little stag perceived all the bustling about and ran down into
the garden to the fountain, and called out three times to his sister--
“The knife is on the stone,
The water’s on the boil,
Haste, little sister, hasten!”
And thrice she answered back to him from the fish’s maw--
“Here am I in the fish’s belly,
In my hand a golden saucer,
On my foot a silver sandal,
In my arms a little Padishah!”
For the Sultan’s pet damsel had brought forth a little son in the fish’s
belly.
Now the Padishah was intent on catching the little stag when it ran down
into the garden to the fountain, and, coming up softly behind it, heard
every word of what the brother and sister were saying to each other. He
quietly ordered all the water to be drained off the basin of the
fountain, drew up the fish, cut open its belly, and what do you think he
saw? In the belly of the fish was his wife, with a golden saucer in her
hand, and a silver sandal on her foot, and a little son in her arms.
Then the Padishah embraced his wife, and kissed his son, and brought
them both to the palace, and heard the tale of it all to the very end.
But the little stag found something in the fish’s blood, and when he had
swallowed it, he became a man again. Then he rushed to his sister, and
they embraced and wept with joy over each other’s happiness.
But the Padishah sent for his black slave-girl, and asked her which she
would like the best--four good steeds or four good swords. The
slave-girl replied: “Let the swords be for the throats of my enemies,
but give me the four steeds that I may take my pleasure on horseback.”
Then they tied the slave-girl to the tails of four good steeds, and sent
her out for a ride; and the four steeds tore the black girl into little
bits and scattered them abroad.
But the Padishah and his wife lived happily together, and the king’s son
who had been a stag abode with them; and they gave a great banquet,
which lasted four days and four nights; and they attained their desires,
and may ye, O my readers, attain your desires likewise.
THE THREE ORANGE-PERIS
In the olden times, when there were sieves in straws and lies in
everything, in the olden times when there was abundance, and men ate and
drank the whole day and yet lay down hungry, in those olden, olden times
there was once a Padishah whose days were joyless, for he had never a
son to bless himself with.
One day he was in the path of pleasure with his Vizier, and when they
had drunk their coffee and smoked their chibooks, they went out for a
walk, and went on and on till they came to a great valley. Here they sat
down to rest a while, and as they were looking about them to the right
hand and to the left, the valley was suddenly shaken as if by an
earthquake, a whip cracked, and a dervish, a green-robed,
yellow-slippered, white-bearded dervish, suddenly stood before them. The
Padishah and the Vizier were so frightened that they dared not budge;
but when the dervish approached them and addressed them with the words,
“Selamun aleykyum,”[4] they took heart a bit, and replied courteously,
“Ve aleykyum selam.”[5]
“What is thy errand here, my lord Padishah?” asked the dervish.
“If thou dost know that I am a Padishah, thou dost also know my errand,”
replied the Padishah.
Then the dervish took from his bosom an apple, gave it to the Padishah,
and said these words: “Give half of this to thy Sultana, and eat the
other half thyself,” and with these words he disappeared.
Then the Padishah went home, gave half the apple to his consort, and ate
the other half himself, and in exactly nine months and ten days there
was a little prince in the harem. The Padishah was beside himself for
joy. He scattered sequins among the poor, restored to freedom his
slaves, and the banquet he gave to his friends had neither beginning nor
end.
Swiftly flies the time in fairy tales, and the child had reached his
fourteenth summer while yet they fondled him. One day he said to his
father: “My lord father Padishah, make me now a little marble palace,
and let there be two springs under it, and let one of them run with
honey, and the other with butter!” Dearly did the Padishah love his
little son, because he was his only child, so he made him the marble
palace with the springs inside it as his son desired. There then sat the
King’s son in the marble palace, and while he was looking at the springs
that bubbled forth both butter and honey, he saw an old woman with a
pitcher in her hand, and she would fain have filled it from the spring.
Then the King’s son caught up a stone and flung it at the old woman’s
pitcher, and broke it into pieces. The old woman said not a word, but
she went away.
But the next day she was there again with her pitcher, and again she
made as if she would fill it, and a second time the King’s son cast a
stone at her and broke her pitcher. The old woman went away without
speaking a word. She came on the third day also, and it fared with her
pitcher then as on the first two days. Then the old woman spoke. “Oh,
youth!” cried she, “’tis the will of Allah that thou shouldst fall in
love with the three Orange-peris,” and with that she quitted him.
From thenceforth the heart of the King’s son was consumed by a hidden
fire. He began to grow pale and wither away. When the Padishah saw that
his son was ill, he sent for the wise men and the leeches, but they
could find no remedy for the disease. One day the King’s son said to his
father: “Oh, my dear little daddy Shah! these wise men of thine cannot
cure me of my disease, and all their labours are in vain. I have fallen
in love with the three Oranges, and never shall I be better till I find
them.”
“Oh, my dear little son!” groaned the Padishah, “thou art all that I
have in the wide world: if thou dost leave me, in whom can I rejoice?”
Then the King’s son slowly withered away, and his days were as a heavy
sleep; so his father saw that it would be better to let him go forth on
his way and find, if so be he might, the three Oranges that were as the
balsam of his soul. “Perchance too he may return again,” thought the
Padishah.
So the King’s son arose one day and took with him things that were light
to carry, but heavy in the scales of value, and pursued his way over
mountains and valleys, rising up and lying down again for many days. At
last in the midst of a vast plain, in front of the high-road, he came
upon her Satanic Majesty the Mother of Devils, as huge as a minaret. One
of her legs was on one mountain, and the other leg on another mountain;
she was chewing gum (her mouth was full of it) so that you could hear
her half-an-hour’s journey off; her breath was a hurricane, and her arms
were yards and yards long.
“Good-day, little mother!” cried the youth, and he embraced the broad
waist of the Mother of Devils. “Good-day, little sonny!” she replied.
“If thou hadst not spoken to me so politely, I should have gobbled thee
up.” Then she asked him whence he came and whither he was going.
“Alas! dear little mother,” sighed the youth, “such a terrible
misfortune has befallen me that I can neither tell thee nor answer thy
question.”
“Nay, come, out with it, my son,” urged the Mother of Devils.
“Well then, my sweet little mother,” cried the youth, and he sighed
worse than before, “I have fallen violently in love with the three
Oranges. If only I might find my way thither!”
“Hush!” cried the Mother of Devils, “it is not lawful to even think of
that name, much less pronounce it. I and my sons are its guardians, yet
even we don’t know the way to it. Forty sons have I, and they go up and
down the earth more than I do, perchance they may tell thee something of
the matter.” So when it began to grow dusk towards evening, ere yet the
devil-sons had come home, the old woman gave the King’s son a tap, and
turned him into a pitcher of water. And she did it not a moment too
soon, for immediately afterwards the forty sons of the Mother of Devils
knocked at the door and cried: “Mother, we smell man’s flesh!”
“Nonsense!” cried the Mother of Devils. “What, I should like to know,
have the sons of men to do here? It seems to me you had better all clean
your teeth.” So she gave the forty sons forty wooden stakes to clean
their teeth with, and out of one’s tooth fell an arm, and out of
another’s a thigh, and out of another’s an arm, till they had all
cleaned their teeth. Then they sat them down to eat and drink, and in
the middle of the meal their mother said to them: “If now ye had a man
for your brother, what would ye do with him?”
“Do,” they replied, “why love him like a brother, of course!”
Then the Mother of Devils tapped the water-jar, and the King’s son stood
there again. “Here is your brother!” cried she to her forty sons.
The devils thanked the King’s son for his company with great joy,
invited their new brother to sit down, and asked their mother why she
had not told them about him before, as then they might all have eaten
their meal together.
“Nay but, my sons,” cried she, “he does not live on the same sort of
meat as ye; fowls, mutton, and such-like is what _he_ feeds on.”
At this one of them jumped up, went out, fetched a sheep, slew it, and
laid it before the new brother.
“Oh, what a child thou art!” cried the Mother of Devils. “Dost thou not
know that thou must first cook it for him?”
Then they skinned the sheep, made a fire, roasted it, and placed it
before him. The King’s son ate a piece, and after satisfying his hunger,
left the rest of it. “Why, that’s nothing!” cried the devils, and they
urged him again and again to eat more. “Nay, my sons,” cried their
mother, “men never eat more than that.”
“Let us see then what this sheep-meat is like,” said one of the forty
brothers. So they fell upon it and devoured the whole lot in a couple of
mouthfuls.
Now when they all rose up early in the morning, the Mother of Devils
said to her sons: “Our new brother hath a great trouble.”--“What is it?”
cried they, “for we would help him.”
“He has fallen in love with the three Oranges!”--“Well,” replied the
devils, “we know not the place of the three Oranges ourselves, but
perchance our aunt may know.”
“Then lead this youth to her,” said their mother; “tell her that he is
my son and worthy of all honour, let her also receive him as a son and
ease him of his trouble.” Then the devils took the youth to their aunt,
and told her on what errand he had come.
Now this Aunt of the Devils had sixty sons, and as she did not know the
place of the three Oranges, she had to wait till they came home. But
lest any harm should happen to this her new son, she gave him a tap and
turned him into a piece of crockery.
“We smell man’s flesh, mother,” cried the devils, as they crossed the
threshold.
“Perchance ye have eaten man’s flesh, and the remains thereof are still
within your teeth,” said their mother. Then she gave them great logs of
wood that they might pick their teeth clean, and so be able to swallow
down something else. But in the midst of the meal the woman gave the
piece of crockery a tap, and when the sixty devils saw their little
human brother, they rejoiced at the sight, made him sit down at table,
and bade him fall to if there was anything there he took a fancy to. “My
sons,” said the Mother of the Devils to her sixty sons when they all
rose up early on the morrow, “this lad here has fallen in love with the
three Oranges, cannot you show him the way thither?”
“We know not the way,” replied the devils; “but perchance our old
great-aunt may know something about it.”
“Then take the youth thither,” said their mother, “and bid her hold him
in high honour. He is my son, let him be hers also and help him out of
his distress.” Then they took him off to their great-aunt, and told her
the whole business. “Alas! I do not know, my sons!” said the old, old
great-aunt; “but if you wait till the evening, when my ninety sons come
home, I will ask them.”
Then the sixty devils departed and left the King’s son there, and when
it grew dusk the Mother of the Devils gave the youth a tap, turned him
into a broom, and placed him in the doorway. Shortly afterwards the
ninety devils came home, and they also smelt the smell of man, and took
the pieces of man’s flesh out of their teeth. In the middle of their
meal their mother asked them how they would treat a human brother if
they had one. When they had sworn upon eggs that they would not hurt so
much as his little finger, their mother gave the broom a tap, and the
King’s son stood before them.
The devil brothers entreated him courteously, inquired after his health,
and served him so heartily with eatables that they scarcely gave him
time to breathe. In the midst of the meal their mother asked them
whether they knew where the three Oranges were, for their new brother
had fallen in love with them. Then the least of the ninety devils leaped
up with a shout of joy, and said that he knew.
“Then if thou knowest,” said his mother, “see that thou take this son of
ours thither, that he may satisfy his heart’s desire.”
On arising next morning, the devil-son took the King’s son with him, and
the pair of them went merrily along the road together. They went on, and
on, and on, and at last the little devil said these words: “My brother,
we shall come presently to a large garden, and in the fountain thereof
are the three. When I say to thee: ‘Shut thine eye, open thine eye!’ lay
hold of what thou shalt see.”
They went on a little way further till they came to the garden, and the
moment the devil saw the fountain he said to the King’s son: “Shut thine
eye and open thine eye!” He did so, and saw the three Oranges bobbing up
and down on the surface of the water where it came bubbling out of the
spring, and he snatched up one of them and popped it in his pocket.
Again the devil called to him: “Open thine eye and shut thine eye!” He
did so, and snatched up the second orange, and so with the third also in
the same way. “Now take care,” said the devil, “that thou dost not cut
open these oranges in any place where there is no water, or it will go
ill with thee.” The King’s son promised, and so they parted, one went to
the right, and the other to the left.
The King’s son went on, and on, and on. He went a long way, and he went
a short way, he went across mountains and through valleys. At last he
came to a sandy desert, and there he bethought him of the oranges, and
drawing one out, he cut it open. Scarcely had he cut into it when a
damsel, lovely as a Peri, popped out of it before him; the moon when it
is fourteen days old is not more dazzling. “For Allah’s sake, give me a
drop of water!” cried the damsel, and inasmuch as there was no trace of
water anywhere, she vanished from the face of the earth. The King’s son
grieved right sorely, but there was no help for it, the thing was done.
Again he went on his way, and when he had gone a little further he
thought to himself, “I may as well cut open one more orange.” So he drew
out the second orange, and scarcely had he cut into it than there popped
down before him a still more lovely damsel, who begged piteously for
water, but as the King’s son had none to give her, she also vanished.
“Well, I’ll take better care of the third,” cried he, and continued his
journey. He went on and on till he came to a large spring, drank out of
it, and then thought to himself: “Well, now I’ll cut open the third
orange also.” He drew it out and cut it, and immediately a damsel even
lovelier than the other two stood before him. As soon as she called for
water, he led her to the spring and gave her to drink, and the damsel
did not disappear, but remained there as large as life.
Mother-naked was the damsel, and as he could not take her to town like
that, he bade her climb up a large tree that stood beside the spring,
while he went into the town to buy her raiment and a carriage.
While the King’s son had gone away, a negro servant came to the spring
to draw water, and saw the reflection of the damsel in the watery
mirror. “Why, thou art something like a damsel,” said she to herself,
“and ever so much lovelier than thy mistress; so she ought to fetch
water for me, not I for her.” With that she broke the pitcher in two,
went home, and when her mistress asked where the pitcher of water was,
she replied: “I am much more beautiful than thou, so thou must fetch
water for me, not I for thee.” Her mistress took up a mirror, held it
before her, and said: “Methinks thou must have taken leave of thy
senses; look at this mirror!” The Moor looked into the mirror, and saw
that she was as coal-black as ever. Without another word she took up the
pitcher, went again to the spring, and seeing the damsel’s face in the
mirror, again fancied that it was hers.
“I’m right, after all,” she cried; “I’m ever so much more beautiful than
my mistress.” So she broke the pitcher to pieces again, and went home.
Again her mistress asked her why she had not drawn water. “Because I am
ever so much more beautiful than thou, so thou must draw water for me,”
replied she.
“Thou art downright crazy,” replied her mistress, drew out a mirror, and
showed it to her; and when the Moor-girl saw her face in it, she took up
another pitcher and went to the fountain for the third time. The
damsel’s face again appeared in the water, but just as she was about to
break the pitcher again, the damsel called to her from the tree: “Break
not thy pitchers, ’tis my face thou dost see in the water, and thou wilt
see thine own there also.”
The Moor-girl looked up, and when she saw the wondrously beautiful shape
of the damsel in the tree, she climbed up beside her and spake coaxing
words to her: “Oh, my little golden damsel, thou wilt get the cramp from
crouching there so long; come, rest thy head!” And with that she laid
the damsel’s head on her breast, felt in her bosom, drew out a needle,
pricked the damsel with it in the skull, and in an instant the
Orange-Damsel was changed into a bird, and pr-r-r-r-r! she was gone,
leaving the Moor all alone in the tree.
Now when the King’s son came back with his fine coach and beautiful
raiment, looked up into the tree, and saw the black face, he asked the
girl what had happened to her. “A nice question!” replied the Moor-girl.
“Why, thou didst leave me here all day, and wentest away, so of course
the sun has tanned me black.” What could the poor King’s son do? He made
the black damsel sit in the coach, and took her straight home to his
father’s house.
In the palace of the Padishah they were all waiting, full of eagerness,
to behold the Peri-Bride, and when they saw the Moorish damsel they
said to the King’s son: “However couldst thou lose thy heart to a black
maid?”
“She is not a black maid,” said the King’s son. “I left her at the top
of a tree, and she was blackened there by the rays of the sun. If only
you let her rest a bit she’ll soon grow white again.” And with that he
led her into her chamber, and waited for her to grow white again.
Now there was a beautiful garden in the palace of the King’s son, and
one day the Orange-Bird came flying on to a tree there, and called down
to the gardener.
“What dost thou want with me?” asked the gardener.
“What is the King’s son doing?” inquired the bird.
“He is doing no harm that I know of,” replied the gardener.
“And what about his black bride?”
“Oh, she’s there too, sitting with him as usual.”
Then the little bird sang these words:
“She may sit by his side,
But she shall not abide;
For all her fair showing
The thorns are a-growing.
As I hop on this tree,
It will wither ’neath me.”
And with that it flew away.
The next day it came again, and inquired once more about the King’s son
and his black consort, and repeated what it said before. The third day
it did in like manner, and as many trees as it hopped upon withered
right away beneath it.
One day the King’s son felt weary of his black bride, so he went out
into the garden for a walk. Then his eye fell on the withered trees, and
he called the gardener and said to him: “What is this, gardener? Why
dost thou not take better care of thy trees? Dost thou not see that they
are all withering away?” Then the gardener replied that it was of but
little use for him to take care of the trees, for a few days ago a
little bird had been there, and asked what the King’s son and his black
consort were doing, and had said that though she might be sitting there,
she should not sit for ever, but that thorns would grow, and every tree
it lit upon should wither.
The Bang’s son commanded the gardener to smear the trees with bird-lime,
and if the bird then lit upon it, to bring it to him. So the gardener
smeared the trees with bird-lime, and when the bird came there next day
he caught it, and brought it to the King’s son, who put it in a cage.
Now no sooner did the black woman look upon the bird than she knew at
once that it was the damsel. So she pretended to be very ill, sent for
the chief medicine-man, and by dint of rich gifts persuaded him to say
to the King’s son that his consort would never get well unless he fed
her with such and such birds.
The King’s son saw that his consort was very sick, he sent for the
doctor, went with him to see the sick woman, and asked him how she was
to be cured. The doctor said she could only be cured if they gave her
such and such birds to eat. “Why, only this very day have I caught one
of such birds,” said the King’s son; and they brought the bird, killed
it, and fed the sick lady with the flesh thereof. In an instant the
black damsel arose from her bed. But one of the bird’s dazzling feathers
fell accidentally to the ground and slipped between the planks, so that
nobody noticed it.
Time went on, and the King’s son was still waiting and waiting for his
consort to turn white. Now there was an old woman in the palace who used
to teach the dwellers in the harem to read and write. One day as she was
going down-stairs she saw something gleaming between the planks of the
floor, and going towards it, perceived that it was a bird’s feather that
sparkled like a diamond. She took it home and thrust it behind a rafter.
The next day she went to the palace, and while she was away the bird’s
feather leaped down from the rafter, shivered a little, and the next
moment turned into a most lovely damsel. She put the room tidy, cooked
the meal, set everything in order, and then leaped back upon the rafter
and became a feather again. When the old woman came home she was amazed
at what she saw. She thought: “Somebody must have done all this,” so she
went up and down, backwards and forwards through the house, but nobody
could she see.
Early next morning she again went to the palace, and the feather leaped
down again in like manner, and did all the household work. When the old
woman came home, she perceived the house all nice and clean, and
everything in order. “I really must find out the secret of this,”
thought she, so next morning she made as if she were going away as
usual, and left the door ajar, but went and hid herself in a corner. All
at once she perceived that there was a damsel in the room, who tidied
the room and cooked the meal, whereupon the old woman dashed out, seized
hold of her, and asked her who she was and whence she came. Then the
damsel told her her sad fate, and how she had been twice killed by the
black woman, and had come thither in the shape of a feather.
“Distress thyself no more, my lass,” said the old woman. “I’ll put thy
business to rights, and this very day, too.” And with that she went
straight to the King’s son and invited him to come and see her that
evening. The King’s son was now so sick unto death of his black bride
that he was glad of any excuse to escape from his own house, so the
evening found him punctually at the old woman’s. They sat down to
supper, and when the coffee followed the meats, the damsel entered with
the cups, and when the King’s son saw her he was like to have fainted.
“Nay, but, mother,” said the King’s son, when he had come to himself a
little, “who is that damsel?”
“Thy wife,” replied the old woman.
“How didst thou get that fair creature?” inquired the King’s son. “Wilt
thou not give her to me?”
“How can _I_ give her to thee, seeing that she was thine own once upon a
time,” said the old woman; and with that the old woman took the damsel
by the hand, led her to the King’s son, and laid her on his breast.
“Take better care of the Orange-Peri another time,” said she.
The King’s son now nearly fainted in real earnest, but it was from sheer
joy. He took the damsel to his palace, put to death the black
slave-girl, but held high festival with the Peri for forty days and
forty nights. So they had the desire of their hearts, and may Allah
satisfy your desires likewise.
THE ROSE-BEAUTY
Once upon a time in the old old days when straws were sieves, and the
camel a chapman, and the mouse a barber, and the cuckoo a tailor, and
the donkey ran errands, and the tortoise baked bread, and I was only
fifteen years old, but my father rocked my cradle, and there was a
miller in the land who had a black cat--in those olden times, I say,
there was a King who had three daughters, and the first daughter was
forty, and the second was thirty, and the third was twenty. One day the
youngest daughter wrote this letter to her father: “My lord father! my
eldest sister is forty and my second sister is thirty, and still thou
hast given neither of them a husband. I have no desire to grow grey in
waiting for a husband.”
The King read the letter, sent for his three daughters, and addressed
them in these words: “Look now! let each one of you shoot an arrow from
a bow and seek her sweetheart wherever her arrow falls!” So the three
damsels took their bows. The eldest damsel’s arrow fell into the palace
of the Vizier’s son, so the Vizier’s son took her to wife. The second
girl’s arrow flew into the palace of the Chief Mufti’s son, so they gave
her to him. The third damsel also fired her arrow, and lo! it stuck in
the hut of a poor young labourer. “That won’t do, that won’t do!” cried
they all. So she fired again, and again the arrow stuck in the hut. She
aimed a third time, and a third time the arrow stuck in the hut of the
poor young labourer. Then the King was wroth and cried to the damsel:
“Look now, thou slut! thou hast got thy deserts. Thy sisters waited
patiently, and therefore they have got their hearts’ desires. Thou wast
the youngest of all, yet didst thou write me that saucy letter, hence
thy punishment. Out of my sight, thou slave-girl, to this husband of
thine, and thou shalt have nought but what he can give thee!” So the
poor damsel departed to the hut of the labourer, and they gave her to
him to wife.
They lived together for a time, and on the tenth day of the ninth month
the time came that she should bear a child, and her husband, the
labourer, hastened away for the midwife. While the husband was thus away
his wife had neither a bed to lie down upon nor a fire to warm herself
by, though grinding winter was upon them. All at once the walls of the
poor hut opened hither and thither, and three beautiful damsels of the
Peri race stepped into it. One stood at the damsel’s head, another at
her feet, the third by her side, and they all seemed to know their
business well. In a moment everything in the poor hut was in order, the
princess lay on a beautiful soft couch, and before she could blink her
eyes a pretty little new-born baby girl was lying by her side. When
everything was finished the three Peris set about going, but first of
all they approached the bed one by one, and the first said:
“Rosa be thy damsel’s name,
And she shall weep not tears but pearls!”
The second Peri approached the bed and said:
“Rosa be thy damsel’s name,
The rose shall blossom when she smiles!”
And the third Peri wound up with these words:
“Rosa be thy damsel’s name,
Sweet verdure in her footsteps spring!”
whereupon they all three disappeared.
Now all this time the husband was seeking a midwife, but could find one
nowhere. What could he do but go home? But when he got back he was
amazed to find everything in the poor hut in beautiful order, and his
wife lying on a splendid bed. Then she told him the story of the three
Peris, and there was no more spirit left in him, so astounded was he.
But the little girl grew more and more lovely from hour to day, and from
day to week, so that there was not another like her in the whole world.
Whosoever looked upon her lost his heart at once, and pearls fell from
her eyes when she wept, roses burst into bloom when she smiled, and a
bright riband of fresh green verdure followed her footsteps. Whosoever
saw her had no more spirit left in him, and the fame of lovely Rosa went
from mouth to mouth.
At last the King of that land also heard of the damsel, and instantly
made up his mind that she and nobody else should be his son’s consort.
So he sent for his son, and told him that there was a damsel in the town
of so rare a beauty that pearls fell from her eyes when she wept, roses
burst into bloom when she smiled, and the earth grew fresh and green
beneath her footsteps, and with that he bade him up and woo her.
Now the Peris had for a long time shown the King’s son the beautiful
Rose-damsel in his dreams, and the sweet fire of love already burned
within him; but he was ashamed to let his father see this, so he hung
back a little. At this his father became more and more pressing, bade
him go and woo her at once, and commanded the chief dame of the palace
to accompany him to the hut of the labourer.
They entered the hut, said on what errand they came, and claimed the
damsel for the King’s son in the name of Allah. The poor folks rejoiced
at their good luck, promised the girl, and began to make ready.
Now this palace dame’s daughter was also a beauty, and not unlike Rosa.
Terribly distressed was the dame that the King’s son should take to wife
a poor labourer’s daughter, instead of her own child; so she made up her
mind to deceive them and put her own daughter in Rosa’s place. So on the
day of the banquet she made the poor girl eat many salted meats, and
then brought a pitcher of water and a large basket, got into the bridal
coach with Rosa and her own daughter, and set out for the palace. As
they were on the road (and a very long time they were about it) the
damsel grew thirsty and asked the palace dame for some water. “Not till
thou hast given me one of thine eyes,” said the palace dame. What could
the poor damsel do?--she was dying with thirst. So she cut out one of
her eyes and gave it for a drink of water.
They went on and on, further and further, and the damsel again became
thirsty and asked for another drink of water. “Thou shalt have it if
thou give me thy other eye,” said the palace dame. And the poor damsel
was so tormented with thirst that she gave the other eye for a drink of
water.
The old dame took the two eyes, pitched the sightless damsel into the
big basket, and left her all alone on the top of a mountain. But the
beautiful bridal robe she put upon her own daughter, brought her to the
King’s son, and gave her to him with the words: “Behold thy wife!” So
they made a great banquet, and when they had brought the damsel to her
bridegroom and taken off her veil, he perceived that the damsel who now
stood before him was not the damsel of his dreams. As, however, she
resembled her a little he said nothing about it to anybody. So they lay
down to rest, and when they rose up again early next morning the King’s
son was quite undeceived, for the damsel of his dreams had wept pearls,
smiled roses, and sweet green herbs had grown up in her footsteps, but
this girl had neither roses nor pearls nor green herbs to show for
herself. The youth felt there was some trickery at work here. This was
not the girl he had meant to have. “How am I to find it all out?”
thought he to himself; but not a word did he say to any one.
While all these things were going on in the palace, poor Rosa was
weeping on the mountain top, and such showers of pearls fell from her by
dint of her sore weeping that there was scarce room to hold them all in
the big basket. Now a mud-carrier happened to be passing by who was
carting mud away, and hearing the weeping of the damsel was terribly
afraid, and cried: “Who art thou?--A Jinn or a Peri?”--“I am neither a
Jinn nor yet a Peri,” replied the damsel, “but the remains of a living
child of man.” Whereupon the mud-raker took courage, opened the basket,
and there a poor sightless damsel was sobbing, and her tears fell from
her in showers of pearls. So he took the damsel by the hand and led her
to his hut, and as the old man had nobody about him he adopted the
damsel as if she were his own child and took care of her. But the poor
girl did nothing but weep for her two eyes, and the old man had all he
could do to pick up the pearls, and whenever they were in want of money
he would take a pearl and sell it, and they lived on whatever he got for
it.
Thus time passed, and there was mirth in the palace, and misery in the
hut of the mud-raker. Now it chanced one day as fair Rosa was sitting in
the hut, that something made her smile, and immediately a rose bloomed.
Then the damsel said to her foster-father, the mud-raker: “Take this
rose, papa, and go with it in front of the palace of the King’s son, and
cry aloud that thou hast roses for sale that are not to be matched in
the wide world. But if the dame of the palace comes out, see that thou
dost not give her the rose for money, but say that thou wilt sell it for
a human eye.”