Once upon a time there was a wise man of wise men, and a great magician
to boot, and his name was Doctor Simon Agricola.
Once upon a time there was a simpleton of simpletons, and a great booby
to boot, and his name was Babo.
Simon Agricola had read all the books written by man, and could do more
magic than any conjurer that ever lived. But, nevertheless, he was
none too well off in the world; his clothes were patched, and his shoes
gaped, and that is the way with many another wise man of whom I have
heard tell.
Babo gathered rushes for a chair-maker, and he also had too few of the
good things to make life easy. But it is nothing out of the way for a
simpleton to be in that case.
The two of them lived neighbor to neighbor, the one in the next house
to the other, and so far as the world could see there was not a pin to
choose between them--only that one was called a wise man and the other a
simpleton.
One day the weather was cold, and when Babo came home from gathering
rushes he found no fire in the house. So off he went to his neighbor the
wise man. “Will you give me a live coal to start my fire?” said he.
“Yes, I will do that,” said Simon Agricola; “But how will you carry the
coal home?”
“Oh!” said Babo, “I will just take it in my hand.”
“In your hand?”
“In my hand.”
“Can you carry a live coal in your hand?”
“Oh yes!” said Babo; “I can do that easily enough.”
“Well, I should like to see you do it,” said Simon Agricola.
“Then I will show you,” said Babo. He spread a bed of cold, dead ashes
upon his palm. “Now,” said he, “I will take the ember upon that.”
Agricola rolled up his eyes like a duck in a thunder-storm. “Well,” said
he, “I have lived more than seventy years, and have read all the books
in the world; I have practised magic and necromancy, and know all about
algebra and geometry, and yet, wise as I am, I never thought of this
little thing.”
That is the way with your wise man.
“Pooh!” said Babo; “that is nothing. I know how to do many more tricks
than that.”
“Do you?” said Simon Agricola; “then listen: to-morrow I am going out
into the world to make my fortune, for little or nothing is to be had in
this town. If you will go along with me I will make your fortune also.”
“Very well,” said Babo, and the bargain was struck. So the next morning
bright and early off they started upon their journey, cheek by jowl, the
wise man and the simpleton, to make their fortunes in the wide world,
and the two of them made a pair. On they jogged and on they jogged,
and the way was none too smooth. By-and-by they came to a great field
covered all over with round stones.
“Let us each take one of these,” said Simon Agricola; “they will be of
use by-and-by;” and, as he spoke, he picked up a great stone as big as
his two fists, and dropped it into the pouch that dangled at his side.
“Not I,” said Babo; “I will carry no stone with me. It is as much as my
two legs can do to carry my body, let along lugging a great stone into
the bargain.”
“Very well,” said Agricola; “born a fool, live a fool, die a fool.’” And
on he tramped, with Babo at his heels.
At last they came to a great wide plain, where, far or near, nothing was
to be seen but bare sand, without so much as a pebble or a single blade
of grass, and there night caught up with them.
“Dear, dear, but I am hungry!” said Babo.
“So am I,” said Simon Agricola. “Let’s sit down here and eat.”
So down they sat, and Simon Agricola opened his pouch and drew forth the
stone.
The stone? It was a stone no longer, but a fine loaf of white bread as
big as your two fists. You should have seen Babo goggle and stare! “Give
me a piece of your bread, master,” said he.
“Not I,” said Agricola. “You might have had a dozen of the same kind,
had you chosen to do as I bade you and to fetch them along with you.
Born a fool, live a fool, die a fool,’” said he; and that was all that
Babo got for his supper. As for the wise man, he finished his loaf of
bread to the last crumb, and then went to sleep with a full stomach and
a contented mind.
The next morning off they started again bright and early, and before
long they came to just such another field of stones as they left behind
them the day before.
“Come, master,” said Babo, “let us each take a stone with us. We may
need something more to eat before the day is over.”
“No,” said Simon Agricola; “we will need no stones to-day.”
But Babo had no notion to go hungry the second time, so he hunted around
till he found a stone as big as his head. All day he carried it, first
under one arm, and then under the other. The wise man stepped along
briskly enough, but the sweat ran down Babo’s face like drops on the
window in an April shower. At last they came to a great wide plain,
where neither stock nor stone was to be seen, but only a gallows-tree,
upon which one poor wight hung dancing upon nothing at all, and there
night caught them again.
“Aha!” said Babo to himself. “This time I shall have bread and my master
none.”
But listen to what happened. Up stepped the wise man to the gallows, and
gave it a sharp rap with his staff. Then, lo and behold! The gallows was
gone, and in its place stood a fine inn, with lights in the windows, and
a landlord bowing and smiling in the doorway, and a fire roaring in
the kitchen, and the smell of good things cooking filling the air all
around, so that only to sniff did one’s heart good.
Poor Babo let fall the stone he had carried all day. A stone it was, and
a stone he let fall.
“Born a fool, live a fool, die a fool,’” said Agricola. “But come in,
Babo, come in; here is room enough for two.” So that night Babo had a
good supper and a sound sleep, and that is a cure for most of a body’s
troubles in this world.
The third day of their travelling they came to farms and villages, and
there Simon Agricola began to think of showing some of those tricks of
magic that were to make his fortune and Babo’s into the bargain.
At last they came to a blacksmith’s shop, and there was the smith hard
at work, dinging and donging, and making sweet music with hammer and
anvil. In walked Simon Agricola and gave him good-day. He put his
fingers into his purse, and brought out all the money he had in
the world; it was one golden angel. “Look, friend,” said he to the
blacksmith; “if you will let me have your forge for one hour, I will
give you this money for the use of it.”
The blacksmith liked the tune of that song very well. “You may have it,”
said he; and he took off his leathern apron without another word, and
Simon Agricola put it on in his stead.
Presently, who should come riding up to the blacksmith’s shop but a rich
old nobleman and three servants. The servants were hale, stout fellows,
but the nobleman was as withered as a winter leaf. “Can you shoe my
horse?” said he to Simon Agricola, for he took him to be the smith
because of his leathern apron.
“No,” says Simon Agricola; “that is not my trade: I only know how to
make old people young.”
“Old people young!” said the old nobleman; “can you make me young
again?”
“Yes,” said Simon Agricola, “I can, but I must have a thousand golden
angels for doing it.”
“Very well,” said the old nobleman; “make me young, and you shall have
them and welcome.”
So Simon Agricola gave the word, and Babo blew the bellows until the
fire blazed and roared. Then the doctor caught the old nobleman, and
laid him upon the forge. He heaped the coals over him, and turned him
this way and that, until he grew red-hot, like a piece of iron. Then he
drew him forth from the fire and dipped him in the water-tank. Phizz!
The water hissed, and the steam rose up in a cloud; and when Simon
Agricola took the old nobleman out, lo and behold! He was as fresh and
blooming and lusty as a lad of twenty.
But you should have seen how all the people stared and goggled!--Babo
and the blacksmith and the nobleman’s servants. The nobleman strutted up
and down for a while, admiring himself, and then he got upon his
horse again. “But wait,” said Simon Agricola; “you forgot to pay me my
thousand golden angels.”
“Pooh!” said the nobleman, and off he clattered, with his servants at
his heels; and that was all the good that Simon Agricola had of this
trick. But ill-luck was not done with him yet, for when the smith saw
how matters had turned out, he laid hold of the doctor and would not let
him go until he had paid him the golden angel he had promised for the
use of the forge. The doctor pulled a sour face, but all the same he
had to pay the angel. Then the smith let him go, and off he marched in a
huff.
Outside of the forge was the smith’s mother--a poor old creature,
withered and twisted and bent as a winter twig. Babo had kept his eyes
open, and had not travelled with Simon Agricola for nothing. He plucked
the smith by the sleeve: “Look’ee, friend,” said he, “how would you like
me to make your mother, over yonder, young again?”
“I should like nothing better,” said the smith.
“Very well,” said Babo; “give me the golden angel that the master gave
you, and I’ll do the job for you.”
Well, the smith paid the money, and Babo bade him blow the bellows. When
the fire roared up good and hot, he caught up the old mother, and, in
spite of her scratching and squalling, he laid her upon the embers.
By-and-by, when he thought the right time had come, he took her out and
dipped her in the tank of water; but instead of turning young, there she
lay, as dumb as a fish and as black as coal.
When the blacksmith saw what Babo had done to his mother, he caught him
by the collar, and fell to giving him such a dressing down as never man
had before.
“Help!” bawled Babo. “Help! Murder!”
Such a hubbub had not been heard in that town for many a day. Back came
Simon Agricola running, and there he saw, and took it all in in one
look.
“Stop, friend,” said he to the smith, “let the simpleton go; this is not
past mending yet.”
“Very well,” said the smith; “but he must give me back my golden angel,
and you must cure my mother, or else I’ll have you both up before the
judge.”
“It shall be done,” said Simon Agricola; so Babo paid back the money,
and the doctor dipped the woman in the water. When he brought her out
she was as well and strong as ever--but just as old as she had been
before.
“Now be off for a pair of scamps, both of you,” said the blacksmith;
“and if you ever come this way again, I’ll set all the dogs in the town
upon you.”
Simon Agricola said nothing until they had come out upon the highway
again, and left the town well behind them; then--“Born a fool, live a
fool, die a fool!” says he.
Babo said nothing, but he rubbed the places where the smith had dusted
his coat.
The fourth day of their journey they came to a town, and here Simon
Agricola was for trying his tricks of magic again. He and Babo took
up their stand in the corner of the market-place, and began bawling,
“Doctor Knowall! Doctor Knowall! Who has come from the other end of
Nowhere! He can cure any sickness or pain! He can bring you back from
the gates of death! Here is Doctor Knowall! Here is Doctor Knowall!”
Now there was a very, very rich man in that town, whose daughter lay
sick to death; and when the news of this great doctor was brought to his
ears, he was for having him try his hand at curing the girl.
“Very well,” said Simon Agricola, “I will do that, but you must pay me
two thousand golden angels.”
“Two thousand golden angels!” said the rich man; “that is a great deal
of money, but you shall have it if only you will cure my daughter.”
Simon Agricola drew a little vial from his bosom. From it he poured
just six drops of yellow liquor upon the girl’s tongue. Then--lo and
behold!--up she sat in bed as well and strong as ever, and asked for a
boiled chicken and a dumpling, by way of something to eat.
“Bless you! Bless you!” said the rich man.
“Yes, yes; blessings are very good, but I would like to have my two
thousand golden angels,” said Simon Agricola.
“Two thousand golden angels! I said nothing about two thousand golden
angels,” said the rich man; “two thousand fiddlesticks!” said he. “Pooh!
Pooh! You must have been dreaming! See, here are two hundred silver
pennies, and that is enough and more than enough for six drops of
medicine.”
“I want my two thousand golden angels,” said Simon Agricola.
“You will get nothing but two hundred pennies,” said the rich man.
“I won’t touch one of them,” said Simon Agricola, and off he marched in
a huff.
But Babo had kept his eyes open. Simon Agricola had laid down the vial
upon the table, and while they were saying this and that back and forth,
thinking of nothing else, Babo quietly slipped it into his own pocket,
without any one but himself being the wiser.
Down the stairs stumped the doctor with Babo at his heels. There stood
the cook waiting for them.
“Look,” said he, “my wife is sick in there; won’t you cure her, too?”
“Pooh!” said Simon Agricola; and out he went, banging the door behind
him.
“Look, friend,” said Babo to the cook, “here I have some of the same
medicine. Give me the two hundred pennies that the master would not
take, and I’ll cure her for you as sound as a bottle.”
“Very well,” said the cook, and he counted out the two hundred pennies,
and Babo slipped them into his pocket. He bade the woman open her mouth,
and when she had done so he poured all the stuff down her throat at
once.
“Ugh!” said she, and therewith rolled up her eyes, and lay as stiff and
dumb as a herring in a box.
When the cook saw what Babo had done, he snatched up the rolling-pin and
made at him to pound his head to a jelly. But Babo did not wait for his
coming; he jumped out of the window, and away he scampered with the cook
at his heels.
Well, the upshot of the business was that Simon Agricola had to go back
and bring life to the woman again, or the cook would thump him and Babo
both with the rolling-pin. And, what was more, Babo had to pay back the
two hundred pennies that the cook had given him for curing his wife.
The wise man made a cross upon the woman’s forehead, and up she sat, as
well--but no better--as before.
“And now be off,” said the cook, “or I will call the servants and give
you both a drubbing for a pair of scamps.”
Simon Agricola said never a word until they had gotten out of the town.
There his anger boiled over, like water into the fire. “Look,” said he
to Babo: “Born a fool, live a fool, die a fool.’ I want no more of you.
Here are two roads; you take one, and I will take the other.”
“What!” said Babo, “am I to travel the rest of the way alone? And then,
besides, how about the fortune you promised me?”
“Never mind that,” said Simon Agricola; “I have not made my own fortune
yet.”
“Well, at least pay me something for my wages,” said Babo.
“How shall I pay you?” said Simon Agricola. “I have not a single groat
in the world.”
“What!” said Babo, “have you nothing to give me?”
“I can give you a piece of advice.”
“Well,” said Babo, “that is better than nothing, so let me have it.”
“Here it is,” said Simon Agricola: “Think well! Think well!--before you
do what you are about to do, think well!’”
“Thank you!” said Babo; and then the one went one way, and the other the
other.
(You may go with the wise man if you choose, but I shall jog along with
the simpleton.)
After Babo had travelled for a while, he knew not whither, night caught
him, and he lay down under a hedge to sleep. There he lay, and snored
away like a saw-mill, for he was wearied with his long journeying.
Now it chanced that that same night two thieves had broken into a
miser’s house, and had stolen an iron pot full of gold money. Day broke
before they reached home, so down they sat to consider the matter; and
the place where they seated themselves was on the other side of the
hedge where Babo lay. The older thief was for carrying the money home
under his coat; the younger was for burying it until night had come
again. They squabbled and bickered and argued till the noise they made
wakened Babo, and he sat up. The first thing he thought of was the
advice that the doctor had given him the evening before.
“Think well!’” he bawled out; “think well! before you do what you are
about to do, think well!’”
When the two thieves heard Babo’s piece of advice, they thought that the
judge’s officers were after them for sure and certain. Down they dropped
the pot of money, and away they scampered as fast as their legs could
carry them.
Babo heard them running, and poked his head through the hedge, and there
lay the pot of gold. “Look now,” said he: “this has come from the advice
that was given me; no one ever gave me advice that was worth so much
before.” So he picked up the pot of gold, and off he marched with it.
He had not gone far before he met two of the king’s officers, and you
may guess how they opened their eyes when they saw him travelling along
the highway with a pot full of gold money.
“Where are you going with that money?” said they.
“I don’t know,” said Babo.
“How did you get it?” said they.
“I got it for a piece of advice,” said Babo.
For a piece of advice! No, no--the king’s officers knew butter from
lard, and truth from t’other thing. It was just the same in that country
as it is in our town--there was nothing in the world so cheap as advice.
Whoever heard of anybody giving a pot of gold and silver money for it?
Without another word they marched Babo and his pot of money off to the
king.
“Come,” said the king, “tell me truly; where did you get the pot of
money?”
Poor Babo began to whimper. “I got it for a piece of advice,” said he.
“Really and truly?” said the king.
“Yes,” said Babo; “really and truly.”
“Humph!” said the king. “I should like to have advice that is worth as
much as that. Now, how much will you sell your advice to me for?”
“How much will you give?” said Babo.
“Well,” said the king, “let me have it for a day on trial, and at the
end of that time I will pay you what it is worth.”
“Very well,” said Babo, “that is a bargain;” and so he lent the king his
piece of advice for one day on trial.
Now the chief councillor and some others had laid a plot against the
king’s life, and that morning it had been settled that when the barber
shaved him he was to cut his throat with a razor. So after the barber
had lathered his face he began to whet the razor, and to whet the razor.
Just at that moment the king remembered Babo’s piece of advice. “Think
well!” said he; “think well! Before you do what you are about to do,
think well!”
When the barber heard the words that the king said, he thought that
all had been discovered. Down he fell upon his knees, and confessed
everything.
That is how Babo’s advice saved the king’s life--you can guess whether
the king thought it was worth much or little. When Babo came the next
morning the king gave him ten chests full of money, and that made the
simpleton richer than anybody in all that land.
He built himself a fine house, and by-and-by married the daughter of the
new councillor that came after the other one’s head had been chopped off
for conspiring against the king’s life. Besides that, he came and went
about the king’s castle as he pleased, and the king made much of him.
Everybody bowed to him, and all were glad to stop and chat awhile with
him when they met him in the street.
One morning Babo looked out of the window, and who should he see come
travelling along the road but Simon Agricola himself, and he was just as
poor and dusty and travel-stained as ever.
“Come in, come in!” said Babo; and you can guess how the wise man stared
when he saw the simpleton living in such a fine way. But he opened his
eyes wider than ever when he heard that all these good things came from
the piece of advice he had given Babo that day they had parted at the
cross roads.
“Aye, aye!” said he, “the luck is with you for sure and certain. But
if you will pay me a thousand golden angels, I will give you something
better than a piece of advice. I will teach you all the magic that is to
be learned from the books.”
“No,” said Babo, “I am satisfied with the advice.”
“Very well,” said Simon Agricola, “Born a fool, live a fool, die a
fool’;” and off he went in a huff.
That is all of this tale except the tip end of it, and that I will give
you now.
I have heard tell that one day the king dropped in the street the piece
of advice that he had bought from Babo, and that before he found it
again it had been trampled into the mud and dirt. I cannot say for
certain that this is the truth, but it must have been spoiled in some
way or other, for I have never heard of anybody in these days who would
give even so much as a bad penny for it; and yet it is worth just as
much now as it was when Babo sold it to the king.
I had sat listening to these jolly folk for all this time, and I had not
heard old Sindbad say a word, and yet I knew very well he was full of
a story, for every now and then I could see his lips move, and he would
smile, and anon he would stroke his long white beard and smile again.
Everybody clapped their hands and rattled their canicans after the
Blacksmith had ended his story, and methought they liked it better
than almost anything that had been told. Then there was a pause, and
everybody was still, and as nobody else spoke I myself ventured to break
the silence. “I would like,” said I (and my voice sounded thin in my own
ears, as one’s voice always does sound in Twilight Land), “I would like
to hear our friend Sindbad the Sailor tell a story. Methinks one is
fermenting in his mind.”
Old Sindbad smiled until his cheeks crinkled into wrinkles.
“Aye,” said every one, “will you not tell a story?”
“To be sure I will,” said Sindbad. “I will tell you a good story,” said
he, “and it is about--”
The Enchanted Island.
But it is not always the lucky one that carries away the plums;
sometimes he only shakes the tree, and the wise man pockets the fruit.
Once upon a long, long time ago, and in a country far, far away, there
lived two men in the same town and both were named Selim; one was Selim
the Baker and one was Selim the Fisherman.
Selim the Baker was well off in the world, but Selim the Fisherman was
only so-so. Selim the Baker always had plenty to eat and a warm corner
in cold weather, but many and many a time Selim the Fisherman’s stomach
went empty and his teeth went chattering.
Once it happened that for time after time Selim the Fisherman caught
nothing but bad luck in his nets, and not so much as a single sprat,
and he was very hungry. “Come,” said he to himself, “those who have some
should surely give to those who have none,” and so he went to Selim the
Baker. “Let me have a loaf of bread,” said he, “and I will pay you for
it tomorrow.”
“Very well,” said Selim the Baker; “I will let you have a loaf of bread,
if you will give me all that you catch in your nets to-morrow.”
“So be it,” said Selim the Fisherman, for need drives one to hard
bargains sometimes; and therewith he got his loaf of bread.
So the next day Selim the Fisherman fished and fished and fished and
fished, and still he caught no more than the day before; until just
at sunset he cast his net for the last time for the day, and, lo and
behold! There was something heavy in it. So he dragged it ashore, and
what should it be but a leaden box, sealed as tight as wax, and covered
with all manner of strange letters and figures. “Here,” said he, “is
something to pay for my bread of yesterday, at any rate;” and as he was
an honest man, off he marched with it to Selim the Baker.
They opened the box in the baker’s shop, and within they found two rolls
of yellow linen. In each of the rolls of linen was another little leaden
box: in one was a finger-ring of gold set with a red stone, in the other
was a finger-ring of iron set with nothing at all.
That was all the box held; nevertheless, that was the greatest catch
that ever any fisherman made in the world; for, though Selim the one or
Selim the other knew no more of the matter than the cat under the stove,
the gold ring was the Ring of Luck and the iron ring was the Ring of
Wisdom.
Inside of the gold ring were carved these letters: “Whosoever wears me,
shall have that which all men seek--for so it is with good-luck in this
world.”
Inside of the iron ring were written these words: “Whosoever wears me,
shall have that which few men care for--and that is the way it is with
wisdom in our town.”
“Well,” said Selim the Baker, and he slipped the gold ring of good-luck
on his finger, “I have driven a good bargain, and you have paid for your
loaf of bread.”
“But what will you do with the other ring?” said Selim the Fisherman.
“Oh, you may have that,” said Selim the Baker.
Well, that evening, as Selim the Baker sat in front of his shop in the
twilight smoking a pipe of tobacco, the ring he wore began to work. Up
came a little old man with a white beard, and he was dressed all in gray
from top to toe, and he wore a black velvet cap, and he carried a long
staff in his hand. He stopped in front of Selim the Baker, and stood
looking at him a long, long time. At last--“Is your name Selim?” said
he.
“Yes,” said Selim the Baker, “it is.”
“And do you wear a gold ring with a red stone on your finger?”
“Yes,” said Selim, “I do.”
“Then come with me,” said the little old man, “and I will show you the
wonder of the world.”
“Well,” said Selim the Baker, “that will be worth the seeing, at any
rate.” So he emptied out his pipe of tobacco, and put on his hat and
followed the way the old man led.
Up one street they went, and down another, and here and there through
alleys and byways where Selim had never been before. At last they came
to where a high wall ran along the narrow street, with a garden behind
it, and by-and-by to an iron gate. The old man rapped upon the gate
three times with his knuckles, and cried in a loud voice, “Open to
Selim, who wears the Ring of Luck!”
Then instantly the gate swung open, and Selim the Baker followed the old
man into the garden.
Bang! shut the gate behind him, and there he was.
There he was! And such a place he had never seen before. Such fruit!
Such flowers! Such fountains! Such summer-houses!
“This is nothing,” said the old man; “this is only the beginning of
wonder. Come with me.”
He led the way down a long pathway between the trees, and Selim
followed. By-and-by, far away, they saw the light of torches; and when
they came to what they saw, lo and behold! there was the sea-shore, and
a boat with four-and-twenty oarsmen, each dressed in cloth of gold and
silver more splendidly than a prince. And there were four-and-twenty
black slaves, carrying each a torch of spice-wood, so that all the
air was filled with sweet smells. The old man led the way, and Selim,
following, entered the boat; and there was a seat for him made soft with
satin cushions embroidered with gold and precious stones and stuffed
with down, and Selim wondered whether he was not dreaming.
The oarsmen pushed off from the shore and away they rowed.
On they rowed and on they rowed for all that livelong night.
At last morning broke, and then as the sun rose Selim saw such a sight
as never mortal eyes beheld before or since. It was the wonder of
wonders--a great city built on an island. The island was all one
mountain; and on it, one above another and another above that again,
stood palaces that glistened like snow, and orchards of fruit, and
gardens of flowers and green trees.
And as the boat came nearer and nearer to the city, Selim could see that
all around on the house-tops and down to the water’s edge were crowds
and crowds of people. All were looking out towards the sea, and when
they saw the boat and Selim in it, a great shout went up like the
roaring of rushing waters.
“It is the King!” they cried--“it is the King! It is Selim the King!”
Then the boat landed, and there stood dozens of scores of great princes
and nobles to welcome Selim when he came ashore. And there was a white
horse waiting for him to ride, and its saddle and bridle were studded
with diamonds and rubies and emeralds that sparkled and glistened like
the stars in heaven, and Selim thought for sure he must be dreaming with
his eyes open.
But he was not dreaming, for it was all as true as that eggs are eggs.
So up the hill he rode, and to the grandest and the most splendid of all
the splendid palaces, the princes and noblemen riding with him, and the
crowd shouting as though to split their throats.
And what a palace it was!--as white as snow and painted all inside
with gold and blue. All around it were gardens blooming with fruit and
flowers, and the like of it mortal man never saw in the world before.
There they made a king of Selim, and put a golden crown on his head; and
that is what the Ring of Good Luck can do for a baker.
But wait a bit! There was something queer about it all, and that is now
to be told.
All that day was feasting and drinking and merry-making, and the
twinging and twanging of music, and dancing of beautiful dancing-girls,
and such things as Selim had never heard tell of in all his life before.
And when night came they lit thousands and thousands of candles of
perfumed wax; so that it was a hard matter to say when night began and
day ended, only that the one smelled sweeter than the other.
But at last it came midnight, and then suddenly, in an instant, all the
lights went out and everything was as dark as pitch--not a spark, not
a glimmer anywhere. And, just as suddenly, all the sound of music and
dancing and merrymaking ceased, and everybody began to wail and cry
until it was enough to wring one’s heart to hear. Then, in the midst of
all the wailing and crying, a door was flung open, and in came six tall
and terrible black men, dressed all in black from top to toe, carrying
each a flaming torch; and by the light of the torches King Selim saw
that all--the princes, the noblemen, the dancing-girls--all lay on their
faces on the floor.
The six men took King Selim--who shuddered and shook with fear--by the
arms, and marched him through dark, gloomy entries and passage-ways,
until they came at last to the very heart of the palace.
There was a great high-vaulted room all of black marble, and in the
middle of it was a pedestal with seven steps, all of black marble; and
on the pedestal stood a stone statue of a woman looking as natural as
life, only that her eyes were shut. The statue was dressed like a queen:
she wore a golden crown on her head, and upon her body hung golden
robes, set with diamonds and emeralds and rubies and sapphires and
pearls and all sorts of precious stones.
As for the face of the statue, white paper and black ink could not tell
you how beautiful it was. When Selim looked at it, it made his heart
stand still in his breast, it was so beautiful.
The six men brought Selim up in front of the statue, and then a voice
came as though from the vaulted roof: “Selim! Selim! Selim!” it said,
“what are thou doing? To-day is feasting and drinking and merry-making,
but beware of tomorrow!”
As soon as these words were ended the six black men marched King Selim
back whence they had brought him; there they left him and passed out one
by one as they had first come in, and the door shut to behind them.
Then in an instant the lights flashed out again, the music began to
play and the people began to talk and laugh, and King Selim thought that
maybe all that had just passed was only a bit of an ugly dream after
all.
So that is the way King Selim the Baker began to reign, and that is the
way he continued to reign. All day was feasting and drinking and making
merry and music and laughing and talking. But every night at midnight
the same thing happened: the lights went out, all the people began
wailing and crying, and the six tall, terrible black men came with
flashing torches and marched King Selim away to the beautiful statue.
And every night the same voice said--“Selim! Selim! Selim! What art thou
doing! To-day is feasting and drinking and merry-making; but beware of
tomorrow!”
So things went on for a twelvemonth, and at last came the end of the
year. That day and night the merry-making was merrier and wilder and
madder than it had ever been before, but the great clock in the tower
went on--tick, tock! tick, tock!--and by and by it came midnight. Then,
as it always happened before, the lights went out, and all was as
black as ink. But this time there was no wailing and crying out, but
everything was silent as death; the door opened slowly, and in came, not
six black men as before, but nine men as silent as death, dressed all in
flaming red, and the torches they carried burned as red as blood. They
took King Selim by the arms, just as the six men had done, and marched
him through the same entries and passageways, and so came at last to
the same vaulted room. There stood the statue, but now it was turned to
flesh and blood, and the eyes were open and looking straight at Selim
the Baker.
“Art thou Selim?” said she; and she pointed her finger straight at him.
“Yes, I am Selim,” said he.
“And dost thou wear the gold ring with the red stone?” said she.
“Yes,” said he; “I have it on my finger.”
“And dost thou wear the iron ring?”
“No,” said he; “I gave that to Selim the Fisherman.”
The words had hardly left his lips when the statue gave a great cry and
clapped her hands together. In an instant an echoing cry sounded all
over the town--a shriek fit to split the ears.
The next moment there came another sound--a sound like thunder--above
and below and everywhere. The earth began to shake and to rock, and the
houses began to topple and fall, and the people began to scream and to
yell and to shout, and the waters of the sea began to lash and to roar,
and the wind began to bellow and howl. Then it was a good thing for King
Selim that he wore Luck’s Ring; for, though all the beautiful snow-white
palace about him and above him began to crumble to pieces like slaked
lime, the sticks and the stones and the beams to fall this side of him
and that, he crawled out from under it without a scratch or a bruise,
like a rat out of a cellar.
That is what Luck’s Ring did for him.
But his troubles were not over yet; for, just as he came out from under
all the ruin, the island began to sink down into the water, carrying
everything along with it--that is, everything but him and one thing
else. That one other thing was an empty boat, and King Selim climbed
into it, and nothing else saved him from drowning. It was Luck’s Ring
that did that for him also.
The boat floated on and on until it came to another island that was just
like the island he had left, only that there was neither tree nor blade
of grass nor hide nor hair nor living thing of any kind. Nevertheless,
it was an island just like the other: a high mountain and nothing else.
There Selim the Baker went ashore, and there he would have starved to
death only for Luck’s Ring; for one day a boat came sailing by, and when
poor Selim shouted, those aboard heard him and came and took him off.
How they all stared to see his golden crown--for he still wore it--and
his robes of silk and satin and the gold and jewels!
Before they would consent to carry him away, they made him give up all
the fine things he had. Then they took him home again to the town whence
he had first come, just as poor as when he had started. Back he went to
his bake-shop and his ovens, and the first thing he did was to take off
his gold ring and put it on the shelf.
“If that is the ring of good luck,” said he, “I do not want to wear the
like of it.”
That is the way with mortal man: for one has to have the Ring of Wisdom
as well, to turn the Ring of Luck to good account.
And now for Selim the Fisherman.
Well, thus it happened to him. For a while he carried the iron ring
around in his pocket--just as so many of us do--without thinking to put
it on. But one day he slipped it on his finger--and that is what we do
not all of us do. After that he never took it off again, and the world
went smoothly with him. He was not rich, but then he was not poor; he
was not merry, neither was he sad. He always had enough and was thankful
for it, for I never yet knew wisdom to go begging or crying.
So he went his way and he fished his fish, and twelve months and a week
or more passed by. Then one day he went past the baker shop and there
sat Selim the Baker smoking his pipe of tobacco.
“So, friend,” said Selim the Fisherman, “you are back again in the old
place, I see.”
“Yes,” said the other Selim; “awhile ago I was a king, and now I
am nothing but a baker again. As for that gold ring with the red
stone--they may say it is Luck’s Ring if they choose, but when next I
wear it may I be hanged.”
Thereupon he told Selim the Fisherman the story of what had happened to
him with all its ins and outs, just as I have told it to you.
“Well!” said Selim the Fisherman, “I should like to have a sight of that
island myself. If you want the ring no longer, just let me have it; for
maybe if I wear it something of the kind will happen to me.”
“You may have it,” said Selim the Baker. “Yonder it is, and you are
welcome to it.”
So Selim the Fisherman put on the ring, and then went his way about his
own business.
That night, as he came home carrying his nets over his shoulder, whom
should he meet but the little old man in gray, with the white beard and
the black cap on his head and the long staff in his hand.
“Is your name Selim?” said the little man, just as he had done to Selim
the Baker.
“Yes,” said Selim; “it is.”
“And do you wear a gold ring with a red stone?” said the little old man,
just as he had said before.
“Yes,” said Selim; “I do.”
“Then come with me,” said the little old man, “and I will show you the
wonder of the world.”
Selim the Fisherman remembered all that Selim the Baker had told him,
and he took no two thoughts as to what to do. Down he tumbled his nets,
and away he went after the other as fast as his legs could carry him.
Here they went and there they went, up crooked streets and lanes and
down by-ways and alley-ways, until at last they came to the same garden
to which Selim the Baker had been brought. Then the old man knocked at
the gate three times and cried out in a loud voice, “Open! Open! Open to
Selim who wears the Ring of Luck!”
Then the gate opened, and in they went. Fine as it all was, Selim
the Fisherman cared to look neither to the right nor to the left, but
straight after the old man he went, until at last they came to the
seaside and the boat and the four-and-twenty oarsmen dressed like
princes and the black slaves with the perfumed torches.
Here the old man entered the boat and Selim after him, and away they
sailed.
To make a long story short, everything happened to Selim the Fisherman
just as it had happened to Selim the Baker. At dawn of day they came to
the island and the city built on the mountain. And the palaces were just
as white and beautiful, and the gardens and orchards just as fresh and
blooming as though they had not all tumbled down and sunk under the
water a week before, almost carrying poor Selim the Baker with them.
There were the people dressed in silks and satins and jewels, just as
Selim the Baker had found them, and they shouted and hurrahed for Selim
the Fisherman just as they had shouted and hurrahed for the other.
There were the princes and the nobles and the white horse, and Selim the
Fisherman got on his back and rode up to a dazzling snow-white palace,
and they put a crown on his head and made a king of him, just as they
had made a king of Selim the Baker.
That night, at midnight, it happened just as it had happened before.
Suddenly, as the hour struck, the lights all went out, and there was a
moaning and a crying enough to make the heart curdle. Then the door
flew open, and in came the six terrible black men with torches. They
led Selim the Fisherman through damp and dismal entries and passage-ways
until they came to the vaulted room of black marble, and there stood
the beautiful statue on its black pedestal. Then came the voice from
above--“Selim! Selim! Selim!” it cried, “what art thou doing? To-day is
feasting and drinking and merry-making, but beware of to-morrow!”
But Selim the Fisherman did not stand still and listen, as Selim the
Baker had done. He called out, “I hear the words! I am listening! I will
beware to-day for the sake of to-morrow!”
I do not know what I should have done had I been king of that island and
had I known that in a twelve-month it would all come tumbling down about
my ears and sink into the sea, maybe carry me along with it. This is
what Selim the Fisherman did [but then he wore the iron Ring of Wisdom
on his finger, and I never had that upon mine]:
First of all, he called the wisest men of the island to him, and found
from them just where the other desert island lay upon which the boat
with Selim the Baker in it had drifted.
Then, when he had learned where it was to be found, he sent armies and
armies of men and built on that island palaces and houses, and planted
there orchards and gardens, just like the palaces and the orchards and
the gardens about him--only a great deal finer. Then he sent fleets and
fleets of ships, and carried everything away from the island where he
lived to that other island--all the men and the women and the children;
all the flocks and herds and every living thing; all the fowls and the
birds and everything that wore feathers; all the gold and the silver and
the jewels and the silks and the satins, and whatever was of any good
or of any use; and when all these things were done, there were still two
days left till the end of the year.
Upon the first of these two days he sent over the beautiful statue and
had it set up in the very midst of the splendid new palace he had built.
Upon the second day he went over himself, leaving behind him nothing but
the dead mountain and the rocks and the empty houses.
So came the end of the twelve months.
So came midnight.
Out went all the lights in the new palace, and everything was as silent
as death and as black as ink. The door opened, and in came the nine
men in red, with torches burning as red as blood. They took Selim the
Fisherman by the arms and led him to the beautiful statue, and there she
was with her eyes open.
“Are you Selim?” said she.
“Yes, I am Selim,” said he.
“And do you wear the iron Ring of Wisdom?” said she.
“Yes, I do,” said he; and so he did.
There was no roaring and thundering, there was no shaking and quaking,
there was no toppling and tumbling, there was no splashing and dashing:
for this island was solid rock, and was not all enchantment and hollow
inside and underneath like the other which he had left behind.
The beautiful statue smiled until the place lit up as though the sun
shone. Down she came from the pedestal where she stood and kissed Selim
the Fisherman on the lips.
Then instantly the lights blazed everywhere, and the people shouted and
cheered, and the music played. But neither Selim the Fisherman nor the
beautiful statue saw or heard anything.
“I have done all this for you!” said Selim the Fisherman.
“And I have been waiting for you a thousand years!” said the beautiful
statue--only she was not a statue any longer.
After that they were married, and Selim the Fisherman and the enchanted
statue became king and queen in real earnest.
I think Selim the Fisherman sent for Selim the Baker and made him rich
and happy--I hope he did--I am sure he did.
So, after all, it is not always the lucky one who gathers the plums when
wisdom is by to pick up what the other shakes down.
I could say more; for, O little children! little children! there is
more than meat in many an egg-shell; and many a fool tells a story that
joggles a wise man’s wits, and many a man dances and junkets in his
fool’s paradise till it comes tumbling down about his ears some day; and
there are few men who are like Selim the Fisherman, who wear the Ring of
Wisdom on their finger, and, alack-a-day! I am not one of them, and that
is the end of this story.
Old Bidpai nodded his head. “Aye, aye,” said he, “there is a very good
moral in that story, my friend. It is, as a certain philosopher said,
very true, that there is more in an egg than the meat. And truly,
methinks, there is more in thy story than the story of itself.” He
nodded his head again and stroked his beard slowly, puffing out as he
did so as a great reflective cloud of smoke, through which his eyes
shone and twinkled mistily like stars through a cloud.
“And whose turn is it now?” said Doctor Faustus.
“Methinks tis mine,” said Boots--he who in fairy-tale always sat in the
ashes at home and yet married a princess after he had gone out into the
world awhile. “My story,” said he, “hath no moral, but, all the same, it
is as true as that eggs hatch chickens.” Then, without waiting for any
one to say another word, he began it in these words. “I am going to tell
you,” said he, how--
All Things are as Fate wills.
Once upon a time, in the old, old days, there lived a king who had a
head upon his shoulders wiser than other folk, and this was why: though
he was richer and wiser and greater than most kings, and had all that he
wanted and more into the bargain, he was so afraid of becoming proud of
his own prosperity that he had these words written in letters of gold
upon the walls of each and every room in his palace:
All Things are as Fate wills.
Now, by-and-by and after a while the king died; for when his time comes,
even the rich and the wise man must die, as well as the poor and the
simple man. So the king’s son came, in turn, to be king of that land;
and, though he was not so bad as the world of men goes, he was not the
man that his father was, as this story will show you.
One day, as he sat with his chief councillor, his eyes fell upon the
words written in letters of gold upon the wall--the words that his
father had written there in time gone by:
All Things are as Fate wills; and the young king did not like the taste
of them, for he was very proud of his own greatness. “That is not so,”
said he, pointing to the words on the wall. “Let them be painted out,
and these words written in their place:
All Things are as Man does.”
Now, the chief councillor was a grave old man, and had been councillor
to the young king’s father. “Do not be too hasty, my lord king,” said
he. “Try first the truth of your own words before you wipe out those
that your father has written.”
“Very well,” said the young king, “so be it. I will approve the truth of
my words. Bring me hither some beggar from the town whom Fate has made
poor, and I will make him rich. So I will show you that his life shall
be as I will, and not as Fate wills.”
Now, in that town there was a poor beggar-man who used to sit every
day beside the town gate, begging for something for charity’s sake.
Sometimes people gave him a penny or two, but it was little or nothing
that he got, for Fate was against him.
The same day that the king and the chief councillor had had their
talk together, as the beggar sat holding up his wooden bowl and asking
charity of those who passed by, there suddenly came three men who,
without saying a word, clapped hold of him and marched him off.
It was in vain that the beggar talked and questioned--in vain that he
begged and besought them to let him go. Not a word did they say to him,
either of good or bad. At last they came to a gate that led through a
high wall and into a garden, and there the three stopped, and one of
them knocked upon the gate. In answer to his knocking it flew open. He
thrust the beggar into the garden neck and crop, and then the gate was
banged to again.
But what a sight it was the beggar saw before his eyes!--flowers, and
fruit-trees, and marble walks, and a great fountain that shot up a
jet of water as white as snow. But he had not long to stand gaping and
staring around him, for in the garden were a great number of people,
who came hurrying to him, and who, without speaking a word to him or
answering a single question, or as much as giving him time to think,
led him to a marble bath of tepid water. There he was stripped of his
tattered clothes and washed as clean as snow. Then, as some of the
attendants dried him with fine linen towels, others came carrying
clothes fit for a prince to wear, and clad the beggar in them from head
to foot. After that, still without saying a word, they let him out from
the bath again, and there he found still other attendants waiting for
him--two of them holding a milk-white horse, saddled and bridled, and
fit for an emperor to ride. These helped him to mount, and then, leaping
into their own saddles, rode away with the beggar in their midst.
They rode of the garden and into the streets, and on and on they went
until they came to the king’s palace, and there they stopped. Courtiers
and noblemen and great lords were waiting for their coming, some of whom
helped him to dismount from the horse, for by this time the beggar was
so overcome with wonder that he stared like one moon-struck, and as
though his wits were addled. Then, leading the way up the palace steps,
they conducted him from room to room, until at last they came to one
more grand and splendid than all the rest, and there sat the king
himself waiting for the beggar’s coming.
The beggar would have flung himself at the king’s feet, but the king
would not let him; for he came down from the throne where he sat, and,
taking the beggar by the hand, led him up and sat him alongside of him.
Then the king gave orders to the attendants who stood about, and a feast
was served in plates of solid gold upon a table-cloth of silver--a feast
such as the beggar had never dreamed of, and the poor man ate as he had
never eaten in his life before.
All the while that the king and the beggar were eating, musicians played
sweet music and dancers danced and singers sang.
Then when the feast was over there came ten young men, bringing flasks
and flagons of all kinds, full of the best wine in the world; and the
beggar drank as he had never drank in his life before, and until his
head spun like a top.
So the king and the beggar feasted and made merry, until at last the
clock struck twelve and the king arose from his seat. “My friend,” said
he to the beggar, “all these things have been done to show you that Luck
and Fate, which have been against you for all these years, are now for
you. Hereafter, instead of being poor you shall be the richest of
the rich, for I will give you the greatest thing that I have in my
treasury,” Then he called the chief treasurer, who came forward with a
golden tray in his hand. Upon the tray was a purse of silk. “See,” said
the king, “here is a purse, and in the purse are one hundred pieces of
gold money. But though that much may seem great to you, it is but little
of the true value of the purse. Its virtue lies in this: that however
much you may take from it, there will always be one hundred pieces of
gold money left in it. Now go; and while you are enjoying the riches
which I give you, I have only to ask you to remember these are not the
gifts of Fate, but of a mortal man.”
But all the while he was talking the beggar’s head was spinning and
spinning, and buzzing and buzzing, so that he hardly heard a word of
what the king said.
Then when the king had ended his speech, the lords and gentlemen who had
brought the beggar in led him forth again. Out they went through room
after room--out through the courtyard, out through the gate.
Bang!--it was shut to behind him, and he found himself standing in the
darkness of midnight, with the splendid clothes upon his back, and the
magic purse with its hundred pieces of gold money in his pocket.
He stood looking about himself for a while, and then off he started
homeward, staggering and stumbling and shuffling, for the wine that he
had drank made him so light-headed that all the world spun topsy-turvy
around him.
His way led along by the river, and on he went stumbling and staggering.
All of a sudden--plump! splash!--he was in the water over head and ears.
Up he came, spitting out the water and shouting for help, splashing and
sputtering, and kicking and swimming, knowing no more where he was than
the man in the moon. Sometimes his head was under water and sometimes it
was up again.
At last, just as his strength was failing him, his feet struck the
bottom, and he crawled up on the shore more dead than alive. Then,
through fear and cold and wet, he swooned away, and lay for a long time
for all the world as though he were dead.
Now, it chanced that two fisherman were out with their nets that night,
and Luck or Fate led them by the way where the beggar lay on the shore.
“Halloa!” said one of the fishermen, “here is a poor body drowned!” They
turned him over, and then they saw what rich clothes he wore, and felt
that he had a purse in his pocket.
“Come,” said the second fisherman, “he is dead, whoever he is. His fine
clothes and his purse of money can do him no good now, and we might as
well have them as anybody else.” So between them both they stripped the
beggar of all that the king had given him, and left him lying on the
beach.
At daybreak the beggar awoke from the swoon, and there he found himself
lying without a stitch to his back, and half dead with the cold and the
water he had swallowed. Then, fearing lest somebody might see him, he
crawled away into the rushes that grew beside the river, there to hide
himself until night should come again.
But as he went, crawling upon hands and knees, he suddenly came upon a
bundle that had been washed up by the water, and when he laid eyes upon
it his heart leaped within him, for what should that bundle be but the
patches and tatters which he had worn the day before, and which the
attendants had thrown over the garden wall and into the river when they
had dressed him in the fine clothes the king gave him.
He spread his clothes out in the sun until they were dry, and then he
put them on and went back into the town again.
“Well,” said the king, that morning, to his chief councillor, “what do
you think now? Am I not greater than Fate? Did I not make the beggar
rich? And shall I not paint my father’s words out from the wall, and put
my own there instead?”
“I do not know,” said the councillor, shaking his head. “Let us first
see what has become of the beggar.”
“So be it,” said the king; and he and the councillor set off to see
whether the beggar had done as he ought to do with the good things that
the king had given him. So they came to the towngate, and there, lo and
behold! the first thing that they saw was the beggar with his wooden
bowl in his hand asking those who passed by for a stray penny or two.
When the king saw him he turned without a word, and rode back home
again. “Very well,” said he to the chief councillor, “I have tried to
make the beggar rich and have failed; nevertheless, if I cannot make him
I can ruin him in spite of Fate, and that I will show you.”
So all that while the beggar sat at the towngate and begged until came
noontide, when who should he see coming but the same three men who had
come for him the day before. “Ah, ha!” said he to himself, “now the
king is going to give me some more good things.” And so when the three
reached him he was willing enough to go with them, rough as they were.
Off they marched; but this time they did not come to any garden with
fruits and flowers and fountains and marble baths. Off they marched,
and when they stopped it was in front of the king’s palace. This time
no nobles and great lords and courtiers were waiting for his coming;
but instead of that the town hangman--a great ugly fellow, clad in black
from head to foot. Up he came to the beggar, and, catching him by the
scruff of his neck, dragged him up the palace steps and from room to
room until at last he flung him down at the king’s feet.
When the poor beggar gathered wits enough to look about him he saw there
a great chest standing wide open, and with holes in the lid. He wondered
what it was for, but the king gave him no chance to ask; for, beckoning
with his hand, the hangman and the others caught the beggar by arms and
legs, thrust him into the chest, and banged down the lid upon him.
The king locked it and double-locked it, and set his seal upon it; and
there was the beggar as tight as a fly in a bottle.
They carried the chest out and thrust it into a cart and hauled it away,
until at last they came to the sea-shore. There they flung chest and
all into the water, and it floated away like a cork. And that is how the
king set about to ruin the poor beggar-man.
Well, the chest floated on and on for three days, and then at last it
came to the shore of a country far away. There the waves caught it up,
and flung it so hard upon the rocks of the sea-beach that the chest was
burst open by the blow, and the beggar crawled out with eyes as big as
saucers and face as white as dough. After he had sat for a while, and
when his wits came back to him and he had gathered strength enough, he
stood up and looked around to see where Fate had cast him; and far away
on the hill-sides he saw the walls and the roofs and the towers of the
great town, shining in the sunlight as white as snow.
“Well,” said he, “here is something to be thankful for, at least,” and
so saying and shaking the stiffness out of his knees and elbows, he
started off for the white walls and the red roofs in the distance.
At last he reached the great gate, and through it he could see the stony
streets and multitudes of people coming and going.
But it was not for him to enter that gate. Out popped two soldiers with
great battle-axes in their hands and looking as fierce as dragons. “Are
you a stranger in this town?” said one in a great, gruff voice.
“Yes,” said the beggar, “I am.”
“And where are you going?”
“I am going into the town.”
“No, you are not.”
“Why not?”
“Because no stranger enters here. Yonder is the pathway. You must take
that if you would enter the town.”
“Very well,” said the beggar, “I would just as lief go into the town
that way as another.”
So off he marched without another word. On and on he went along the
narrow pathway until at last he came to a little gate of polished brass.
Over the gate were written these words, in great letters as red as
blood:
“Who Enters here Shall Surely Die.”
Many and many a man besides the beggar had travelled that path and
looked up at those letters, and when he had read them had turned and
gone away again. But the beggar neither turned nor went away; because
why, he could neither read nor write a word, and so the blood-red
letters had no fear for him. Up he marched to the brazen gate, as boldly
as though it had been a kitchen door, and rap! tap! tap! he knocked upon
it. He waited awhile, but nobody came. Rap! tap! tap! he knocked again;
and then, after a little while, for the third time--Rap! tap! tap! Then
instantly the gate swung open and he entered. So soon as he had crossed
the threshold it was banged to behind him again, just as the garden gate
had been when the king had first sent for him. He found himself in a
long, dark entry, and at the end of it another door, and over it the
same words, written in blood-red letters:
“Beware! Beware! Who Enters here Shall Surely Die!”
“Well,” said the beggar, “this is the hardest town for a body to come
into that I ever saw.” And then he opened the second door and passed
through.
It was fit to deafen a body! Such a shout the beggar’s ears had never
heard before; such a sight the beggar’s eyes had never beheld, for
there, before him, was a great splendid hall of marble as white as snow.
All along the hall stood scores of lords and ladies in silks and satins,
and with jewels on their necks and arms fit to dazzle a body’s eyes.
Right up the middle of the hall stretched a carpet of blue velvet, and
at the farther end, on a throne of gold, sat a lady as beautiful as the
sun and moon and all the stars.
“Welcome! welcome!” they all shouted, until the beggar was nearly
deafened by the noise they all made, and the lady herself stood up and
smiled upon him.
Then there came three young men, and led the beggar up the carpet of
velvet to the throne of gold.
“Welcome, my hero!” said the beautiful lady; “and have you, then, come
at last?”
“Yes,” said the beggar, “I have.”
“Long have I waited for you,” said the lady; “long have I waited for the
hero who would dare without fear to come through the two gates of death
to marry me and to rule as king over this country, and now at last you
are here.”
“Yes,” said the beggar, “I am.”
Meanwhile, while all these things were happening, the king of that other
country had painted out the words his father had written on the walls,
and had had these words painted in in their stead:
“All Things are as Man does.”
For a while he was very well satisfied with them, until, a week after,
he was bidden to the wedding of the Queen of the Golden Mountains; for
when he came there who should the bridegroom be but the beggar whom he
had set adrift in the wooden box a week or so before.
The bridegroom winked at him, but said never a word, good or ill, for he
was willing to let all that had happened be past and gone. But the king
saw how matters stood as clear as daylight, and when he got back home
again he had the new words that stood on the walls of the room painted
out, and had the old ones painted in in bigger letters than ever:
“All Things are as Fate wills.”
All the good people who were gathered around the table of the Sign of
Mother Goose sat thinking for a while over the story. As for Boots, he
buried his face in the quart pot and took a long, long pull at the ale.
“Methinks,” said the Soldier who cheated the Devil, presently breaking
silence--“methinks there be very few of the women folk who do their
share of this story-telling. So far we have had but one, and that is
Lady Cinderella. I see another one present, and I drink to her health.”
He winked his eye at Patient Grizzle, beckoning towards her with his
quart pot, and took a long and hearty pull. Then he banged his mug down
upon the table. “Fetch me another glass, lass,” said he to little Brown
Betty. “Meantime, fair lady”--this he said to Patient Grizzle--“will you
not entertain us with some story of your own?”
“I know not,” said Patient Grizzle, “that I can tell you any story worth
your hearing.”
“Aye, aye, but you can,” said the Soldier who cheated the Devil; “and,
moreover, anything coming from betwixt such red lips and such white
teeth will be worth the listening to.”
Patient Grizzle smiled, and the brave little Tailor, and the Lad who
fiddled for the Jew, and Hans and Bidpai and Boots nodded approval.
“Aye,” said Ali Baba, “it is true enough that there have been but few
of the women folk who have had their say, and methinks that it is very
strange and unaccountable, for nearly always they have plenty to speak
in their own behalf.”
All who sat there in Twilight Land laughed, and even Patient Grizzle
smiled.
“Very well,” said Patient Grizzle, “if you will have it, I will tell you
a story. It is about a fisherman who was married and had a wife of his
own, and who made her carry all the load of everything that happened to
him. For he, like most men I wot of, had found out--”
Where to Lay the Blame.
Many and many a man has come to trouble--so he will say--by following
his wife’s advice. This is how it was with a man of whom I shall tell
you.
There was once upon a time a fisherman who had fished all day long and
had caught not so much as a sprat. So at night there he sat by the fire,
rubbing his knees and warming his shins, and waiting for supper that his
wife was cooking for him, and his hunger was as sharp as vinegar, and
his temper hot enough to fry fat.
While he sat there grumbling and growling and trying to make himself
comfortable and warm, there suddenly came a knock at the door. The good
woman opened it, and there stood an old man, clad all in red from head
to foot, and with a snowy beard at his chin as white as winter snow.
The fisherman’s wife stood gaping and staring at the strange figure,
but the old man in red walked straight into the hut. “Bring your nets,
fisherman,” said he, “and come with me. There is something that I want
you to catch for me, and if I have luck I will pay you for your fishing
as never fisherman was paid before.”
“Not I,” said the fisherman, “I go out no more this night. I have been
fishing all day long until my back is nearly broken, and have caught
nothing, and now I am not such a fool as to go out and leave a warm fire
and a good supper at your bidding.”
But the fisherman’s wife had listened to what the old man had said about
paying for the job, and she was of a different mind from her husband.
“Come,” said she, “the old man promises to pay you well. This is not a
chance to be lost, I can tell you, and my advice to you is that you go.”
The fisherman shook his head. No, he would not go; he had said he would
not, and he would not. But the wife only smiled and said again, “My
advice to you is that you go.”
The fisherman grumbled and grumbled, and swore that he would not go. The
wife said nothing but one thing. She did not argue; she did not lose her
temper; she only said to everything that he said, “My advice to you is
that you go.”
At last the fisherman’s anger boiled over. “Very well,” said he,
spitting his words at her; “if you will drive me out into the night, I
suppose I will have to go.” And then he spoke the words that so many men
say: “Many a man has come to trouble by following his wife’s advice.”
Then down he took his fur cap and up he took his nets, and off he and
the old man marched through the moonlight, their shadows bobbing along
like black spiders behind them.
Well, on they went, out from the town and across the fields and through
the woods, until at last they came to a dreary, lonesome desert, where
nothing was to be seen but gray rocks and weeds and thistles.
“Well,” said the fisherman, “I have fished, man and boy, for forty-seven
years, but never did I see as unlikely a place to catch anything as
this.”
But the old man said never a word. First of all he drew a great circle
with strange figures, marking it with his finger upon the ground. Then
out from under his red gown he brought a tinder-box and steel, and a
little silver casket covered all over with strange figures of serpents
and dragons and what not. He brought some sticks of spice-wood from his
pouch, and then he struck a light and made a fire. Out of the box he
took a gray powder, which he flung upon the little blaze.
Puff! flash! A vivid flame went up into the moonlight, and then a dense
smoke as black as ink, which spread out wider and wider, far and near,
till all below was darker than the darkest midnight. Then the old
man began to utter strange spells and words. Presently there began a
rumbling that sounded louder and louder and nearer and nearer, until it
roared and bellowed like thunder. The earth rocked and swayed, and the
poor fisherman shook and trembled with fear till his teeth clattered in
his head.
Then suddenly the roaring and bellowing ceased, and all was as still as
death, though the darkness was as thick and black as ever.
“Now,” said the old magician--for such he was--“now we are about to take
a journey such as no one ever travelled before. Heed well what I tell
you. Speak not a single word, for if you do, misfortune will be sure to
happen.”
“Ain’t I to say anything?” said the fisherman.
“No.”
“Not even boo’ to a goose?”
“No.”
“Well, that is pretty hard upon a man who likes to say his say,” said
the fisherman.
“And moreover,” said the old man, “I must blindfold you as well.”
Thereupon he took from his pocket a handkerchief, and made ready to tie
it about the fisherman’s eyes.
“And ain’t I to see anything at all?” said the fisherman.
“No.”
“Not even so much as a single feather?”
“No.”
“Well, then,” said the fisherman, “I wish I’d not come.”
But the old man tied the handkerchief tightly around his eyes, and then
he was as blind as a bat.
“Now,” said the old man, “throw your leg over what you feel and hold
fast.”
The fisherman reached down his hand, and there felt the back of
something rough and hairy. He flung his leg over it, and whisk! whizz!
off he shot through the air like a sky-rocket. Nothing was left for him
to do but grip tightly with hands and feet and to hold fast. On they
went, and on they went, until, after a great while, whatever it was
that was carrying him lit upon the ground, and there the fisherman found
himself standing, for that which had brought him had gone.
The old man whipped the handkerchief off his eyes, and there the
fisherman found himself on the shores of the sea, where there was
nothing to be seen but water upon one side and rocks and naked sand upon
the other.
“This is the place for you to cast your nets,” said the old magician;
“for if we catch nothing here we catch nothing at all.”
The fisherman unrolled his nets and cast them and dragged them, and then
cast them and dragged them again, but neither time caught so much as
a herring. But the third time that he cast he found that he had caught
something that weighed as heavy as lead. He pulled and pulled, until
by-and-by he dragged the load ashore, and what should it be but a great
chest of wood, blackened by the sea-water, and covered with shells and
green moss.
That was the very thing that the magician had come to fish for.
From his pouch the old man took a little golden key, which he fitted
into a key-hole in the side of the chest. He threw back the lid; the
fisherman looked within, and there was the prettiest little palace that
man’s eye ever beheld, all made of mother-of-pearl and silver-frosted as
white as snow. The old magician lifted the little palace out of the box
and set it upon the ground.
Then, lo and behold! a marvellous thing happened; for the palace
instantly began to grow for all the world like a soap-bubble, until it
stood in the moonlight gleaming and glistening like snow, the windows
bright with the lights of a thousand wax tapers, and the sound of music
and voices and laughter coming from within.
Hardly could the fisherman catch his breath from one strange thing
when another happened. The old magician took off his clothes and his
face--yes, his face--for all the world as though it had been a mask, and
there stood as handsome and noble a young man as ever the light looked
on. Then, beckoning to the fisherman, dumb with wonder, he led the way
up the great flight of marble steps to the palace door. As he came
the door swung open with a blaze of light, and there stood hundreds of
noblemen, all clad in silks and satins and velvets, who, when they
saw the magician, bowed low before him, as though he had been a king.
Leading the way, they brought the two through halls and chambers and
room after room, each more magnificent than the other, until they came
to one that surpassed a hundredfold any of the others.
At the farther end was a golden throne, and upon it sat a lady more
lovely and beautiful than a dream, her eyes as bright as diamonds, her
cheeks like rose leaves, and her hair like spun gold. She came half-way
down the steps of the throne to welcome the magician, and when the two
met they kissed one another before all those who were looking on. Then
she brought him to the throne and seated him beside her, and there they
talked for a long time very earnestly.
Nobody said a word to the fisherman, who stood staring about him like an
owl. “I wonder,” said he to himself at last, “if they will give a body a
bite to eat by-and-by?” for, to tell the truth, the good supper that
he had come away from at home had left a sharp hunger gnawing at his
insides, and he longed for something good and warm to fill the empty
place. But time passed, and not so much as a crust of bread was brought
to stay his stomach.
By-and-by the clock struck twelve, and then the two who sat upon the
throne arose. The beautiful lady took the magician by the hand, and,
turning to those who stood around, said, in a loud voice, “Behold him
who alone is worthy to possess the jewel of jewels! Unto him do I give
it, and with it all power of powers!” Thereon she opened a golden casket
that stood beside her, and brought thence a little crystal ball, about
as big as a pigeon’s egg, in which was something that glistened like a
spark of fire. The magician took the crystal ball and thrust it into his
bosom; but what it was the fisherman could not guess, and if you do not
know I shall not tell you.
Then for the first time the beautiful lady seemed to notice the
fisherman. She beckoned him, and when he stood beside her two men came
carrying a chest. The chief treasurer opened it, and it was full of bags
of gold money. “How will you have it?” said the beautiful lady.
“Have what?” said the fisherman.
“Have the pay for your labor?” said the beautiful lady.
“I will,” said the fisherman, promptly, “take it in my hat.”
“So be it,” said the beautiful lady. She waved her hand, and the chief
treasurer took a bag from the chest, untied it, and emptied a cataract
of gold into the fur cap. The fisherman had never seen so much wealth in
all his life before, and he stood like a man turned to stone.
“Is this all mine?” said the fisherman.
“It is,” said the beautiful lady.
“Then God bless your pretty eyes,” said the fisherman.
Then the magician kissed the beautiful lady, and, beckoning to the
fisherman, left the throne-room the same way that they had come. The
noblemen, in silks and satins and velvets, marched ahead, and back they
went through the other apartments, until at last they came to the door.
Out they stepped, and then what do you suppose happened?
If the wonderful palace had grown like a bubble, like a bubble it
vanished. There the two stood on the sea-shore, with nothing to be seen
but rocks and sand and water, and the starry sky overhead.
The fisherman shook his cap of gold, and it jingled and tinkled, and was
as heavy as lead. If it was not all a dream, he was rich for life. “But
anyhow,” said he, “they might have given a body a bite to eat.”
The magician put on his red clothes and his face again, making himself
as hoary and as old as before. He took out his flint and steel, and
his sticks of spice-wood and his gray powder, and made a great fire and
smoke just as he had done before. Then again he tied his handkerchief
over the fisherman’s eyes. “Remember,” said he, “what I told you when we
started upon our journey. Keep your mouth tight shut, for if you utter
so much as a single word you are a lost man. Now throw your leg over
what you feel and hold fast.”
The fisherman had his net over one arm and his cap of gold in the other
hand; nevertheless, there he felt the same hairy thing he had felt
before. He flung his leg over it, and away he was gone through the air
like a sky-rocket.
Now, he had grown somewhat used to strange things by this time, so he
began to think that he would like to see what sort of a creature it was
upon which he was riding thus through the sky. So he contrived, in spite
of his net and cap, to push up the handkerchief from over one eye. Out
he peeped, and then he saw as clear as day what the strange steed was.
He was riding upon a he-goat as black as night, and in front of him
was the magician riding upon just such another, his great red robe
fluttering out behind him in the moonlight like huge red wings.
“Great herring and little fishes!” roared the fisherman; “it is a
billy-goat!”
Instantly goats, old man, and all were gone like a flash. Down fell the
fisherman through the empty sky, whirling over and over and around and
around like a frog. He held tightly to his net, but away flew his fur
cap, the golden money falling in a shower like sparks of yellow light.
Down he fell and down he fell, until his head spun like a top.
By good-luck his house was just below, with its thatch of soft
rushes. Into the very middle of it he tumbled, and right through the
thatch--bump!--into the room below.
The good wife was in bed, snoring away for dear life; but such a noise
as the fisherman made coming into the house was enough to wake the dead.
Up she jumped, and there she sat, staring and winking with sleep, and
with her brains as addled as a duck’s egg in a thunder-storm.
“There!” said the fisherman, as he gathered himself up and rubbed his
shoulder, “that is what comes of following a woman’s advice!”
All the good folk clapped their hands, not so much because of the story
itself, but because it was a woman who told it.
“Aye, aye,” said the brave little Tailor, “there is truth in what you
tell, fair lady, and I like very well the way in which you have told
it.”
“Whose turn is it next?” said Doctor Faustus, lighting a fresh pipe of
tobacco.
“Tis the turn of yonder old gentleman,” said the Soldier who cheated
the Devil, and he pointed with the stem of his pipe to the Fisherman who
unbottled the Genie that King Solomon had corked up and thrown into the
sea. “Every one else hath told a story, and now it is his turn.”
“I will not deny, my friend, that what you say is true, and that it is
my turn,” said the Fisherman. “Nor will I deny that I have already a
story in my mind. It is,” said he, “about a certain prince, and of how
he went through many and one adventures, and at last discovered that
which is--”
The Salt of Life.
Once upon a time there was a king who had three sons, and by the time
that the youngest prince had down upon his chin the king had grown so
old that the cares of the kingdom began to rest over-heavily upon his
shoulders. So he called his chief councillor and told him that he was of
a mind to let the princes reign in his stead. To the son who loved him
the best he would give the largest part of his kingdom, to the son who
loved him the next best the next part, and to the son who loved him the
least the least part. The old councillor was very wise and shook his
head, but the king’s mind had long been settled as to what he was about
to do. So he called the princes to him one by one and asked each as to
how much he loved him.
“I love you as a mountain of gold,” said the oldest prince, and the king
was very pleased that his son should give him such love.
“I love you as a mountain of silver,” said the second prince, and the
king was pleased with that also.
But when the youngest prince was called, he did not answer at first, but
thought and thought. At last he looked up. “I love you,” said he, “as I
love salt.”
When the king heard what his youngest son said he was filled with anger.
“What!” he cried, “do you love me no better than salt--a stuff that is
the most bitter of all things to the taste, and the cheapest and the
commonest of all things in the world? Away with you, and never let me
see your face again! Henceforth you are no son of mine.”
The prince would have spoken, but the king would not allow him, and bade
his guards thrust the young man forth from the room.
Now the queen loved the youngest prince the best of all her sons, and
when she heard how the king was about to drive him forth into the wide
world to shift for himself, she wept and wept. “Ah, my son!” said she to
him, “it is little or nothing that I have to give you. Nevertheless, I
have one precious thing. Here is a ring; take it and wear it always,
for so long as you have it upon your finger no magic can have power over
you.”
Thus it was that the youngest prince set forth into the wide world with
little or nothing but a ring upon his finger.
For seven days he travelled on, and knew not where he was going or
whither his footsteps led. At the end of that time he came to the gates
of a town. The prince entered the gates, and found himself in a city
the like of which he had never seen in his life before for grandeur and
magnificence--beautiful palaces and gardens, stores and bazaars crowded
with rich stuffs of satin and silk and wrought silver and gold of
cunningest workmanship; for the land to which he had come was the
richest in all of the world. All that day he wandered up and down, and
thought nothing of weariness and hunger for wonder of all that he
saw. But at last evening drew down, and he began to bethink himself of
somewhere to lodge during the night.
Just then he came to a bridge, over the wall of which leaned an old man
with a long white beard, looking down into the water. He was dressed
richly but soberly, and every now and then he sighed and groaned, and as
the prince drew near he saw the tears falling--drip, drip--from the old
man’s eyes.
The prince had a kind heart, and could not bear to see one in distress;
so he spoke to the old man, and asked him his trouble.
“Ah, me!” said the other, “only yesterday I had a son, tall and handsome
like yourself. But the queen took him to sup with her, and I am left all
alone in my old age, like a tree stripped of leaves and fruit.”
“But surely,” said the prince, “it can be no such sad matter to sup with
a queen. That is an honor that most men covet.”
“Ah!” said the old man, “you are a stranger in this place, or else you
would know that no youth so chosen to sup with the queen ever returns to
his home again.”
“Yes,” said the prince, “I am a stranger and have only come hither this
day, and so do not understand these things. Even when I found you I was
about to ask the way to some inn where folk of good condition lodge.”
“Then come home with me to-night,” said the old man. “I live all alone,
and I will tell you the trouble that lies upon this country.” Thereupon,
taking the prince by the arm, he led him across the bridge and to
another quarter of the town where he dwelt. He bade the servants prepare
a fine supper, and he and the prince sat down to the table together.
After they had made an end of eating and drinking, the old man told the
prince all concerning those things of which he had spoken, and thus it
was:
“When the king of this land died he left behind him three daughters--the
most beautiful princesses in all of the world.
“Folk hardly dared speak of the eldest of them, but whisperings said
that she was a sorceress, and that strange and gruesome things were done
by her. The second princess was also a witch, though it was not said
that she was evil, like the other. As for the youngest of the three, she
was as beautiful as the morning and as gentle as a dove. When she was
born a golden thread was about her neck, and it was foretold of her that
she was to be the queen of that land.
“But not long after the old king died the youngest princess vanished--no
one could tell whither, and no one dared to ask--and the eldest princess
had herself crowned as queen, and no one dared gainsay her. For a while
everything went well enough, but by-and-by evil days came upon the land.
Once every seven days the queen would bid some youth, young and strong,
to sup with her, and from that time no one ever heard of him again, and
no one dared ask what had become of him. At first it was the great
folk at the queen’s palace--officers and courtiers--who suffered; but
by-and-by the sons of the merchants and the chief men of the city began
to be taken. One time,” said the old man, “I myself had three sons--as
noble young men as could be found in the wide world. One day the chief
of the queen’s officers came to my house and asked me concerning how
many sons I had. I was forced to tell him, and in a little while they
were taken one by one to the queen’s palace, and I never saw them again.
“But misfortune, like death, comes upon the young as well as the old.
You yourself have had trouble, or else I am mistaken. Tell me what
lies upon your heart, my son, for the talking of it makes the burthen
lighter.”
The prince did as the old man bade him, and told all of his story; and
so they sat talking and talking until far into the night, and the old
man grew fonder and fonder of the prince the more he saw of him. So the
end of the matter was that he asked the prince to live with him as his
son, seeing that the young man had now no father and he no children, and
the prince consented gladly enough.
So the two lived together like father and son, and the good old man
began to take some joy in life once more.
But one day who should come riding up to the door but the chief of the
queen’s officers.
“How is this?” said he to the old man, when he saw the prince. “Did you
not tell me that you had but three sons, and is this not a fourth?”
It was of no use for the old man to tell the officer that the youth was
not his son, but was a prince who had come to visit that country. The
officer drew forth his tablets and wrote something upon them, and then
went his way, leaving the old man sighing and groaning. “Ah, me!” said
he, “my heart sadly forebodes trouble.”
Sure enough, before three days had passed a bidding came to the prince
to make ready to sup with the queen that night.
When evening drew near a troop of horsemen came, bringing a white horse
with a saddle and bridle of gold studded with precious stones, to take
the prince to the queen’s palace.
As soon as they had brought him thither they led the prince to a room
where was a golden table spread with a snow-white cloth and set with
dishes of gold. At the end of the table the queen sat waiting for him,
and her face was hidden by a veil of silver gauze. She raised the veil
and looked at the prince, and when he saw her face he stood as one
wonder-struck, for not only was she so beautiful, but she set a spell
upon him with the evil charm of her eyes. No one sat at the table but
the queen and the prince, and a score of young pages served them, and
sweet music sounded from a curtained gallery.
At last came midnight, and suddenly a great gong sounded from the
court-yard outside. Then in an instant the music was stopped, the pages
that served them hurried from the room, and presently all was as still
as death.
Then, when all were gone, the queen arose and beckoned the prince, and
he had no choice but to arise also and follow whither she led. She took
him through the palace, where all was as still as the grave, and so came
out by a postern door into a garden. Beside the postern a torch burned
in a bracket. The queen took it down, and then led the prince up a path
and under the silent trees until they came to a great wall of rough
stone. She pressed her hand upon one of the great stones, and it opened
like a door, and there was a flight of steps that led downward. The
queen descended these steps, and the prince followed closely behind her.
At the bottom was a long passage-way, and at the farther end the prince
saw what looked like a bright spark of light, as though the sun were
shining. She thrust the torch into another bracket in the wall of the
passage, and then led the way towards the light. It grew larger and
larger as they went forward, until at last they came out at the farther
end, and there the prince found himself standing in the sunlight and
not far from the seashore. The queen led the way towards the shore, when
suddenly a great number of black dogs came running towards them, barking
and snapping, and showing their teeth as though they would tear the two
in pieces. But the queen drew from her bosom a whip with a steel-pointed
lash, and as the dogs came springing towards them she laid about her
right and left, till the skin flew and the blood ran, and the dogs
leaped away howling and yelping.
At the edge of the water was a great stone mill, and the queen pointed
towards it and bade the prince turn it. Strong as he was, it was as much
as he could do to work it; but grind it he did, though the sweat ran
down his face in streams. By-and-by a speck appeared far away upon the
water; and as the prince ground and ground at the mill the speck grew
larger and larger. It was something upon the water, and it came nearer
and nearer as swiftly as the wind. At last it came close enough for him
to see that it was a little boat all of brass. By-and-by the boat struck
upon the beach, and as soon as it did so the queen entered it, bidding
the prince do the same.
No sooner were they seated than away the boat went, still as swiftly as
the wind. On it flew and on it flew, until at last they came to another
shore, the like of which the prince had never seen in his life before.
Down to the edge of the water ran a garden--but such a garden! The
leaves of the trees were all of silver and the fruit of gold, and
instead of flowers were precious stones--white, red, yellow, blue, and
green--that flashed like sparks of sunlight as the breeze moved them
this way and that way. Beyond the silver trees, with their golden fruit,
was a great palace as white as snow, and so bright that one had to shut
one’s eyes as one looked upon it.
The boat ran up on the beach close to just such a stone mill as the
prince had seen upon the other side of the water, and then he and
the queen stepped ashore. As soon as they had done so the brazen boat
floated swiftly away, and in a little while was gone.
“Here our journey ends,” said the queen. “Is it not a wonderful land,
and well worth the seeing? Look at all these jewels and this gold, as
plenty as fruits and flowers at home. You may take what you please; but
while you are gathering them I have another matter after which I must
look. Wait for me here, and by-and-by I will be back again.”
So saying, she turned and left the prince, going towards the castle back
of the trees.
But the prince was a prince, and not a common man; he cared nothing for
gold and jewels. What he did care for was to see where the queen went,
and why she had brought him to this strange land. So, as soon as she had
fairly gone, he followed after.
He went along under the gold and silver trees, in the direction she had
taken, until at last he came to a tall flight of steps that led up to
the doorway of the snow-white palace. The door stood open, and into it
the prince went. He saw not a soul, but he heard a noise as of blows and
the sound as of some one weeping. He followed the sound, until by-and-by
he came to a great vaulted room in the very centre of the palace. A
curtain hung at the doorway. The prince lifted it and peeped within, and
this was what he saw:
In the middle of the room was a marble basin of water as clear as
crystal, and around the sides of the basin were these words, written in
letters of gold:
“Whatsoever is False, that I make True.”
Beside the fountain upon a marble stand stood a statue of a beautiful
woman made of alabaster, and around the neck of the statue was a thread
of gold. The queen stood beside the statue, and beat and beat it with
her steel-tipped whip. And all the while she lashed it the statue sighed
and groaned like a living being, and the tears ran down its stone cheeks
as though it were a suffering Christian. By-and-by the queen rested for
a moment, and said, panting, “Will you give me the thread of gold?” and
the statue answered “No.” Whereupon she fell to raining blows upon it as
she had done before.
So she continued, now beating the statue and now asking it whether it
would give her the thread of gold, to which the statue always answered
“No,” and all the while the prince stood gazing and wondering. By-and-by
the queen wearied of what she was doing, and thrust the steel-tipped
lash back into her bosom again, upon which the prince, seeing that
she was done, hurried back to the garden where she had left him and
pretended to be gathering the golden fruit and jewel flowers.
The queen said nothing to him good or bad, except to command him to
grind at the great stone mill as he had done on the other side of the
water. Thereupon the prince did as she bade, and presently the brazen
boat came skimming over the water more swiftly than the wind. Again the
queen and the prince entered it, and again it carried them to the other
side whence they had come.
No sooner had the queen set foot upon the shore than she stopped and
gathered up a handful of sand. Then, turning as quick as lightning, she
flung it into the prince’s face. “Be a black dog,” she cried in a loud
voice, “and join your comrades!”
And now it was that the ring that the prince’s mother had given him
stood him in good stead. But for it he would have become a black dog
like those others, for thus it had happened to all before him who had
ferried the witch queen over the water. So she expected to see him
run away yelping, as those others had done; but the prince remained a
prince, and stood looking her in the face.
When the queen saw that her magic had failed her she grew as pale as
death, and fell to trembling in every limb. She turned and hastened
quickly away, and the prince followed her wondering, for he neither knew
the mischief she had intended doing him, nor how his ring had saved him
from the fate of those others.
So they came back up the stairs and out through the stone wall into
the palace garden. The queen pressed her hand against the stone and it
turned back into its place again. Then, beckoning to the prince, she
hurried away down the garden. Before he followed he picked up a coal
that lay near by, and put a cross upon the stone; then he hurried after
her, and so came to the palace once more.
By this time the cocks were crowing, and the dawn of day was just
beginning to show over the roof-tops and the chimney-stacks of the town.
As for the queen, she had regained her composure, and, bidding the
prince wait for her a moment, she hastened to her chamber. There she
opened her book of magic, and in it she soon found who the prince was
and how the ring had saved him.
When she had learned all that she wanted to know she put on a smiling
face and came back to him. “Ah, prince,” said she, “I well know who you
are, for your coming to my country is not secret to me. I have shown
you strange things to-night. I will unfold all the wonder to you another
time. Will you not come back and sup with me again?”
“Yes,” said the prince, “I will come whensoever you bid me;” for he was
curious to know the secret of the statue and the strange things he had
seen.
“And will you not give me a pledge of your coming?” said the queen,
still smiling.
“What pledge shall I give you,” said the prince.
“Give me the ring that is upon your finger,” said the queen; and she
smiled so bewitchingly that the prince could not have refused her had he
desired to do so.
Alas for him! He thought no evil, but, without a word, drew off the ring
and gave it to the queen, and she slipped it upon her finger.
“O fool!” she cried, laughing a wicked laugh, “O fool! to give away that
in which your safety lay!” As she spoke she dipped her fingers into a
basin of water that stood near by and dashed the drops into the prince’s
face. “Be a raven,” she cried, “and a raven remain!”
In an instant the prince was a prince no longer, but a coal-black raven.
The queen snatched up a sword that lay near by and struck at him to kill
him. But the raven-prince leaped aside and the blow missed its aim.
By good luck a window stood open, and before the queen could strike
again he spread his wings and flew out of the open casement and over the
house-tops and was gone.
On he flew and on he flew until he came to the old man’s house, and so
to the room where his foster-father himself was sitting. He lit upon the
ground at the old man’s feet and tried to tell him what had befallen,
but all that he could say was “Croak! croak!”
“What brings this bird of ill omen?” said the old man, and he drew his
sword to kill it. He raised his hand to strike, but the raven did not
try to fly away as he had expected, but bowed his neck to receive the
stroke. Then the old man saw that the tears were running down from the
raven’s eyes, and he held his hand. “What strange thing is this?” he
said. “Surely nothing but the living soul weeps; and how, then, can this
bird shed tears?” So he took the raven up and looked into his eyes, and
in them he saw the prince’s soul. “Alas!” he cried, “my heart misgives
me that something strange has happened. Tell me, is this not my
foster-son, the prince?”
The raven answered “Croak!” and nothing else; but the good old man
understood it all, and the tears ran down his cheeks and trickled over
his beard. “Whether man or raven, you shall still be my son,” said he,
and he held the raven close in his arms and caressed it.
He had a golden cage made for the bird, and every day he would walk with
it in the garden, talking to it as a father talks to his son.
One day when they were thus in the garden together a strange lady came
towards them down the pathway. Over her had and face was drawn a thick
veil, so that the two could not tell who she was. When she came close to
them she raised the veil, and the raven-prince saw that her face was the
living likeness of the queen’s; and yet there was something in it that
was different. It was the second sister of the queen, and the old man
knew her and bowed before her.
“Listen,” said she. “I know what the raven is, and that it is the
prince, whom the queen has bewitched. I also know nearly as much of
magic as she, and it is that alone that has saved me so long from ill.
But danger hangs close over me; the queen only waits for the chance to
bewitch me; and some day she will overpower me, for she is stronger
than I. With the prince’s aid I can overcome her and make myself forever
safe, and it is this that has brought me here to-day. My magic is
powerful enough to change the prince back into his true shape again, and
I will do so if he will aid me in what follows, and this is it: I will
conjure the queen, and by-and-by a great eagle will come flying, and its
plumage will be as black as night. Then I myself will become an eagle,
with black-and-white plumage, and we two will fight in the air. After a
while we will both fall to the ground, and then the prince must cut off
the head of the black eagle with a knife I shall give him. Will you do
this?” said she, turning to the raven, “if I transform you to your true
shape?”
The raven bowed his head and said “Croak!” And the sister of the queen
knew that he meant yes.
Therewith she drew a great, long keen knife from her bosom, and thrust
it into the ground. “It is with this knife of magic,” said she, “that
you must cut off the black eagle’s head.” Then the witch-princess
gathered up some sand in her hand, and flung it into the raven’s face.
“Resume,” cried she, “your own shape!” And in an instant the prince was
himself again. The next thing the sister of the queen did was to draw a
circle upon the ground around the prince, the old man, and herself. On
the circle she marked strange figures here and there. Then, all three
standing close together, she began her conjurations, uttering strange
words--now under her breath, and now clear and loud.
Presently the sky darkened, and it began to thunder and rumble. Darker
it grew and darker, and the thunder crashed and roared. The earth
trembled under their feet, and the trees swayed hither and thither as
though tossed by a tempest. Then suddenly the uproar ceased and all grew
as still as death, the clouds rolled away, and in a moment the sun shone
out once more, and all was calm and serene as it had been before. But
still the princess muttered her conjurations, and as the prince and the
old man looked they beheld a speck that grew larger and larger, until
they saw that it was an eagle as black as night that was coming swiftly
flying through the sky. Then the queen’s sister also saw it and ceased
from her spells. She drew a little cap of feathers from her bosom with
trembling hands. “Remember,” said she to the prince; and, so saying,
clapped the feather cap upon her head. In an instant she herself became
an eagle--pied, black and white--and, spreading her wings, leaped into
the air.
For a while the two eagles circled around and around; but at last they
dashed against one another, and, grappling with their talons, tumbled
over and over until they struck the ground close to the two who stood
looking.
Then the prince snatched the knife from the ground and ran to where they
lay struggling. “Which was I to kill?” said he to the old man.
“Are they not birds of a feather?” cried the foster-father. “Kill them
both, for then only shall we all be safe.”
The prince needed no second telling to see the wisdom of what the old
man said. In an instant he struck off the heads of both the eagles, and
thus put an end to both sorceresses, the lesser as well as the greater.
They buried both of the eagles in the garden without telling any one of
what had happened. So soon as that was done the old man bade the prince
tell him all that had befallen him, and the prince did so.
“Aye! aye!” said the old man, “I see it all as clear as day. The black
dogs are the young men who have supped with the queen; the statue is the
good princess; and the basin of water is the water of life, which has
the power of taking away magic. Come; let us make haste to bring help to
all those unfortunates who have been lying under the queen’s spells.”
The prince needed no urging to do that. They hurried to the palace; they
crossed the garden to the stone wall. There they found the stone upon
which the prince had set the black cross. He pressed his hand upon it,
and it opened to him like a door. They descended the steps, and went
through the passageway, until they came out upon the sea-shore. The
black dogs came leaping towards them; but this time it was to fawn upon
them, and to lick their hands and faces.
The prince turned the great stone mill till the brazen boat came flying
towards the shore. They entered it, and so crossed the water and came to
the other side. They did not tarry in the garden, but went straight to
the snow-white palace and to the great vaulted chamber where was the
statue. “Yes,” said the old man, “it is the youngest princess, sure
enough.”
The prince said nothing, but he dipped up some of the water in his palm
and dashed it upon the statue. “If you are the princess, take your true
shape again,” said he. Before the words had left his lips the statue
became flesh and blood, and the princess stepped down from where
she stood, and the prince thought that he had never seen any one so
beautiful as she. “You have brought me back to life,” said she, “and
whatever I shall have shall be yours as well as mine.”
Then they all set their faces homeward again, and the prince took with
him a cupful of the water of life.
When they reached the farther shore the black dogs came running to meet
them. The prince sprinkled the water he carried upon them, and as soon
as it touched them that instant they were black dogs no longer, but the
tall, noble young men that the sorceress queen had bewitched. There, as
the old man had hoped, he found his own three sons, and kissed them with
the tears running down his face.
But when the people of that land learned that their youngest princess,
and the one whom they loved, had come back again, and that the two
sorceresses would trouble them no longer, they shouted and shouted for
joy. All the town was hung with flags and illuminated, the fountains ran
with wine, and nothing was heard but sounds of rejoicing. In the midst
of it all the prince married the princess, and so became the king of
that country.
And now to go back again to the beginning.
After the youngest prince had been driven away from home, and the old
king had divided the kingdom betwixt the other two, things went for a
while smoothly and joyfully. But by little and little the king was put
to one side until he became as nothing in his own land. At last hot
words passed between the father and the two sons, and the end of the
matter was that the king was driven from the land to shift for himself.
Now, after the youngest prince had married and had become king of that
other land, he bethought himself of his father and his mother, and
longed to see them again. So he set forth and travelled towards his old
home. In his journeying he came to a lonely house at the edge of a great
forest, and there night came upon him. He sent one of the many of those
who rode with him to ask whether he could not find lodging there for
the time, and who should answer the summons but the king, his father,
dressed in the coarse clothing of a forester. The old king did not know
his own son in the kingly young king who sat upon his snow-white horse.
He bade the visitor to enter, and he and the old queen served their son
and bowed before him.
The next morning the young king rode back to his own land, and then sent
attendants with horses and splendid clothes, and bade them bring his
father and mother to his own home.
He had a noble feast set for them, with everything befitting the
entertainment of a king, but he ordered that not a grain of salt should
season it.
So the father and the mother sat down to the feast with their son and
his queen, but all the time they did not know him. The old king tasted
the food and tasted the food, but he could not eat of it.
“Do you not feel hungry?” said the young king.
“Alas,” said his father, “I crave your majesty’s pardon, but there is no
salt in the food.”
“And so is life lacking of savor without love,” said the young king;
“and yet because I loved you as salt you disowned me and cast me out
into the world.”
Therewith he could contain himself no longer, but with the tears running
down his cheeks kissed his father and his mother; and they knew him, and
kissed him again.
Afterwards the young king went with a great army into the country of
his elder brothers, and, overcoming them, set his father upon his throne
again. If ever the two got back their crowns you may be sure that they
wore them more modestly than they did the first time.
So the Fisherman who had one time unbottled the Genie whom Solomon the
Wise had stoppered up concluded his story, and all of the good folk who
were there began clapping their shadowy hands.
“Aye, aye,” said old Bidpai, “there is much truth in what you say, for
it is verily so that that which men call--love--is--the--salt--of--“....
His voice had been fading away thinner and thinner and smaller and
smaller--now it was like the shadow of a voice; now it trembled and
quivered out into silence and was gone.
And with the voice of old Bidpai the pleasant Land of Twilight was also
gone. As a breath fades away from a mirror, so had it faded and vanished
into nothingness.