Chapter XXIX: Appendix: HATIM TAÏ AND THE BENEVOLENT LADY—p. 46 (4)

It is not likely that our author adapted his story of the Prince and Dilbar the courtesan from the foregoing legend of Rájá Rasálú: the fact that a similar tale is current in Kashmír, as already mentioned, would seem to indicate that, in more or less different forms, it is known in various countries of Hindústán. But the Prince’s game with Dilbar, mainly to rescue his brothers who had fallen into her toils, finds a curious analogue in the mediæval European romance which recounts the adventures of four brothers, Agravain, Gueret, Galheret, and Gauvain, all of whom set out, in different directions, in quest of Lancelot du Lac, according to the analysis given by Dunlop, in his _History of Fiction_: Agravain, as a _coup d’essai_, kills Druas, a formidable giant, but is in turn vanquished by Sorneham, the brother of Druas. His life is spared at the request of the conqueror's niece, and he is confined in a dungeon, where his preserver secretly brings him refreshments. Gueret also concludes a variety of adventures by engaging Sorneham, and being overcome is shut up in the same dungeon with his brother. Galheret, the third of the fraternity, comes to a castle where he is invited to play with the lady at chess, on the condition that if he wins he is to possess her person and castle, but losing, should become her slave. The chessmen are ranged in compartments on the floor of a fine hall, are as large as life, and glitter with gold and diamonds. Each of them is a fairy and moves on being touched with a talisman. Galheret loses the game, and is confined with a number of other checkmated wights. Gauvain, however, soon after arrives, and vanquishes the lady at her own arms; but only asks the freedom of the prisoners, among whom he finds his brother. Having learned from an elfish attendant of the lady the fate of his two other brothers, he equips himself in the array of the chess-king. In this garb he engages Sorneham, who, being dazzled with the brightness of his attire, is easily conquered, by which means Agravain and Gueret are delivered from confinement.

_The Bráhman and the Lion_—p. 254.

There are few fables more widely spread than this, certainly in various forms, but always with the same result. In another work I have adduced a number of versions European and Asiatic,[290] and shall content myself with citing in this place a rather unique version from Mrs. Meer Hasan Ali’s _Observations on the Mussulmans of India_, vol. ii, p. 330ff.:

A certain man is travelling on horseback through an immense forest, and observes fire consuming some bushes, in the centre of which is a great snake, who implores the traveller to save him. The traveller throws down his horse-bag and the snake creeps into it, and when the horseman takes it up and releases the snake the latter is about to bite him, and so forth. Having appealed to the _pípal_-tree and received the same answer as that of the banyan in our version, the two meet a camel-driver, who says the snake is right—it is “the way of the world” to return evil for good, and tells his own story: “I was,” says he, “sole proprietor of a very fine strong camel, by whose labour I earned a handsome livelihood, in conveying goods, and sometimes travellers, from place to place, as fortune served me. One day, returning home through an intricate wood, I approached a poor blind man, who was seated on the ground lamenting his hard fate. Hearing my camel’s feet advance he redoubled his cries of distress, calling loud for help. He told me that he had been attacked by robbers, and that his boy-guide had been forced from him and taken as a slave. I seated him on my beast and proceeded with him to the city where he said he resided. Arriving there, I offered to assist the poor man to alight, but to my astonishment he began abusing me for my barefaced wickedness, collected a crowd about us by his cries for help from his persecutor, declared himself the master of the camel, and accused me of attempting to rob him now, as I had done his brother before. Hearing this plausible speech, the people dragged me before the judge, who sentenced me to be thrust out of the city with threat of greater punishment should I ever return. Therefore I say, the reward of good is evil.” The fox is then appealed to with the usual result of leaving the ungrateful snake in the flames, there “to fry in his own fat.”—This story of the camel-driver is somewhat analogous to that of the Setti and the Blind Man—_ante_, p. 215ff.

_The Princess and the Dív who exchanged Sexes_—p. 279.

This droll story is of Hindú extraction, and in much the same form is still current in Southern India. In the “Exposition” prefixed to the Abbé Dubois’ French translation of the Tamil version of the _Panchatantra_, p. 15, it is given with a few unimportant variations: The name of the king is Nihla-Kéton,[291] his country is called Anga-Dessa, and his capital, Barty-Poura. His wife was long sterile, and after many vows and prayers she at length gave birth to daughters only. Enraged at this, the king tells his prime minister, Vahaca, that he purposes divorcing his wife and taking another, and Vahaca tries to dissuade him from such a course. When the queen is again pregnant the minister offers to take her to his own house and treat her with every care, to which the king consents. The queen once more gives birth to a girl, and the prime minister announces it as a boy, greatly to the king’s delight. He fixes the twelfth day for the _nama-carna_ (name-giving) and intimates his intention of being present at the ceremony. But the minister bribes the _púhorita_, or royal astrologer, to tell the king that in consequence of the unfavourable aspect of his horoscope he must not see this child or allow it to be produced in public until it is grown up and married, otherwise dire calamities threaten both king and country. During 16 years the king must have his child educated at a distance from the palace, and this is undertaken by the prime minister. When the child is 15 the minister tells the king that a wife must be sought out for “him,” and, taking the girl with him, he leads an army against the city of Pattaly-Poura, and there demands the king’s daughter as wife to the “son” of King Nihla-Kéton, the marriage to take place in five days. These terms are accepted.—Meanwhile a giant-Bráhman (_un géant Brahme_), whose abode is in a large tree in the vicinity of the invading army, falls in love with the young princess, and demands her of the prime minister, but Vahaca explains that she is already betrothed, and therefore cannot be given to him. He then tells the giant the whole story of the girl’s birth, the concealment of her sex, and so forth, imploring his aid, and suggesting that he should give the girl his sex and take hers for five or six nights, till the wedding and its festivities be over. The good-natured giant consents and exchanges sexes with the princess. The marriage is duly celebrated, soon after which the minister, the metamorphosed prince, and the real princess set out to return home. On the way they visit the giant, and the minister asks him to resume his proper sex. But he replies that “a neighbouring genie” had fallen in love with him, as a woman—and so on, as in our story.

Here, it will be seen on comparing the two versions, the chief differences are: the minister takes the place of the mother in deceiving the king as to the sex of the child; the foreign king is compelled to give his daughter in fear of an invading army; the minister prevails with the “giant” to exchange sexes with the princess, who does not, as in our story, go into the forest with the intention of destroying herself from shame. But in respect of this last incident, we shall find that our tale adheres more closely to the original than the Tamil version. The story occurs in the “Udyoga Parva” (Effort Book—the fifth) of the _Mahábhárata_, sections cxc-cxciii:

SANSKRIT ORIGINAL.

The first and best beloved wife of King Drupada had never borne him a child, and the king paid his adorations to Siva for years, in order to obtain the boon of a son. He practised the most austere penances, saying: “Let a son, and not a daughter, be born unto me, O Mahádeva! I desire a son, that I may revenge myself on Bhishma.” At length the great deity said to him: “Thou shalt have a child who shall be female and male. Desist, O king! It will not be otherwise.” Returning to his wife, he informed her of this decision of the great Siva—that his child should be first female and afterwards become male. In due time the wife of Drupada gave birth to a daughter, in accordance with the decree of Destiny, and she gave out that the child was a son. Then Drupada caused all the rites for a male child to be performed in respect of that concealed daughter as if she were really a son, and the child was named Sikhandin. And no man in all Kámpilya, save Drupada himself, knew the real sex of the child. Drupada bestowed great pains on the education of his child, teaching her writing, and painting, and the like arts. And in arrows and weapons the child became a disciple of Drona.

Then that royal couple fixed upon the daughter of Hiranyavarman, the king of the Dasárnas for wife to Sikhandin. And he gave his daughter to Sikhandin, who, after the marriage, returned to Kámpilya. The daughter of Hiranyavarman soon came to know that Sikhandin was a woman like herself, and bashfully informed her nurses and companions of the fact. Then the nurses sent to the king and represented to him everything about the imposture, upon which the king was filled with wrath. He was a powerful monarch, with a great army, not easily to be overcome. And he despatched a messenger to Drupada, who, taking the king aside, said to him: “The king of the Dasárnas, O monarch, deceived by thee and wroth at the insult that thou hast offered him, hath said these words unto thee: ‘Thou hast humiliated me! Without doubt, it was not wisely done by thee. Thou didst, from folly, solicit my daughter for thy daughter! O wicked one, reap now the consequence of that act of deception! I will now slay thee, with all thy relatives and advisers!’” Thus addressed, Drupada, like a thief caught in a net, could not at first speak. At length he sent a sweet speech, saying: “This is not so,” in order to pacify the king of the Dasárnas. But he was not thus to be pacified; and, after consulting with his ministers, he again sent an envoy to Drupada, saying: “I will slay thee!” Now King Drupada was not naturally courageous, and the consciousness of his offence filled him with fear. He took counsel with his wife as to how they might best escape the wrath of the king of the Dasárnas, for he was already on the march against him with a large army.

Meanwhile Sikhandin, filled with grief, and saying to herself that it was solely on her account that her parents were now in such tribulation, resolved on putting an end to her own life. Having formed this determination, she left home, full of heavy sorrow, and went into a dense and solitary forest which was the haunt of a very powerful Yaksha, called Sthunákarna. From fear of that Yaksha,[292] man never went into that forest. And within it stood a mansion with high walls and a gateway, plastered over with powdered earth, and rich with smoke bearing the fragrance of fried paddy.[293] Entering that mansion, Sikhandin, the daughter of Drupada, began to reduce herself by foregoing all food for many days. Thereupon the Yaksha, who was endued with kindness, showed himself unto her. And he enquired of her, saying: “For what object is this endeavour of thine? I will accomplish it—tell me without delay.” Thus asked, the maiden answered him, repeatedly saying: “Thou art unable to accomplish it.” The Yaksha, however, rejoined: “I am a follower of the Lord of Treasures [i.e. Kuvera]. I can grant boons, O princess! I will grant thee even that which cannot be given! Tell me what thou hast to say.” Thus assured, Sikhandin represented, in detail, everything that had happened, unto that chief of Yakshas called Sthunákarna. And she answered: “My father, O Yaksha, will soon meet with destruction. The ruler of the Dasárnas marcheth against him in rage. That king cased in golden mail is endued with great might and great courage. Therefore, O Yaksha, save me, my mother, and my father! Indeed, thou hast already pledged thyself to relieve my distress. Through thy grace, O Yaksha, I would become a perfect man! As long as that king may not depart from my city, so long, O great Yaksha, show me grace!” Hearing these words of Sikhandin, that Yaksha, afflicted by Destiny, said, after reflection: “Blessed lady, I will certainly do what thou wishest. Listen, however, to the condition I make: For a certain period I will give thee my manhood. Thou must, however, come back to me in due time. Pledge thyself to do so. Possessed of immense power, I am a ranger of the skies, wandering at pleasure, and capable of accomplishing whatever I wish. Through my grace, save thy city and thy kinsmen wholly! I will bear thy womanhood, O princess! Pledge thy troth to me, and I will do what is agreeable to thee.” Sikhandin answered: “O holy one of excellent vows! I will give thee back thy manhood. O wanderer of the night! bear thou my womanhood for a short time. After the ruler of the Dasárnas has departed from my city, I will once more become a maiden and thou wilt become a man.” Then they both made a covenant, and imparted into each other’s body their sexes. And the Yaksha became a female, while Sikhandin obtained the blazing form of the Yaksha.

Then Sikhandin, having obtained manhood, entered his city in great joy and approached his father, to whom he represented everything that had happened; and Drupada became exceedingly glad, and, along with his wife, recollected the words of the great Siva. And he forthwith sent a messenger to the ruler of the Dasárnas, saying: “This my child _is_ a male. Let it be believed by thee.” Meanwhile the ruler of the Dasárnas had arrived at Kámpilya, and Drupada sent a messenger who was well versed in the Vedas. But Hiranyavarman addressed the envoy in these words: “Say unto that worst of kings: ‘O thou wicked of understanding! having selected my daughter for the wife of thy daughter, thou shall to-day, without doubt, behold the fruit of that deception.’” When the envoy returned and delivered this message to Drupada, he despatched another Bráhman learned in the Vedas to the ruler of the Dasárnas, who said to him: “Hear, O king, the words of the ruler of the Pánchálas: ‘This my child is really a male. Let it be made clear by means of witnesses.’” Then the king of the Dasárnas sent a number of young ladies of great beauty to ascertain whether Sikhandin was really a male or a female. And those ladies, having ascertained the truth, joyfully told the king of the Dasárnas that Sikhandin was a powerful person of the masculine sex. Hearing this testimony, Hiranyavarman was filled with joy, and going to his brother Drupada passed a few days with him in gladness. And the king, rejoiced as he was, gave Sikhandin much wealth, many elephants, steeds, and kine. And, worshipped by Drupada as long as he stayed, the Dasárna king then departed, having rebuked his daughter. And after Hiranyavarman had departed in joy and with his anger quelled, Sikhandin began to rejoice exceedingly.

Meanwhile [some time after the exchange of sexes had taken place] Kuvera, the protector of all the treasures, in the course of a journey came to the house of Sthuna, the Yaksha, and admiring the garlands of flowers with which it was bedecked, he asked his followers why it was that Sthuna did not come out to greet him. And they told him how Sthuna had given his own manhood to the daughter of Drupada, taking her womanhood in exchange, and therefore he was ashamed to approach him. Hearing this, Kuvera caused Sthuna to be brought before him; and Sthuna, wearing a feminine form, came thither, and stood before him in shame. And Kuvera said: “Since, humiliating all the Yakshas, thou hast, O thou of sinful deeds, given away thy own sex to Sikhandin and taken from her, O thou wicked of understanding, her womanhood—since, O wicked wretch, thou hast done what hath never been done before by anybody;—therefore, from this day, thou shalt remain a woman and she shall remain a man!” At these words all the Yakshas attempted to mollify Kuvera for the sake of Sthuna, saying: “Set a limit to thy curse!” Then the lord of the Yakshas said: “After Sikhandin’s death, Sthuna will regain his own form. Therefore let this high-souled Yaksha be freed from his anxiety.” Having said this, Kuvera departed with his followers.

And Sthuna, with that curse denounced on him, continued to live there; and when the time arrived, Sikhandin, without losing a moment, came to that wanderer of the night. And approaching his presence he said: “I have come to thee, O holy one!” Sthuna then repeatedly said unto him: “I am pleased with thee!” Indeed, beholding that prince return to him without guile, Sthuna told Sikhandin everything that had happened, adding: “O son of a king, for thee have I been cursed by Kuvera. Go now, and live happily amongst men, as thou choosest. Thy coming hither and the arrival of Pulastya’s son [_i.e._ Kuvera] were, I think, both ordained from beforehand. And this was incapable of being prevented.” Sikhandin then returned to his city filled with joy.[294]

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It is evident that the Persian and the Tamil versions were not derived directly from the story in the _Mahábhárata_, but from some modern adaptation, since in both the good-natured dív has a very different reason from that of the Yaksha Sthuna for retaining his adopted sex. The chief features of the Sanskrit original are, however, reproduced in the two variants, if we except the actual marriage of the princess, the discovery of her sex, and her father’s cognisance of the whole affair from the first, which do not appear in them.—The story is so singular that I think it must be orally current in different countries of India, as well as exist in collections in many of the vernacular languages; and it would be interesting to see what farther modifications it has undergone, especially in passing by word of mouth to successive generations and from place to place.

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In M. Dozon’s _Contes Albanais_ No. 14 presents some analogy to the story of the Exchange of Sexes. Here a man with three daughters and no sons is called to the wars; he is old, and has no one to take his place. The first and second daughters express their wish to be married—probably, though it is not expressly stated, in order that one of their husbands should go as the substitute for their aged father. But the youngest assumes a man’s dress and goes to the wars in place of him, and slays a lamia that had long made a feast on the people once every year, for which she receives in reward a wonderful talking horse, through whose cleverness she accomplishes a feat by which she wins a king’s daughter in marriage. The princess, as in the Sanskrit story and in the well-known Arabian tale, complains to her parents of the coldness of her “husband,” and the king lays various snares in hopes of causing the destruction of the disguised heroine, but her horse saves her from all of them. At last the king sends her to “the church (_sic_) full of serpents,” to demand payment of their arrears of tribute, hoping they would kill the objectionable spouse of his daughter. The money is paid, however, but the serpents, enraged at having to part with so much treasure, cry out: “If thou art a girl, become a boy; if thou art a boy, become a girl,” and there and then the heroine found herself actually changed into a man; so the serpents thus did her a good turn, instead of the evil one they intended.—M. Dozon, in his _rapprochements_, cites No. 58 of Hahn’s collection of Greek popular tales, in which a man is first changed to a girl, and afterwards, by a giant, back to a man again.

THE PRINCE OBTAINS A SNAKE-GEM—pp. 296, 297.

Precisely the same incident occurs in the Comte de Caylus’ interesting collection of _Contes Orientaux_, with, strange to say, instead of a snake, a black bull (“un taureau noir”), and the hero, “having been brought up in the midst of jewels,” knew that the stone was a real carbuncle, and it was of a size he had never before seen.[295]

I have already offered some remarks on the common belief in the East from the most ancient times that serpents have precious stones in their heads and are the guardians of treasures concealed in the earth (pp. 232 and 297), but the subject is so interesting as being a survival, or rather relic, of serpent-worship, that I think the following observations by Mr. M. J. Walhouse, the veteran scholar, in the _Indian Antiquary_ for 1875, pp. 45, 46, may be reproduced here:

“In the Life of Apollonius Tyanæus [B.C. 3-A.D. 98] are some marvellous stories of large Indian serpents, which the Indians are said to destroy as follows: ‘They spread a silken robe, inwoven with golden letters, before the entrance of the serpent’s cave, and those letters, being magical, bring on sleep, so that the eyes of the serpent are overcome. Then with powerful incantations they so allure it as to be able to cast over it the magical robe, which induces sound sleep. Rushing in, the Indians cut off its head with an iron axe and take out certain stones found therein; for the heads of most serpents are said to contain small stones, very beautiful and endowed with a peculiar lustre and wonderful virtues. Such a stone was in the ring that Gyges is said to have possessed.’ This is probably an exaggerated version of the Indian snake-charming, and one of the earliest notices of it.… The American Indian tribes believe that in the mountains is a secret valley, inhabited by chiefs of the rattlesnake species, which grow to the size of large trees and bear in their foreheads brilliant gems. In Peru is an animal called carbunculo, which appears only at night. When pursued a valve opens in its forehead, and a brilliant object becomes visible, dispelling the darkness and dazzling the pursuers.”

THE PRINCE CONCEALS THE SNAKE-GEM IN HIS THIGH—p. 299.

This singular mode of concealing jewels—into which Asiatics still very commonly convert their wealth—is said to have been formerly, and perhaps is yet occasionally, adopted by travellers. We have another instance in the story of the Young Man who fell in love with a Picture, which occurs only in the Breslau printed Arabic text of the “Thousand and One Nights,” where the hero has luckily some jewels in the flesh of his forearm.—And in the _Toldoth Jeshu_ (already cited in connection with the conflict between the white and black serpents—p. 475) is the following most veracious narrative:

“Now at this time the unutterable Name[296] of God was engraved in the temple on the corner-stone. For when King David dug the foundations he found there a stone on which the Name of God was engraved, and he took it and placed it in the Holy of Holies. But as the wise men feared lest some ignorant youth should learn the Name and be able to destroy the world—which God avert!—they made by magic two brazen lions, which they set before the entrance of the Holy of Holies, one on the right, the other on the left. Now if any one were to go within and learn the holy Name, then the lions would begin to roar as he came out, so that from alarm and bewilderment he would lose his presence of mind and forget the Name.

“And Jeshu left Upper Galilee and came secretly to Jerusalem, and he went into the Temple and learned there the holy writing; and after he had written the incommunicable Name on parchment he uttered it, with intent that he might feel no pain, and then he cut into his flesh and hid the parchment with its inscription therein. Then he uttered the Name once more, and made so that his flesh healed up again. And when he went out at the door the lions roared and he forgot the Name. Therefore he hasted outside the town, cut into his flesh, took the writing out, and when he had sufficiently studied the signs he retained the Name in his memory.”[297]

If there ever was a deliberately trumped-up story, this assuredly is one—it is altogether absurd and inconsistent. When, I wonder, did King David dig the foundation of the Temple? Moreover, the temple referred to by this miserable, malignant scribbler was not that built by the son of David, but the gorgeous pile erected by King Herod. But indeed nothing more is needed to show that this idle tale was written for one sole purpose than the words “lest some ignorant _youth_ should learn the Name.” Why “some _youth_” only? Was there not any danger of ignorant, or curious, or evil-minded grown men attempting to acquire this knowledge?—Then we have the magic lions of brass that were placed on either side of the entrance of the Holy of Holies! The only “graven images” we read of as being in the Temple are the cherubim, whose wings canopied the Ark. It is very evident that this most wretched tract—of which it is said the Jews themselves are now ashamed—was written during the later Middle Ages, when belief was so rife in magic images of metal as guardians of treasure or of some other magical contrivance.

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The classical story is well known of Zeus, dreading the wrath of Hera when Semele gave premature birth to Dionysus (Bacchus), sewing up the infant in his thigh, where he came to maturity. And we have an interesting example of the prevalence in India—_mutatis mutandis_—of Greek and Roman legends, known to every schoolboy, in a folk-tale contributed to the _Indian Antiquary_ for 1886, p. 367, by (Miss?) Putlabi D. H. Wadia, in which seven brothers go on a trading voyage, leaving their little sister, Sunábaí Jái, with their wives, who in their absence ill-treat her shamefully and appoint her tasks very similar to those which Venus gave Psyche to do, the last being to bring them some sea-foam. The poor little maid goes to the shore, and observes her brothers’ ship coming in, and runs to meet them. One of the brothers, when she has told her story, cuts open his thigh and having placed her inside the opening sews it up. When they reach home they ask for their sister and the wives give an evasive reply, upon which they are threatened with dire punishment should any accident have happened to the little one, and the women having confessed their wickedness, the brother draws Sunábaí Jái out of his thigh.

In the Tamil romance entitled _Madnakámarájankadai_, which has been translated by my friend Pandit Natésa Sástrí, of Madras, under the title of _Dravidian Nights Entertainments_, a prince one day sees the daughter of Indra bathing in a tank, and having purloined her garment takes it home, cuts open his thigh and puts the celestial robe inside, and then sews the flesh together. The nymph, like others of the Bird-Maiden class, had no resource but to follow the hero and become his wife.

From the East, doubtless, the idea was brought to Europe and utilised in the romance of _Huon of Bordeaux_, where we read that the beard and molars of the Saracen amír—the procuring of which was the condition of the hero’s pardon by Charlemagne—were sewed up by Oberon, King of the Fairies, in the side of Gerames, the uncle of Duke Huon.[298]

BAKÁWALÍ AT INDRA’S COURT—p. 317.

In the Kashmírí tale of Gullala Sháh (Mr. Knowles’ collection), a fair princess, Panj Phúl, falls in love with the hero, and her father, when he comes to know of this, transforms her to wood and causes her to be placed in a public garden, as a warning to other fairy damsels not to bestow their affections on human beings. Gullala Sháh, instructed by the vazír, whose daughter he had already married, burns the wood, and pouring water on the ashes, Panj Phúl, as in Bakáwalí’s case, is restored to life.

BAHRÁM TRANSFORMED INTO A BIRD—p. 346.

In No. 16 of the Burmese collection of tales entitled _Decisions of the Princess Thoodhamma Tsari_—which has been translated into English by Capt. T. P. Sparks (Maulmain, 1851), and again by Chr. J. Bandow (Rangoon, 1881)—a youth is changed into a small parrot by a magic thread being tied round his neck, and in that form is captured by some bird-catchers in the king’s garden, and presented as a pet to the princess, who discovers and removes the thread, when he becomes once more a handsome young man. Early every morning the princess replaces the thread and he is again changed to a parrot; at night she takes off the thread; and thus she continues to amuse herself until the consequences could not be any longer concealed, but in the sequel the youth is publicly acknowledged as her husband.

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Sometimes the hero of a popular fiction has the power of transforming himself into a bird or of quitting his own body and animating that of any dead animal, as in Mr. Natésa Sástrí’s _Dravidian Nights Entertainments_, pp. 8-18, and the idea is also known to European ballads and romances. For instance, in Prior’s _Danish Ballads_, iii, 206, we are told how a knight, to gain access to a lady’s bower, becomes a bird and flies in. In his notes, Prior refers to the ballad of ‘The Earl of Mar’s Daughter’ (Buchan, i, 49):

“I am a doo the live-lang day,
A sprightly youth at night;
This aye gars me appear mair fair
In a fair maiden’s sight.”

He also refers to the Netherlandish ballad, ‘Vogelritter,’ where a knight goes to Cyprus and wins the king’s daughter, whom he had previously visited in the form of a bird, having in his possession a stone which effects transformations; and to the ‘Lai d’Iwenec’, by Marie de France.

THE THREE DECEITFUL WOMEN—p. 355.

_Page 357_—The crafty mother of the bathman is said to have “practised for years under the sorceress Shamsah”; probably the witch of the same name who figures in the story of Táhir, an extract of which will be found in pp. 494, 495.

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_Page 370_—The story of ‘The Sun and the Moon’ (_Mihr ú Máh_), which the carpenter brags that he knows, is probably the Persian romance of Mihr, the son of Káhvar Sháh, described in Dr. Rieu’s _Catalogue of Persian Manuscripts in the British Museum_, vol. ii, p. 765 (Add. 15,099), which also occurs in Hubbí’s collection, entitled _Hikáyát-i’Ajíb ú Gharíb_, (already cited on p. 474), of which Dr. Rieu, in the same Catalogue (ii, 759, Or. 237), gives the titles of the first nineteen stories, No. 3 being _Mihr ú Máh_. Dr. Rieu has kindly furnished me with the first part of this tale:

In the kingdom of the East was a mighty king named Khávar Sháh, who had no son. He is told by his astrologers that he is predestined to have a son, provided the mother be a parí (or fairy). On the advice of his vazír, Rushan Ráï, he asks the help of a devotee called Faylasúf, who tells him that he should obtain possession of the book of magic which is kept by the witch Naskas in her castle. All three set out with this intent, and by means of the Most Great Name (see _ante_, note on p. 163) obtain entrance into the castle, and on their way release a dove from its cage. Deceived by the wiles of the witch, they are transformed: the king, into a lion, the vazír, into a lynx, and the devotee, into a fox; but plunging into the waters of the Spring of Job, they are restored to their natural shape, seek refuge in a hollow tree, and are taken out of it by the bird Rukh (or roc) and carried to the top of a mountain. In the meanwhile the released dove, who was no other than Rúz-afrúz, daughter of Farrukhfál, king of the parís, returns to her parents and tells them of her rescue. Then she goes in search of her deliverers; finds them asleep, and has them conveyed to her father’s court. Farrukhfál waives his objection to a marriage which he deemed a _mésalliance_, and the result in due time is the birth of a prince, called Mihr. The astrologers prophesy that at the age of eighteen grief will come to him through a piece of paper. And, in fact, the young man, while out hunting, meets a youth called Mukhtarí, a rich merchant from Maghrab, who has suffered shipwreck and has saved nothing but the portrait of Máh, the fair daughter of Hilál, king of the West. The remainder of the tale deals with the adventures of the love-struck prince in search of the fair one, ending, of course, with their happy union.[299]

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The tale of ‘Sayf ul-Mulúk and Bady’á ul-Jumál,’ which the carpenter says he had also heard, occurs in the _Arabian Nights_; the Turkish story-book _Al-Faraj ba’d al-Shiddah_, or Joy after Distress; the Persian Tales translated into French by Petis de la Croix, under the title of _Les Mille et un Jours_; and it also exists as a separate story in MSS. preserved in the British Museum and the Bodleian Library, Oxford. It recounts how a young prince discovers in his father’s treasury the portrait of a very beautiful damsel and sets out in quest of her. After many perilous adventures he finally learns from a jinni that the fair original of the portrait was one of the concubines of King Solomon and had, of course, been dead for many ages.

* * * * *

Whether the ‘Road to the Mosque’, which the carpenter says he has “seen,” be the title of a story, or (as is more likely) that of a devotional work, I am unable to say, never having seen it alluded to elsewhere.

_The Trick of the Kází’s Wife_

is a variant of a story found in the Beslau printed Arabic text of the ‘Thousand and One Nights,’ of the Fuller, his Wife, and the Trooper. It also occurs in the _Historia Septem Sapientum Romæ_, the European adaptation of the Book of Sindibád, where a crafty Knight of Hungary plays the part of the carpenter of our story, and a jealous old baron that of the Kází. The plot of the _Miles Gloriosus_ of Plautus, which is very similar to the tale of the crafty Knight, in all likelihood suggested to Boiardo the amusing episode, in his _Orlando Innamorato_, of Folderico and Ordauro, which, in its turn, was perhaps adapted in the _Seven Wise Masters_. In my _Book of Sindibád_, p. 343 ff., and in my _Popular Tales and Fictions_, vol. ii, pp. 214-228, are most of the other known versions and variants of this story.

_The Trick of the Bazár-Master’s Wife_

has many parallels in Eastern story-books, and the tale seems to have been, time out of mind, a favourite with Asiatics. In one version there is no game of _yad est_ between husband and wife. The lady has her lover concealed in an adjoining apartment, for her husband has come home quite unexpectedly. But she tells him plainly of the fact, upon which he demands the key and approaches to open the door of the room, when the lady bursts into laughter. He pauses in astonishment, and asks the cause of her merriment, to which she replies: “I cannot help laughing at your simplicity, in believing that I should have a lover in the next room, and tell you of it.” The husband returns the key and goes away well pleased.

_The Trick of the Kutwál’s Wife_

resembles the latter part of the Arabian tale of the Fuller, his Wife, and the Trooper, where the poor husband is also drugged, his hair is cropped, he is dressed as a soldier, and provided with a letter recommending him to be enrolled by the governor of Isfahán. In this case, however, the poor husband is not reclaimed by his artful wife.

* * * * *

Whatever may be the source of this diverting story, it was known in France as early at least as the 13th century, in the form of _fabliau_ by Haisiau the Trouvère, under the title “Des Trois Dames qui trouverent un Anel” (Méon’s edition of Barbazan, 1808, tome iii, p. 220ff., and Le Grand, 1781, tome iv, pp. 163-166), of which the following is the outline:

Three ladies found a ring, and “they swore by Jesu that she should have it who should best beguile her husband to do a good turn to her lover.”

The _First Lady_, having made her husband drunk, when he is asleep, causes his head to be shaved, dresses him in the habit of a monk, and carries him, assisted by her lover, to the entrance of a convent. When he awakes and finds himself thus transformed he imagines that God, by a miraculous exercise of his grace, had called him to the monastic life. So he presents himself before the abbot and requests to be received among the brethren. The lady hastens to the convent in well-feigned despair, and is exhorted to be resigned and to congratulate her husband on the saintly vow he has taken. “Many a good man,” says the poet, “has been betrayed by woman and her harlotry. This one became a monk in the abbey, where he remained a very long time. Wherefore, I counsel all people who hear this story told, that they ought not to trust in their wives, or in their households, if they have not first proved that they are full of virtues. Many a man has been deceived by women and their treachery. This one became a monk against right, who would never have been such in his life, if his wife had not deceived him.”

The _Second Lady_ had some salted and smoked eels which her husband bade her cook for dinner on a Friday, but there was no fire in the house. Under the pretext of going to have them cooked on a neighbour’s fire, she goes out and finds her lover, at whose house she remains a whole week. On the following Friday, about the hour of dinner, she enters a neighbour’s house and asks leave to cook her eels, saying that her husband is angry with her for having no fire, and that she could not dare to go back lest he should cut off her head. As soon as the eels are cooked she carries them home, “piping hot.” The husband asks her where she has been for the last week, and commences to beat her. She cries for help and the neighbours come in, and amongst them the one at whose fire the eels had been cooked, who swears that the wife had only just left her house, and ridicules the man for his assertion that she had been away a whole week. The poor husband gets into a great rage and is locked up for a madman.[300]

The _Third Lady_ proposes to her lover to marry him, and he thinks that she is merely jesting, seeing she is already married, but she assures him that she is quite in earnest, and even undertakes that her husband will give his consent. The lover is to come for her husband and take him to the house of Dan Eustace, where he has a fair niece, whom the lover is to pretend he wishes to espouse, if he will give her to him. The lady will go thither, and she will have made her arrangements with Dan Eustace before they arrive. Her husband cannot but believe that he has left her at home, and she will be so apparelled that he cannot recognise her. This plan is accordingly carried out. The lover asks the lady’s husband for the hand of his niece in marriage, to which he very willingly consents, and thus without knowing it makes him a present of his own wife. “All his life long the lover possessed her, because the husband gave and did not lend her; nor could he ever get her back.”[301]

“Now tell me true,” adds the poet, “without any lie, and if you would judge rightly and truly, which one of these three best deserved to have the ring?”

* * * * *

Le Grand, at the end of his modern French prose abridgment of this _fabliau_, says that it is told at great length in the tales of the Sieur d’Ouville, tome iv, p. 255. In the _Facetiæ Bebelianæ_, p. 86, three women make a wager as to which of them will play the best trick on her husband. One causes her poor spouse to believe he is a monk, and he goes and sings mass; the second husband believes that he is dead and allows himself to be carried on a bier to that mass; and the third sings in it stark naked, believing he is clothed. It is also found in the _Convivales Sermones_, t. i, p. 200; in the _Délices de Verboquet_, p. 166; and in the Facetiæ of Lod. Doménichi, p. 172. In the _Contes pour Rire_, p. 197, three women find a diamond, and the arbiter whom they select promises it to her who concocts the best device for deceiving her husband, but the _ruses_, according to Le Grand, are different from those in the _fabliau_. Possibly from this last mentioned version (if not from some old Morisco-Spanish tale, for the idea of the story is certainly of Eastern origin) Isidro de Robles, a Spanish novelist, who wrote about the year 1666, adapted his tale of ‘The Diamond Ring,’ of which a translation is given by Roscoe in his _Spanish Novelists_, 1832, vol. iii, pp. 163-214, and the outline of which is as follows:

In the fair city of Madrid there lived three ladies who were very intimate friends. One was the wife of Luca Morena, cashier to a wealthy Genoese merchant; the second was the wife of Diego de Morales, a painter, employed in decorating one of the monasteries; the third was the wife of Señor Geloso, an elderly ill-tempered curmudgeon. It happened one day, when the three ladies were standing near a fountain to see a grand public procession, that they simultaneously discovered a diamond ring which glittered under the water, and when one of them took it up, all three laid claim to it, on various grounds, and they squabbled for its possession till one of them proposed they should submit the matter to a count of their acquaintance whom they saw approaching, to which the others agreed. The count takes charge of the ring and says that it should be the prize of “whichever of you shall, within the space of the next six weeks, succeed in playing off upon her husband the most clever and ingenious trick—always having due regard to his honour.”

The _Cashier’s Wife_ employs an astrologer to waylay her husband on his road home and tell him that he looks seriously ill; then to feel his pulse and declare that he will be a dead man within 24 hours, so he had better put his affairs in order. Somewhat alarmed, he reaches home, takes little supper and goes to bed, but only to toss restlessly about all the night. He is off to business earlier than usual next day, and coming home in the evening meets the vicar of the parish and some friends, who are also in the plot. They pretend not to see him, but talk to each other aloud of Luca Moreno’s sudden death, and express very uncomplimentary opinions as to his state in the other world. In great perplexity, he continues his way and meets the astrologer and the painter (the latter is the husband of the second lady, and, strange as it may seem, is also a party in the plot), talking likewise of his death. He can endure this no longer, and accosts them, saying that he is not dead, but they affect to take him for his own ghost and run away. Now he thinks he must be really dead, though when and how he died he cannot recollect. Arriving at his house, he finds it shut up, and knocks long and loudly at the door before the maidservant appears, who asks: “Who is it? You can’t come in, for master is dead.” “Why,” exclaims the poor cashier, “it is I myself, your master.” “Who calls at this hour? This is the house of mourning, for we are all in grief for the loss of our master.” “Hold your tongue, you jade, and let me in, for I am your master.” She replies that _he_, poor man, is now engaged counting money in another and a worse world. In his rage he bursts open the door and walks in. His wife on seeing him pretends to swoon, but leaving her in the care of the maidservant he goes down to the pantry to stay his ravenous appetite, and there indulges in a hearty supper, washed down with copious draughts of wine, and then goes to bed. In the morning his wife, in gala dress, awakes him, and he thinks that she is dead also, and asks her when he himself died and was buried. She says all that she knows is that he buried last night some of the best wine and dainties provided for the carnival—he must be still drunk to talk such nonsense. The astrologer and the painter come, and when they hear his story declare they had not seen him or been from home last night, and, the vicar and his friends making a similar statement, he is persuaded the whole affair was a dream, and promises to defray the cost of a feast on Shrove Tuesday.

It is now the turn of the _Second Lady_ to play a trick upon her husband, the painter. “For this purpose she concerted a plan with a brother of hers, who possessed a fine genius for amusing himself at other people’s expense. In the first place they contrived to have a false door made at the entrance of the house, on such a plan (then frequently adopted) that it might be easily substituted for the real door at short notice. It was brought thither secretly one night, and concealed in a cellar, while the brother and two friends lay ready to carry on the intended plot in an upper chamber of the house.” The painter returns home as usual, and having supped retires to rest. About midnight he is roused from a deep sleep by the cries of his wife, who pretends to be dying, and implores him to go for her confessor, and her old nurse, who knew her constitution. He very reluctantly rises and dresses himself, and then sets out in quest of the nurse, who lived at the other end of the town. Meanwhile the old door is removed and the false one substituted, and above it a sign is placed bearing the words, “House of Public Entertainment.” Then, according to arrangement, friends of the lady and a party of musicians with their instruments arrive, in order to “make a night of it.” The poor painter, after plodding his weary way in quest of the old nurse, through wind and rain, and knocking at the wrong doors, at last returns home, drenched to the skin. But what must have been his amazement to find his house metamorphosed into a tavern and to hear sounds from within of mirth and revelry! He knocks at the door, however, and a head is thrust out of an upper window and a voice orders him to be off, for the house is full. When he says that the house is his own, he is told it has been a tavern for the last 15 years and is finally made to beat a retreat by two dogs being let loose on him. Betaking himself to his friend Señor Geloso (whose turn is yet to come), he relates to him all his strange adventures. His friend thinks he is drunk and accommodates him for the night in his house. Next morning they go to the painter’s house, which has been restored to its former appearance, and when he tells them of what had happened to him the previous night, his wife and her friends assure him that the affair must have been the effect of sorcery, at the same time his loving spouse reads him a severe lecture on his debauched way of life, staying out o’ nights and so forth. It is finally agreed to say no more about the matter.

The trick played on the jealous, ill-tempered husband of the _Third Lady_ bears a striking resemblance to that of the Kutwál’s wife—_mutatis mutandis_. Having plied him with wine till he is “dead drunk,” she sends for her brother, prior of the convent of Capuchins, who comes (as arranged) with the lay brethren, and, after his head has been shaved and he has been dressed in the monastic garb, they carry him off to the convent and place him in a cell. When he awakes he is perplexed at the change that has taken place in his person and place of abode. In brief, he is flogged next day for contumacy and sentenced to eight days’ imprisonment, with bread and water. This term expired, he is sent out with one of the monks to beg alms, and in the course of their rounds they come to his own house, where seeing his wife at a window he rushes in and embraces her. The lady, of course, raises a great outcry, and the servants and neighbours hasten to her assistance. The monk explains that he is a crazy brother who fancies every pretty woman he sees is his wife, and leads him back to the convent, where he is again soundly flogged and put upon a new course of bread and water, so long that his hair and beard were grown again. One night he is treated to a fine supper and a bottle of wine containing an opiate, and, when he is asleep, is carried back to his house, and on awaking next morning and telling his wife of all that he had undergone as a monk, she persuades him that it was but a distempered dream, and he, glad to find himself in his own house, promises to treat her in future with all respect and full confidence in her virtue.

The three ladies proceed next day to the dwelling of the count and relate the tricks they had played their husbands. He says that he cannot possibly give the preference to any one of them—they are all equally clever—but as the ring is really one he had himself lost the very day when they found it, he must ask them to accept and divide amongst themselves a purse containing three hundred pistoles, and so the ladies take their leave of the count, in every way satisfied.

THE KÁZI AND THE MERCHANT’S WIFE—p. 414.

The latter part of this story will at once remind the reader of the tale of Alí Khoja and the Merchant of Baghdád in our common English version of the _Arabian Nights_,[302] in which Alí Khoja, before setting out on the pilgrimage to Makka, places a thousand gold pieces in a jar and fills it up with olives, and gives it into the custody of a merchant with whom he was intimate, as a jar of olives merely; and the merchant after the Khoja had prolonged his absence far beyond the usual time opened the jar to take out of it some olives for his wife, who had wished for that fruit, and finding the gold underneath abstracted it, and substituted fresh olives. The story is too well known to require the repetition of the subsequent details—how judgment was at first given in favour of the merchant, but was afterwards reversed, as in our story of the Kází, by the acuteness of a boy.