The vazír said, ‘I have heard that two Pigeons consorted together in one nest, and dwelt in amity with one another in one abode, neither were their minds disturbed by rivals nor their hearts panged by misfortune. They contented themselves with water and grain, and like solitarily dwelling hermits, consigned themselves to reliance on the Divine will. One was named Bázindah,* and the other Nawázindah. And both of them, evening and morning, were wont to sing, in unison, harmonious strains, and at all times, with soul-enlivening melodies, to utter various cooings.

Fortune was envious of the agreement of those sympathising friends, and the malevolent eyes of time threw their baleful influence on those two happy companions.

The desire of travel developed itself in Bázindah, and he said to his friend, ‘How long shall we continue in one nest and spend our time in one abode? I feel a desire of wandering through different parts of the world for two or three days, and putting in practice the high command, ‘Say, go through the earth’* since in travel many marvellous things are seen and many experiences are gained, and the venerable have said, ‘Travel is the means of triumph.’ Until the scymitar comes forth from the scabbard on the battle-field of the brave, honor is not gained; and until the pen moves in the path of perambulation from its point,* the painting of beautiful styles is not manifested on the page of existence. The sky which is ever journeying, is the highest of all things; and the earth which is ever quiescent, is trampled down and kicked by all beings both high and low.

Nawázindah said, ‘O my heart’s friend! thou hast not undergone the toils of travel, nor experienced the hardship of absence from friends, nor has the maxim, ‘Travel is travail,’ reached thy soul’s ear, nor has the stormy blast, ‘Parting is burning,’ blown on the garden of thy heart. Travel is a tree which brings forth no fruit but that of separation, and absence is a cloud which lets fall no drops but the rain of disgrace.

Bázindah said, ‘Although the trouble of travel is wearing to the mind, still it enlivens by visiting new countries and seeing the wonders of the world; and, moreover, when the disposition has become accustomed to the inconveniences of the journey, it is no longer harassed by them, and the toil of the road ceases to make the same impression on the spirits, in consequence of the interest taken in the wonders of the strange country.

Nawázindah said, ‘O beloved friend! the recreation of seeing various parts of the world and viewing the gardens of Iram, delights us if in the society of true companions and intimate friends; and when one has been separated from the happiness of seeing those with whom one is accustomed to be, it follows* that one’s grief finds no solace from that amusement, nor is one’s sorrow to any extent alleviated by those spectacles; and I am of opinion, that the pain of separation from friends and the grief of parting from those we love, is the hardest of all pains and the most cruel of all griefs.

Now that, Praise be to God Most High! we have a corner and supply of food, draw the foot of freedom from care under the garment of welfare, and yield not the collar of sense to the grasp of lust.

Bázindah said, ‘O friend and consort! speak not another word of parting and separation, for sympathising friends are not wanting in the world, and he who parts from his friend, suffers no grief when he has met with another. If here I fail to encounter my friend, I shall in a short time bring myself into the society of a new soother of the heart, and thyself hast heard this saying which they have uttered,

I expect that after this, thou will not rehearse to me the volume of the toils of travel, for the flame of the labour of travel makes a man ripe,* and no person of raw mind and reared in repose, can put to its speed the horse of expectation in the plain of hope.

Nawázindah said, ‘Dear friend, at this time that thou removest thy heart from the society of thy friends, thou hast severed the string of ancient amity. Thou mayest unite with new comrades, and the precept of the wise man, that

thou mayst transgress. What impression then will my word have on thee? Nevertheless,

Having here cut short their dialogue, they took leave of each other, and Bázindah tearing his heart from the society of his companion, issued forth on the wing.

With real curiosity and perfect gratification he traversed the expanse of air, and passed over lofty mountains and Eden-like gardens. All of a sudden at the skirt of a mountain—which boasted equality with the elevation of the highest heaven, and from greatness regarded the whole terrestrial globe as a mere hillock beneath its foot,—he saw a meadow. Its emerald surface was more heart-expanding than the garden of heaven, and the northern* breeze, as it passed over loaded with perfume, was more fragrant than a bag of Tátárian musk.

Bázindah was pleased with that delightful spot and heart-expanding tract, and as day was closing, he in that very place unloosed the baggage of travel. As yet he had not rested from the toils of the way, nor breathed a moment in ease and comfort, when suddenly, the swift-stepping carpet-spreader, the wind, raised up the canopy of the clouds in the court of the air, and made the tranquil earth a pattern of the tumult of the Resurrection, through the uproar of the heart-terrifying thunder, and the dread of the bosom-rending lightning. The fire of the thunderbolts on one side consumed the heart of the spotted tulips, and on the other, the shaft of the hail nailed the eye of the wakeful narcissus to the target of the earth.

In such a time as this Bázindah had no shelter to secure him from the arrows of the thunder-cloud, nor corner where he could rest in safety from the violence of the intensely cold wind. At one moment he hid himself under a branch and at another time he sought to shield himself in the leaves of the trees, and every moment the affliction of the hail and rain increased, and every instant the terrors of the thunderbolts and the lightning waxed greater.

In brief, with a thousand sufferings he passed the night until day, and having no remedy, he endured that ill-timed calamity, and every moment his thoughts recurred to the quiet corner of his nest, and the society of his prudent friend, and he heaved a cold sign of regret and pain from his inflamed heart.

But when the vanguard of approaching day had made an impression, that instant the writing of the gloom of the thunder-cloud was obliterated from the page of time, and by the warmth of the world-irradiating sun, the expanse of the earth, and the surface of the world, received brightness.

Bázindah again rose on the wing, hesitating whether he should return to his home, or, whether since he had formed the resolution, he should upon the whole wander for two or three days through the regions of the world. In the mean­time, a swift-winged, hard-taloned royal white falcon, which descends to the earth on the head of its quarry swifter than the rays of the sun, and when soaring on high reaches heaven quicker than the sight;

marked out Bázindah. When the poor Pigeon beheld the pitiless falcon, its heart began to flutter, and all strength and power of motion which existed in its limbs and members inclined to the regions of non-existence.

When Bázindah saw himself again entangled in calamity, he remembered the advice of his faithful friend, and clearly understood the crudeness of his own project, and the unreasonableness of his thoughts.

that if he should escape from that dangerous place in safety, and emerge from that terrible position into tranquillity, he would not allow his mind to enter­tain another thought of travel, and he would regard as an invaluable prize the society of his cordial friend, which now seemed to him as impossible to realize, as the philosopher’s stone,* and for the remainder of his life would not so much as pronounce with his tongue, the name of travel.

By the blessing of that excellence of intention, which includes an increase of security, an opening of the door [of release] was obtained. In the very moment that the claw of the falcon was about bringing him into the grasp of possession, from another quarter a hungry eagle—from the injury of whose talons the sign Aquila was not safe in the nest of the sky, and who, when hungry, carried off from the meadow of heaven, the signs Aries and Capricorn,

—had mounted on the wing in search of food. When it beheld the state of the falcon and Pigeon, it said to itself, ‘Although this Pigeon is but a small mouthful, and a trifling morsel, nevertheless, upon the whole, one may break one’s fast upon it, and somewhat allay one’s impatient appetite.’ It made an effort to carry off the Pigeon before the falcon. Although the animal vigour which is implanted in the nature of the falcon cannot be placed in the balance with that of the eagle, still, the former did not weigh its approach, but engaged with it in the place of strife and contest, having taken its seat in the balance with it.

The two were occupied in fighting with one another, and Bázindah eagerly catching at the opportunity, threw himself under a stone and made room for himself in a hole into which it would have been impossible for a sparrow to enter, though it had been at pains to try; and therefore passed another night distressfully. When in the morning the white-pinioned dove of the dawn began to fly from the nest of heaven, and the dark-coloured raven of night began, like the ’Anḳá, to be hid from sight,* and when

Bázindah, though from hunger he had not power to fly, began by some means or other to flutter and move his wings. Fearful and affrighted, he looked to left and right, and observed the utmost caution before and behind. On a sudden he beheld a pigeon, with a little grain scattered in front of it, and a thousand other devices and stratagems of the same kind employed. With Bázindah the host of appetite prevailed over the region of the body; when he beheld his own species, without reflection he went forward, and the grain had not yet reached his craw when his foot was entangled in calamity.

Bázindah began to reproach that pigeon, saying, ‘O brother! we are of the same species, and this accident has befallen me by reason of my homoge­neousness with thee. Wherefore didst thou not acquaint me with these circumstances, nor fulfil the duties of courtesy and hospitality in order that I might have practised caution, and not thus fallen into the snare?’ The pigeon replied, ‘Leave off these words, for caution is unavailing against destiny, nor is it of any use to struggle against fate.

Bázindah said, ‘Art thou at all able to point out to me the way of escape from this calamitous strait? and then thou wouldst cast on my neck, till the day of resurrection, the chain of obligation.’ The pigeon replied, ‘O simple of heart! had I known a stratagem for escaping, I would have liberated myself from the snare, nor would I have become in the manner thou hast seen, the cruel cause* of the capture of birds; and thy state is exactly like that of the young camel, which after going a long way, grew tired and said, with lamentation and entreaty, to its mother, ‘O unkind; stop just so long that I may recover myself and rest a moment from my weariness.’ The mother replied, ‘O thou without sight! dost thou not see that the end of the nose-string is in the hand of another. Had I, in brief, the power to choose, I would release my back from the load and thy foot from the journey.’

When Bázindah was thus rendered desperate, he began to tremble, and with his utmost efforts endeavoured to fly. As the string of his impulse was strong, the cord of the net, which in the lapse of time had become worn, was broken, and Bázindah finding his throat clear of the throttle of the net, flew pleased away, and turned his face in the direction of his native place. From joy at having obtained a light delivery from that weighty bond, his heart forgot the pangs of hunger, and in the midst of his flight, he arrived at a deserted village, and rested on the corner of a wall which was near a field of corn. A village boy who was watching the field, in his customary beat, passed near that deserted place. When his eye fell on the pigeon, the burning desire of roast meat emitted its smoke from his heart. From the palm of his hand* he slipped a shell into his bow and drew up the string.* Bázindah was not on the alert against that trick, and was turning towards the field and the open space and meadow, when suddenly, from the juggling of the deceitful heavens, the impression of the blow of that shell reached the feathers of that discomfited one. From excess of fear and terror, he fell head downwards to the bottom of a well which was at the foot of that same wall, which was a well such that, from its exceeding depth, the circle of the heavens appeared like a wheel at the top, and had they woven together the black and white thread of day and night, it would not have reached its bottom.

When the young rustic saw that what he wished for was at the bottom of the well, and that the cord of counsel was too short to reach there, he went away disappointed, and left that half-killed one in his painful imprisonment. In short, Bázindah, for another night and day, passed his time with broken heart and ruffled feathers, at the bottom of the well, and in despairing accents according with his state,* his thoughts recurring to Nawázindah, he made mention of his feelings, of his hapless and outcast condition, and described his weakness and helplessness, and said,

Bázindah, the next day, by trying every way possible and all the devices he knew, brought himself to the top of the well, and weeping and bemoaning himself, at the mid-hour between sunrise and noon,* arrived near his own nest. Nawázindah heard the sound of the wings of her friend, and flying forth to meet him from the nest, said,

And when she had embraced Bázindah, she found him excessively weak and thin. She said, ‘O beloved friend! where hast thou been? and what is the state of thy circumstances?’ Bázindah said,

As for the toil and travail and affliction, which have passed over me,

The sum of the matter is this, that I had heard that in travel, much experience is obtained; at length I have gained thus much experience, that so long as I live I will not make another journey, and, until I am compelled, I will not go forth from the corner of my nest, and by my own choice I will not exchange the happiness of beholding my friends for the pain of the struggles of exile.

And I have introduced this apologue that his majesty, the ruler of the world, may not exchange the dignity of a settled abode for the degradation of travel, and not voluntarily choose separation from friends and country, which has no other fruit but wretched bewailing and tearful eyes.”

Dábishlím said, ‘O wise vazír! although the labour of travel is great, its advantages, too, are beyond computation. When any one has fallen, in traveling, into the whirlpool of hardship, he becomes improved and polished, and experiences are acquired by him, from which, throughout his life, he may derive advantage; and indubitably complete advancement appears in travel, both external and internal. Seest thou not that the pawn by traveling six stages, owing to the knowledge it thus acquires, obtains the rank of a queen; and the light-speeding moon by a journey of fourteen nights, progresses from the place of a thin crescent to the dignity of the full orb.

And if a person subside into the corner of his wretchedness, and step not beyond his miserable home, he remains deprived of seeing the marvels of various countries, and devoid of the honour of waiting on the great amongst mankind. The falcon secures a place on the wrist of kings, because it crouches not in its nest; and the owl, because it cannot turn its incli­nations from solitude, remains behind the wall of disgrace.

And one of the great sages inspired the whole body of his disciples with the desire of travel, by this,

And if that hawking-falcon, which grew up with the young of a kite, had remained in their nest, and had not winged its flight through the air in travel, it would not have attained the honour of the notice of a king.’ The vazír besought, saying, ‘How were the circumstances of that affair?’