A Group of Eastern Romances - A Group of Eastern Romances and Stories

THERE was a city called Vijayanagara, to the north of which flowed a small river with topes²²⁶ on both banks. One day a young Bráhman pilgrim came and sat down to rest by the side of the stream, and, finding the place very cool and shady, he resolved to bathe, perform his religious ablutions, and make his dinner off the rice which he carried tied up in a bundle. Three days before there had come to the same spot an old Bráhman, whose years numbered more than threescore and ten; he had quarrelled with his family, and fled from his house to die. Since he reached that place he had tasted no food, and the young pilgrim found him lying in a pitiable state, and placed near him a portion of his rice. The old man arose, and proceeded to the rivulet in order to wash his feet and hands, and pronounce a holy incantation or two before tasting the food. While thus engaged, a kite, carrying in its beak a huge serpent, alighted upon the tree at the foot of which was the rice given by the pilgrim to the old man, and while the bird was feasting on the serpent, some of its poison dropped on the rice; and the old Bráhman, in his hunger, did not observe it on his return; he greedily devoured some of the rice, and instantly fell down dead. The young pilgrim, seeing him prone on the ground, ran to help him, but found that life was gone; and, concluding that the old man's hasty eating after his three days' fast must have caused his death, and being unwilling to leave his corpse to be devoured by kites and jackals, he determined to cremate it before resuming his journey. With this object he ran to the neighbouring village, and reporting to the people what had occurred on the tope, requested their assistance in the cremating of the old man's body. The villagers, however, suspected that the young pilgrim had killed and robbed the old Bráhman; so they laid hold of him, and, after giving him a severe flogging, imprisoned him in the village temple of Kálí. Alas, what a reward was this for his kind hospitality! and how was he repaid for his beneficence! The unhappy pilgrim gave vent to his sorrows in the form of verses in praise of the goddess in whose temple he was a prisoner; for he was a great pandit, versed in the four Vedas,²²⁸ and the six Sastras,^228a and the sixty-four varieties of knowledge. On hearing the pilgrim's verses, the rage of the goddess descended on the villagers who had so rashly accused and punished him for a crime of which he was innocent. Suddenly the whole village was destroyed by fire, and the people lost all their property and were houseless. In their extremity they went to the temple of Kálí, and humbly requested the goddess to inform them of the cause of the calamity which had thus unexpectedly come upon them. The goddess infused herself into the person of one of the villagers, and thus responded: “Know ye, unkind villagers, that ye have most unjustly scourged and imprisoned in our presence an innocent, charitable, and pious Bráhman. The old man died from the effects of poison, which dropped from a serpent's mouth on some rice at the foot of a tree when it was being devoured by a kite. Ye did not know of this; nevertheless, ye have maltreated a good man without first making due inquiry as to his guilt or innocence. For this reason we visited your village with this calamity. Beware, and henceforward avoid such sins.” So saying, Káli departed from the person through whom she had manifested herself.²²⁹ Then the villagers perceived the grievous error into which they had fallen. They released the good pilgrim and implored his forgiveness, which he readily granted. And thus was an innocent man charged with murder in return for his benevolent actions.

“Even so,” continued Bodhaditya, “my most noble sovereign, I have this day had to endure the infamy of having violated the zanána for saving your valuable life.” He then sent for a thief who was undergoing imprisonment, and gave him the handful of rice which he had the preceding day snatched from the king at dinner, and the thief having eaten it instantly died.²³⁰ He next caused a servant to go to the royal bedchamber, and fetch from the canopy of the couch the pieces of the serpent and his little finger-tip, which he laid before the wonder-struck king and the counsellors, and then addressed his majesty as follows: “My most noble king and ye wise counsellors, it is known to you all that we four ministers keep watch over the town during the four quarters of the night, and mine is the first watch. Well, while I was on duty the day before yesterday, I heard a weeping voice in the direction of the temple. I proceeded to the spot, and discovered the goddess sobbing bitterly. She related to me how three calamities were awaiting the king on the morrow. The first of them was the arrows despatched by the king of Vijayanagara as sweetmeats to our sovereign; the second was the poisoned rice, and the third the serpent. In trying to avert these calamities I have committed the offence of entering the zanána.” And he thereupon explained the affair from first to last.

King Alakésa and the whole assembly were highly delighted at the fidelity and devotion of Bodhaditya; for it was now very evident that he had done nothing amiss, but had saved the life of the king on three occasions, and indeed also the life of the queen by wiping off the serpent's poison which had fallen on her bosom. Then Alakésa, in explanation of the saying, “eating the protector,” related the

IN the country of Uttara there lived a Bráhman named Kusalanadan, who had a wife and six sons. All were in a state of prosperity for some time, but the entrance of Saturn into the Bráhman's horoscope turned everything upside down. The once prosperous Bráhman became poor, and was reduced to go to the neighbouring woods to gather bambú-rice with which to feed his hungry family.²³¹ One day, while plucking the bambú ears, he saw a bush close by in flames, in the midst of which was a serpent struggling for its life. The Bráhman at once ran to its rescue, and stretching towards it a long green stick the reptile crept on to it and escaped from the flames, and then spread its hood and with a hissing sound approached to sting its rescuer. The Bráhman began to weep and bewail his folly in having saved the ungrateful creature, which being observed by the serpent it asked him: “O Bráhman, why do you weep?” Said the old man: “You now purpose to kill me; is this the reward for my having saved your life?” “True, you have rescued me from a terrible death, but how am I to appease my hunger?” replied the serpent. The Bráhman said: “You speak of your hunger, but who is to feed my old wife and six hungry children at my house?” The serpent, seeing the anxiety of the Bráhman, emitted a precious gem from its hood,²³² and bade him take it home and give it to his wife for household expenses, after which to return to the wood to be devoured. The old man agreed, and, solemnly promising to return without fail, went home. Having given the gem to his family, and told them of his pact with the serpent, the Bráhman went back to the wood. The serpent had meanwhile reflected upon his own base ingratitude. “Is it right,” thought he, “to kill him who saved me from the flames? No! I shall rather perish of hunger, if I cannot find a prey to-day, than slay my protector.” So, when the old Bráhman returned, true to his word, the serpent presented him with another valuable gem, and after expressing a wish that he should live long and happily with his wife and children, went its own way, while the Bráhman returned joyously to his home.

“Even as the serpent purposed acting towards its benefactor,” continued the king, “so did I, in my rage, intend putting to death my faithful minister and the protector of my life, Bodhaditya; and to free myself from this grievous sin there is no penance I should not undergo.”

Then King Alakésa ordered a thousand Bráhmans to be fed every day during his life, and many rich gifts to be distributed in temples as atonement for his great error. And from that day Bodhaditya and his three colleagues enjoyed still more of the royal favour. With those four faithful ministers King Alakésa lived a most happy life and had a most prosperous reign.

EVERY praise is due to that Almighty Creator whose mercy has given grace and perfection to this garden of the earth. The flowers, like the loveliest brides, reflect the lustre of his beauty; what power, then, has the pen, a dry and withered reed as it is, to record his excellencies?

Each blushing rose-leaf still exhales
Those heavenly paradisal gales,
Creator, which thy power proclaim,
And make the bulbul praise thy name.
The unexpanded buds confess
Thy glory, and thy power express;
And all the loveliness of earth
From thee alone has taken birth.
The light of Layla's²³⁷ beauty glows
Apparent in the blushing rose;
And in Narcissus still we find
Sad Majnún's hair tossed by the wind.^237a
O if his mercy rain on me,
'T will wash out my impurity,
And crown my hopes with verdancy;
But if his wrath its head should rear,
'Neath Ahmed's²³⁸ shade we must repair.

Thousands of blessings be upon that glorified Prophet, for whom the heavens and the earth were created,^238a and the footmarks of whose Burák^238b are impressed on the foreheads of the sun and moon. From the whole collected works of his power, the world is but a single volume, and life a single chapter. When he found the earth required his presence, he left heaven, and, clothed in human flesh, descended here below. Let us turn now to the praise of the king of heroes, namely, Alí.^238c

When the sun had irradiated the face of the earth I determined to dive into the river of contemplation, with a view of gaining some pearls of ideas therefrom. Many came to hand, yet I was wondering how to use them, when a voice reached my ear, saying: “O thou, immersed in thought, these gems befit only one, and he is Alí: may peace be on him! Open thy mouth in his eulogy, because he is an emperor, the lustre of whose countenance has cast a shade of paleness on the moon, and has redoubled the radiance of the sun. If he would give loose to the reins of his charger in the seventh heaven, it would raise disturbance among the stars.”

O King of kings, my request from thy mercy is, that thou wouldst prove a shelter to me on the day of judgment, and admit me into the ranks of thy white-faced servants. What shall I add, when it is presumption on my part to address thee long!

THE ASTROLOGERS' PREDICTION AT THE BIRTH OF OUR HERO— HIS FATHER IS STRUCK WITH BLINDNESS—HIS FOUR BROTHERS SET OUT IN QUEST OF THE ROSE OF BAKAWALI, TO RESTORE THEIR FATHER'S SIGHT—HE SECRETLY FOLLOWS THEM—THEY FALL INTO THE TOILS OF DILBAR, AN ARTFUL COURTESAN, WHO FLEECES THEM AND MAKES THEM PRISONERS.

THEY relate that a king named Zayn ul-Mulúk²⁴⁰ reigned over a city in the eastern part of Hindústán. He had already four sons who were well trained in all the arts and sciences of the time and for courage compared to Rustam,^240a when Providence bestowed on him a fifth, who was beautiful as the moon in her fourteenth night, which scatters the darkness of the world. Zayn ul-Mulúk, full of joy, gave on this occasion a grand feast, and by the advice of the astrologers called the newly born Táj ul-Mulúk.^240b The same astrologers, having cast the horoscope^240c of the infant prince, declared that he would be endowed with courage far superior to any other mortal, and that genii and men would be subservient to him; but if unfortunately his father should look on him, that very instant he would be deprived of his sight. The king, with mixed sensations of pleasure and grief, gave order to his chief vazír to put the child and his mother in a palace at some distance from the court, which was done accordingly. After several years the prince became accomplished in every science. Being a lover of sport, it chanced one day that he went far into the thick of a forest in pursuit of a deer. True it is that what is written by Fate can never be erased. It so happened that the king was also hunting in the same forest that very day, and encountered the prince. There is a well-known saying to the effect that the wounded part is always sore, notwithstanding our efforts not to be hurt again, and the fugitive slave, fly wherever he will, is sure to be overtaken by his pursuer. The moment that the eyes of the king fell upon his son he was struck blind. His minister at once divined the cause of his blindness. The king observed, that the sight of a son generally increases the light of his father's eyes, but in his case the reverse had occurred. Hence it was proper that such a son should be expelled the realm, and the queen, his mother, made to sweep the apartments of his haram.

Then physicians equal to Avicenna²⁴² in learning and skill were called to remove the king's blindness, and they all declared that the only remedy was the Rose of Bakáwalí. Zayn ul-Mulúk despatched messengers throughout the land to proclaim that whosoever should procure that wonderful flower, or tell where it was to be found, should be handsomely rewarded; but without success. Thus year followed year, the king passing all his time lamenting and weeping, like Jacob when he mourned for Joseph, and like the prophet Job, waiting with impatient anxiety.^242a At last his four sons besought him that they should be allowed to go in quest of the Rose of Bakáwalí. The king at first refused, not wishing that the bright lamps of his house should be exposed to dangers, but was ultimately prevailed upon to yield to their entreaties, and gave order to his vazír to prepare everything needful for their journey—money, beasts of burden, tents, and attendants. The princes departed and traversed many miles at random.

By accident they met their brother, Táj ul-Mulúk, who was dragging his weary feet far away from his native land. He enquired who they were and whither they were going. In reply they told him how Zayn ul-Mulúk, their father, had lost his sight, and that they were journeying in search of the Rose of Bakáwalí, prescribed for the removal of his blindness. The prince on hearing this said to himself: “I must try my fortune and experience on the touchstone of the gold of my fate. Perchance I shall succeed in filling the skirt of my gown with the roses of my desire.” Having thus resolved, he went to a nobleman named Syíd, who on looking at him perceived that the light of his countenance surpassed the glory, of the sun, and the dark cluster of his locks, falling upon the fairness of his forehead, resembled the gloom of the clouds passing over the lustre of the moon. He asked him: “Who are you, and whence have you come?” Táj ul-Mulúk answered: “I am a traveller far away from my country, with no one to sympathise with me in my misfortunes, and none to cheer me with the soothing music of the voice of a friend. There is no one to assist and comfort me.” Syíd on hearing the words of this second Joseph²⁴⁴ was highly affected and agreed to befriend him.

It is related that Táj ul-Mulúk after a long journey reached the city of Firdaus,^244a which was then governed by King Rizwán. It was evening. Standing on the bank of a river, he intended to take up his abode in that town for some time. When the sun had finished his diurnal travel, and the moon, riding on her sable charger, had commenced her ramble in the east, the four princes, mounted on their swift-footed horses, entered the city. Their eyes fell on a splendid palace, every window of which was hung with screens of the richest brocade. They asked one of the citizens: “Whose palace is this?” He answered: “The owner of this mansion is Dilbar Lakhí.”^244b The princes asked: “How has she obtained such a palace?” And the man replied: “This lady is unequalled. In beauty and grace she has no rival on this earth. The sun even would sacrifice himself on her charms as the moth does on the light of the taper;²⁴⁵ and the moon would hide her diminished glory before the lustre of her charms. For those who court her society she keeps a drum hung on the door, on beating which, should they be rich enough to pay a lakh of rupís, they will have the happiness of meeting her.” At these words, the young princes, proud of their social position and wealth, wished to gratify their love of pleasure, so they approached the door and loudly beat the drum. When Dilbar heard the sound she could not contain her joy. “Well, well!” she said, “since the prey seeks to enter my net, it must be caught. Women of my trade are always in hopes that some one void of sense and with a full purse will fall into their hands.” She quickly adorned herself with rubies, emeralds, diamonds and pearls and sat down to receive the sons of Zayn ul-Mulúk. She made them sit on a golden seat, and then rosy-cheeked slave-girls came and presented them with wine in cups of gold, and with different kinds of food in dishes of silver. When half of the night had passed in drinking and talking, this artful woman proposed to them that they should play at backgammon by way of amusement, and the princes assented with pleasure. The board was brought, and she placed a lamp on the head of a cat, which she had taken great pains to train up to her designs, and staked a lakh of rupís on the first game. Before the night was over the princes lost fifteen lakhs of rupís. In the morning they took leave of Dilbar and returned to their tents. The following night they again went to the mansion of Dilbar, and that designing woman won from them not only all their money but also their horses, elephants, and camels. Then she said to them: “Young men, seeing that nothing now remains to you, I think you had better go home.” “No,” said they; “allow us once more to hang on the scale of experiment the gold of our fortune. If the scale incline to our side, we depart with all our property; if it fall to your side, we lose everything and become your slaves.” Dilbar accepted this proposal and in the twinkling of an eye won the game, and thus became absolute mistress of the goods and persons of the sons of Zayn ul-Mulúk, who were sent at once to keep company with many others in the same predicament. The attendants of the four princes, on learning their fate, like the petals of the rose which fall in autumn, were in great trouble and excitement.

THE PRINCE DETERMINES TO RESCUE HIS BRETHREN—HE TAKES SERVICE WITH A NOBLEMAN, AND MAKES FRIENDS WITH DILBAR'S CONFEDERATE, BY WHOSE INSTRUCTIONS HE TURNS THE TABLES ON DILBAR, AND WINS ALL HER WEALTH AND HER OWN PERSON—HE TELLS DILBAR OF HIS DESIGN TO OBTAIN THE ROSE OF BAKAWALI, AND SHE WARNS HIM OF THE DANGERS HE MUST ENCOUNTER—HE RELATES THE STORY OF THE BRAHMAN AND THE LION—DILBAR EXHORTS OUR HERO BEFORE HIS DEPARTURE.

TAJ UL-MULUK immediately formed the resolution to make an effort to save his brothers. Full of this idea, he presented himself at the door of an Amír and said to the porter: “I am a traveller without means, and wish to enter the employment of your master, whose noble qualities I have heard much praised.” The Amír admitted Táj ul-Mulúk into his presence, and, charmed with the beauty and dignity of his features, willingly accepted his offer, and from that day treated him with increasing kindness. When Táj ul-Mulúk had passed several months in the service of the Amír, and had saved a considerable sum of money, he said to his master one day that a friend of his had just arrived in the town, and he was desirous that he should be permitted to go and see him every day and pass a few hours in his company. This was most cordially granted, and the prince went daily to the house of the backgammon players, from whom he learned all the rules of the game. When he thought he was able to play with Dilbar he proceeded to her palace. An old woman, the confidante of Dilbar, who did nothing without her advice, opened the door, and the prince threw himself at her feet and burst into tears. She asked him who he was and what he wanted. “Alas!” he cried, “I am an unhappy traveller, without friends or acquaintances. I have no help but God in this town. My country is far east of here. I had a grandmother, but God admitted her into Paradise,²⁴⁸ and I am left alone in this world of sorrow! I trace in you a strong resemblance to her, hence have I fallen at your feet. If you are pleased to look on me with an eye of kindness and have compassion on my wretched condition, I offer to remain near you and to regard you as my grandmother.” The tone of sincerity with which the prince uttered these words made the heart of the old woman soft as wax. “My dear young man,” said she to him, “I am also alone in the world. From this day, therefore, I adopt you as my grandson.” Then he told her that he was engaged as a servant and would not be able to see her every day, but he would come as often as he possibly could. After this, Táj ul-Mulúk often visited that old woman, and so flattered and wheedled her that he soon became the confidant of her secrets. One day, after talking on indifferent subjects, he asked her how it happened that all who played at backgammon with Dilbar always lost. “My dear son,” replied she, “it is a very great secret. Take good care never to repeat to anyone what I am going to tell you. Dilbar has trained a cat and a mouse; she has accustomed the cat to bear a lamp on her head and the mouse to lie concealed in the shade of the lamp. When the dice do not turn up to suit Dilbar, the cat moves the lamp and causes the shadow to go to and fro, while the mouse turns the dice again, and in this way Dilbar wins without anyone of those who have played with her being able to understand the reason.” Táj ul-Mulúk went to the bazár and bought a weasel, which he trained to lie in his sleeve, and, when he snapped his fingers, to come out suddenly, like a little panther. Then he visited the old woman and said to her: “I am weary of service, and if you lend me a thousand rupís I will try to start some business.” The old woman led him into a room, and, showing him all her money, bade him take what he required. The prince was satisfied with a thousand rupís. Returning to his master, he told him that a friend was to be married that day, and he wished to attend the nuptials if the Amír would give him suitable clothes. The Amír at once consented, and even allowed the prince to take one of his best horses.

Táj ul-Mulúk, richly dressed and mounted upon a superb steed, proceeded to the house of the artful courtesan. He was no sooner introduced to her than the gambler of the sky closed the chessboard of the sun, in the house of the west, and threw upon the table of the east the golden dice of the stars.²⁵⁰ “I am told,” said he, “that you are fond of playing backgammon, and if you please, we can have a few games.” Dilbar at first begged to be excused, but in the end consented to play, and, as usual, placed the lamp upon the head of the cat, staked a thousand rupís, and threw the dice. The sháh-záda^250a allowed her to win the first game with the aid of the cat and the mouse. At the second, as fortune did not turn in her favour, the cat and the mouse were about to begin their old tricks, when Táj ul-Mulúk snapped his fingers, and the weasel ran furiously out of its master's sleeve, whereupon the mouse disappeared like lightning, and the cat astonished, fled like the wind, overturning the lamp. The sháh-záda pretended to be in a great rage, and exclaimed: “Artful woman! What tricks are you playing? How is it that you have not a proper lamp in a house so elegantly furnished?” At these words Dilbar was confused, and beads of perspiration appeared on her brow. She caused a candlestick to be brought and then the game was resumed. In his turn the prince had the advantage, and gained that night seven crores of rupís. In the morning he told Dilbar that he was obliged to return and breakfast with the king, and went away, leaving with her the money he had won, and promising to come again at night.

The prince came at the time appointed, and after they had partaken of some food, they began to play for a crore of rupís, and by midnight he had won all Dilbar's hoarded money, which amounted to one hundred crores of rupís.²⁵¹ Dilbar, in despair, wished to play next for her furniture, in the hope of winning, and afterwards recovering what she had lost. But she was not any more fortunate than before, and the prince said: “Well, what shall we do now? Do you wish to play once more with me? If I lose, I will give you a thousand rupís; if I win, you will give up all the princes you have kept prisoners by deceit and cheating.” Dilbar agreed to the proposal, and in a twinkling the sháh-záda had again won the game. Then she said: “If I win, I will keep all that I have lost; if I lose, not only will everything belong to you, but I shall be your slave.” In this last throw fortune was once more propitious to Táj ul-Mulúk. “Happy young man!” she cried, “with the help of God and your horoscope you have made me your slave. That game which all the kings of the world had played in vain throughout their lives is at last in thy hand. Now consider this as thy house. Bind me to thee by the ties of wedlock, and pass here the rest of thy days in affluence and grandeur.” “No, no,” said the prince; “I cannot consent to it. An important affair occupies my mind. If God grant me success in it, you also shall be happy. I exact from you that you abandon the life you have been leading, and wait for me twelve years, employing yourself in the service of the Most High.” Dilbar earnestly implored him to confide his secret to her. “Listen, then,” said he. “My name is Táj ul-Mulúk. I am the son of Zayn ul-Mulúk, the king of an eastern country, who lost his sight by an accident, and learned physicians have unanimously declared that his blindness can only be cured by the Rose of Bakáwalí. My brothers set out in quest of this marvellous flower. I was secretly with them, and when I learned that they had been ensnared by thy wiles, I employed artifice against thee in my turn, and thus have I overreached thee. I am determined to search for the Rose of Bakáwalí, and if I succeed, all will be well, if not, I shall give up life.” Hearing this Dilbar said: “Alas, what fanciful idea has taken possession of thy reason? Know that the Rose of which you speak is in the region of the sun, and not even a bird could succeed in reaching it. Bakáwalí is the daughter of the king of the Jinn, and in her garden is that flower. But it is guarded by thousands of dívs.²⁵³ No mortal can approach without their permission. O prince, do not expose yourself to such dangers, for, as Sa'dí says:

Although 'tis written, when 'tis doomed, we die,
Yet in the dragon's mouth, O wherefore fly?”^253a

Táj ul-Mulúk replied: “The God who changed into a garden of roses the fire into which Nimrod caused Abraham to be cast^253b will crown my zeal with success. The sons of men are inferior to dívs in strength, but they are superior in wisdom; for God himself has said: ‘I have given glory to the children.’

“YOU may have heard that a Bráhman passing through a forest saw a lion held fast by a rope and confined in a cage. On perceiving the Bráhman he begged hard, and humbly said: ‘O Bráhman, if you will kindly release me I will recompense you some day.’ The simple-minded Bráhman was affected by the words of the lion; but, blind as he was to reason, he did not consider that the lion was his enemy, and that no reliance could be placed on his promises. He opened the door of the cage, unloosed the feet of the lion, and set him at liberty. The bloodthirsty beast, as soon as he found himself free, knocked down the Bráhman, and seizing him by the throat carried him towards his den. The Bráhman cried: “O lion, I did a good service for you in hopes of getting a fair return, but I see thy intentions are evil.” The lion answered: ‘In my religion the return for good is evil. If you do not believe me let us refer the question to some one else, and whatever he says will decide the matter.’ That fool agreed. In the forest there grew a tall and umbrageous banyan tree. The lion and the Bráhman went under its branches and referred the matter to it. Said the banyan: ‘The lion is in the right. I have always seen that the return for good is evil. Hear, O Bráhman! I stand on one leg²⁵⁴ and cast my shade on every traveller that passes this way. But whoever takes shelter in my shadow is sure, on departing, to pull off one of my branches, to make use of it as a walking-stick in his hand. Now say, is not evil the return of good?’ The lion asked: ‘Well, my friend, what sayest thou?’ The Bráhman answered: ‘Refer the matter to some one else.’ The lion proceeded a few steps farther and questioned the road on the subject. The road answered: ‘The lion is right. Listen, O Bráhman. The traveller deviating from his path searches for me with the greatest care, and when he finds me I lead him to his home. But in return he defiles me.’ The beast went on again and saw a jackal on a rising ground. He was about to run away, when the lion called out: ‘O jackal, do not be afraid. I have come to refer a question to you.’ Said the jackal: ‘You may say what you please, bnt keep your distance; for if you approach, I am afraid your presence will render me senseless.’ The lion said: ‘This Bráhman has done good to me, and I intend to return evil to him. What sayst thou in the matter?’ The jackal replied: ‘I cannot quite understand what you say. How can a man who is so insignificant do any service to a lion, who is styled the monarch of the forest? I can never believe such a thing until I have seen it with my own eyes.’ The lion said: ‘Come on, and I will show it to you.’ So the lion and the Bráhman proceeded and the jackal followed. When they came to the cage the Bráhman said: ‘O jackal, the lion was fast bound to this, and I freed him. What is your decision?’ Said the jackal: ‘How could such a small cage hold so great a lion? If he would re-enter it before me and lie down as before, and then if you should free him I shall believe what you say.’ The lion entered the cage and the Bráhman commenced tying him. The jackal then remarked: ‘If you make the slightest difference in adjusting the knots, I shall be unable to decide the case.’ The Bráhman bound the lion strongly, and, having fastened the door of the cage, said to the jackal: ‘In that state I found him.’ ‘Fool that you were,’ exclaimed the jackal, ‘to expect good from such a powerful beast. It is laying the axe to your own root to think so. What need have you to give freedom to such an enemy? Go your way now, for the foe is overcome.’²⁵⁶

“O beloved,” continued the prince, “whoever gives freedom to complaints and impatience, which are like the lion confined in the cage of the body, and whoever, showing kindness to them, removes the string of resignation, always suffers from his own folly. O Dilbar, I have related this fable to show that the body cannot overcome the mind. It is proper for thee to release the princes of the East and the West, and God will release thee from the pains of hell. But until my return be very careful of my brothers. And now give me leave to depart.”

Dilbar Lakhí answered:

“Do not leave me sad and lonely;
Unattended, why depart?
Wherefore grieve a heart that loves thee?
Wherefore crush this widowed heart?
As the shell is thirsty for the
Drops, that make it teem with pearl,²⁵⁷
So my heart is longing for thee,
While thy sails thou dost unfurl.
Lo, the storm blows fierce and furious,
Leave not thou the joys of home:
Stranger to the world, O wherefore,
Joseph-wise, in exile roam?
Long and distant is the journey;
Hear my words, and stay—O stay!
Like the moth I'm fluttering round thee,
Whilst you wish to pass away.

Beloved, take warning from what you have seen. The princely mind was pure and clean; and when it fell in the world, the world was dazzled with thy brightness, and became blind. Arise now, and go after the attainment of thy desire; but never allow thyself to be prevailed on to play at hazard with the world, who always keeps her backgammon-board open for all. Beware, lest, through the assistance of the cat of deceit and the mouse of cunning, she turn the dice in her own favour. Then the treasures of thy faith will be exhausted, and she will keep thee in bonds for ever. If by the help of the weasel of patience you will expose and overcome her wiles, she will then try (she who has subdued kings and mighty sovereigns) to captivate thee by her charms, declaring at the same time that she will become thy slave. But should you turn away your gaze from her, you will certainly succeed in your undertaking.”²⁵⁸

SHOWING HOW THE PRINCE IS HELPED IN HIS QUEST BY A FRIENDLY DEMON—MARRIES MAHMUDA, A BEAUTIFUL GIRL —REACHES THE GARDEN OF BAKAWALI AND PLUCKS THE ROSE—SEEING THE FAIRY BAKAWALI ASLEEP, FALLS IN LOVE WITH HER—RETURNS WITH MAHMUDA AND REJOINS DILBAR, WHO LIBERATES HIS BRETHREN, BEFORE THE THREE SET OUT FOR HIS OWN COUNTRY—ON THE WAY HE IS DEPRIVED OF THE ROSE BY HIS BRETHREN, WHO RETURN HOME, AND BY MEANS OF THE FLOWER RESTORE THEIR FATHER'S SIGHT.

IT is related that Táj ul-Mulúk assumed the garb of a darvesh, rubbed ashes all over his body, and, pronouncing the name of God,²⁵⁹ set out on his journey. After some days he entered a forest, so dark on account of the number of trees in it that night could not be distinguished from day. But the prince was far from losing courage, thinking it was only a wave of the ocean of troubles which he had to traverse. “I must,” said he, “draw closer the girdle of resolution, and, like the salamander, plunge into this furnace.”^259a He then penetrated into the forest, as dark as ignorance, and swarming with wild beasts of every kind, especially ravenous dragons with gaping mouths. He wandered for a long time, to the right and then to the left; his body was torn by the sharp thorns of thickets and his feet were pierced by those of the babúl, to such an extent that he was covered with blood. The end of the forest was only reached after great difficulty, and prostrating himself before God, he prayed most earnestly. Then continuing his way he saw a dív sitting, whom he might have taken for a mountain. When the dív arose, his head touched the sky, and from his voice like thunder the prince heard the following words: “Young man, how comes it that, of your own free will, you leave the city of life and journey with the feet of your desires in the path of death?” “Learn, you who question me,” replied Táj ul-Mulúk, pale and trembling, “that the life of this fleeting world is a misfortune for me. If it were otherwise I should never throw myself into the jaws of death, and should not find myself in the coils of such a sanguinary being as you. Free me, then, with all speed from the torments which I am suffering; for one hour of this existence is like a hundred years of anguish.” The dív was moved to pity. “Listen, son of Adam,” said he. “Very far from doing you an injury, I wish to take you under my protection and lend you my aid.” Thus reassured, Táj ul-Mulúk remained with the dív, who showed him much friendship, and they were soon as thick as milk and sugar. One day the dív, being well pleased with a meal which the sháh-záda had prepared for him,²⁶¹ pressed him to disclose his wishes, swearing by Sulayman^261a that he would accomplish them for him. Then Táj ul-Mulúk told him that he was most desirous of entering the country of Bakáwalí, upon which the dív sighed heavily, smote his own head, and appeared agitated with the utmost grief. “What do you ask, my young man?” said he. “The country of which you speak is that of the king of the fairies, and it is guarded day and night on all sides by ten thousand of his slaves. How could I get you there? And yet I must keep my oath.” He then uttered a loud cry, and presently another dív appeared, to whom he communicated the sháh-záda's desire, adding: “Thou hast the power to grant it, and I ask the favour of thee, seeing that I am pledged by a terrible oath to aid him.”

Now this second dív had a sister named Hammála,²⁶² who was the chief guard of the country, and eighteen thousand dívs were her subordinates. He wrote at once recommending the prince to her, and giving the letter to a messenger told Táj ul-Mulúk to be guided by him. This dív took the prince on his left arm and with his right protected him from the rays of the sun. Thus they proceeded on their way, and arrived in the presence of Hammála, to whom the dív consigned both the letter and the prince. She said to the messenger: “If my brother had sent me a whole mine of red sulphur, or even the ring of Sulayman, it could not have given me more pleasure than I now feel.” Then she wrote a reply to her brother, saying: “I once had occasion to travel through the habitations of man, and thence I brought away a girl matchless in beauty, the daughter of a king. Her I adopted as my own daughter and called her Mah-múda. ^262a She is now in her fourteenth year, and bright in beauty as the moon when half-full. For her it is evident that God has sent this youth—thanks be to the Lord.” She then dismissed the messenger with this letter, and Mahmúda was at once married to Táj ul-Mulúk.

For some time the sháh-záda lived with his protectress and Mahmúda, but without performing his marital duties, and one day when his spouse complained to him of his indifference, he informed her that an important matter occupied his thoughts. “I have made a vow,” said he, “to forego the pleasures of this world, even lawful ones, until I have attained my desire.” “Be of good cheer,” rejoined Mahmúda. “If it please God, I will untie the knot of the thread of hope with the nail of prudence; and I will tell you where to find the town of Bakáwalí.” On the morrow Hammála took Mahmúda on her knee, as usual, and overwhelmed her with caresses. Mahmúda then said to her: “My dear mother, I have a favour to ask of you. Will you grant it?” “Yes, my child,” said Hammála, kissing her head and eyes. “This it is, then: the sháh-záda wishes to visit the kingdom of Bakáwalí; try to satisfy him.” Hammála at first raised up difficulties, but when she saw that her adopted child would not give up her idea, she called one of her followers and ordered him to secretly conduct the prince into the garden of Bakáwalí, which he did accordingly.

When Táj ul-Mulúk entered this wondrous garden, he found that the ground was of gold, the walls which surrounded it were studded with the rubies of Badak-shán, ²⁶³ and the carnelians of Yaman. Through parterres of emeralds flowed streams of rosewater in beds of topaz.²⁶⁴ Beautiful indeed was that grove. The flowers were so bright that had the sun beheld them he would have been covered with the perspiration of shame. The clusters of grapes there, vieing in colour with the emerald, were like the Pleiades in heaven; and the narcissus was more graceful than the flowing ringlets of the most charming damsel. That garden! If a drop of its dew were to fall in the ocean it would make the fishes exhale the perfume of roses; and if the sky should hear a single note of its birds, it would cease revolving, and stand still to listen to it.^264a If Venus heard it, she would dance with joy, and fall on earth in company with the moon. Redder than the fairest fruits was the colour of the fruits growing there; and much more graceful than the tallest form were the cypress-trees that waved therein.²⁶⁵

The prince gazed on all this with pleasure. Suddenly his eyes fell on an outer hall, made of ruby and jasper, inlaid with a pond full of the purest rose-water. Its sides were studded with the most precious stones, and in the middle of it bloomed a lovely flower, delicate to view, and most pleasing in fragrance. The prince concluded that this was the Rose of Bakáwalí. Undressing himself, he plunged into the pond, and obtained the flower of his fondest wishes. Investing himself again with his garments, he deposited the flower most carefully in his pocket, and turned his steps towards the palace of the princess. A magnificent structure composed of ruby met his eyes. Its doors beamed with the lustre which once shone on Mount Sinai.^265a Attracted by its beauty the prince entered. Every hall was made of rubies. The windows were ornamented with screens of the richest embroidery, the work upon which appeared as stars sprinkled on the face of the heavens. Táj ul-Mulúk advanced; but what was his surprise when he perceived a magnificent couch on which was reposing a slender beauty, fast locked in the arms of sleep! Her hair was dishevelled. Slight marks of lamp-black were observable round her closed eyes,²⁶⁶ her bodice was loosened, her waistband very much removed from its proper place, and her trouser-sleeves were pulled up, and its bunches of strings hanging loosely. With her fair hands gracefully laid upon her forehead, she was sleeping the sleep of innocent youth. The ruddiness of her cheeks brightened the world and cast the sun and moon into the shade. Those black eyes would have shamed even the narcissus, and the redness of her lips would make the heart of the tulip to bleed. The arch of her eyebrows made the crescent hide its face, and the locks of night paled before the shady blackness of her raven hair.

Tall as the cypress of the lawn was she,
And sweet as honey were her lips so red;
If seen in all her native brilliancy,
The stars would lose the lustre which they shed.
Bright as the pearls her shining teeth were seen;
Radiant her charms as Pleiades on high;
She was a rose, the fairest rose, I ween,
For whom a thousand nightingales would die.

Táj ul-Mulúk was staggered at the sight of so much beauty; but, on regaining some degree of strength, he approached the couch and softly recited these verses:

“If thy charms thou would'st discover,
Stars would all their light forget,
And the night would grow the darker,
Gazing on those locks of jet.
Glowing in the flush of beauty,
Careless of the world art thou:
What am I?—The mightiest princes
Will before thy beauty bow!”

In brief, the prince thought within himself that it would be well to leave some token of his visit. So he gently took a ring off one of her fingers and put his own in its place, murmuring the following lines:

“Like the tulip, lo! I go, a spot upon my suffering heart,
Dust upon my head, and in my heart a sharp and rankling dart.
Like me in this scene of woe, who suffers more from Fortune's power?
In this garden I have entered, and I go without a flower.”

While she was yet sleeping the prince departed, and returned to the abode of Hammála, who was waiting for him in the most intense anxiety. When she saw him she smiled with the sincerest pleasure, and passed the time in merriment and joy. And when the bride of day had hidden her blushing face in the bed of midnight, and evening had shown her murky locks to the world,²⁶⁷ the prince retired and that night showed every endearment to his spouse. Thus several days passed in pleasure.

One night Táj ul-Mulúk sat in the chamber of Mahmúda and conversed with her to this effect: “O source of all my happiness! although I here enjoy comfort and everything is ready for my convenience, yet I am longing for my native land.” “Rest contented,” she replied, “and to-morrow I shall ask leave to depart.” Next morning, as usual, Hammála tenderly embraced them, but perceiving them to look sad, she asked them: “What can I do to please you, my darlings? Fear not a refusal.” Mahmúda answered: “Your tender care anticipates all our desires; but there is one thing we do not find here, namely, the company of beings like ourselves; and so, notwithstanding the violent grief we feel in separating from you, the fire of the love of country reduces to ashes our repose and necessitates the employment of the water of return.” Hammála, greatly afflicted by this sudden declaration, cried out: “What! have I brought you up with so much care, in the hope that you would be my faithful companion, and now you wish to leave me! Alas, you would never have thought of it, if I had not married you to the sháh-záda. But it is all my own fault.” Yet seeing that they would not willingly remain with her, she summoned a dív, and ordered him to carry the pair to a place which Táj ul-Mulúk would indicate to him, and bring back a letter intimating their safe arrival. Then Hammála plucked two hairs out of her head, and giving one to the prince and the other to Mahmúda she said: “When you need me, put this hair in the fire and I will at once hasten to you with a thousand dívs,”²⁶⁹ and having received their adieus, a gigantic dív appeared, who was swifter in his course than the lightning, and told them he was at their service. “Conduct us then,” said the prince, “to the city of Firdaus, and into the garden of the courtesan Dilbar Lakhí.” The dív took them upon his shoulders, and quick as thought deposited them in the place indicated. Táj ul-Mulúk then dismissed his guide with a letter to Hammála, announcing their safe arrival.

When the beautiful Dilbar heard the voice of the sháh-záda she ran out to meet him, and throwing herself at his feet, returned thanks to God for his safe return. He told all that had occurred to him, and introduced to her Mahmúda, whom Dilbar Lakhí tenderly embraced in token of her sincere affection. After a few days Táj ul-Mulúk made preparations to return to his own country. At the moment of his departure, Dilbar, after having had some conversation with him, ordered his brothers to be brought, and he, who was supposed not to know them, begged her to restore them to liberty, as she had already done to the princes of the east and the west who had fallen into her power; but she consented only provided she should be allowed to brand them on the back in token of the state of slavery to which they had been reduced. The four sons of Zayn ul-Mulúk had no alternative but to submit to be thus branded; but when they had withdrawn Táj ul-Mulúk ordered each of them to be given a dress of honour and a lakh of rupís to defray the expenses of their journey, and then they set out for their native land. He then sent away Dilbar and Mahmúda, directing them to wait for him in a certain city, and himself secretly followed his brothers in order to discover their intentions.

Táj ul-Mulúk stopped at the same inn as his brothers, and, concealed in a corner of the room, he heard their boasting and falsehood with reference to the Rose of Bakáwalí. He waited patiently for some time, but at last could endure it no longer, and drawing near them he said to others who were present: “What these men say is false; for I alone possess the Rose of Bakáwalí, and can show it to you.” Then untying his girdle he drew from it the flower and exhibited it to the impostors, who in fury snatched it from him saying: “Let us see if you speak the truth; for if you deceive us we shall make you pay dearly for it.” They caused a blind man to be brought in, applied the rose to his eyes, and instantly his sight was restored. Their astonishment and confusion were unbounded, but they not only refused to return the flower to Táj ul-Mulúk, but showered blows upon him and chased him from their presence. Then they joyfully continued their journey, and on reaching the confines of their country they sent a messenger before them to announce their return. This news filled the good king, their father, with joy. To do them honour, he made a journey of several days to meet them.²⁷¹ Zayn ul-Mulúk embraced his four sons and kissed them affectionately. On their part, they gave him the Rose of Bakáwalí, which when he placed to his eyes rendered them as bright as the stars. He then offered thanks to God that he had recovered his sight by means of the flower, and in celebration of the happy event ordered all his subjects, rich and poor, to keep open for a whole year the door of joy and pleasure, and to close the door of sadness and sorrow.

BAKAWALI, ON AWAKING, DISCOVERS THAT HER ROSE HAS BEEN STOLEN, SETS OUT IN SEARCH OF THE THIEF DISGUISED AS A MAN, AND TAKES SERVICE WITH THE PRINCE'S FATHER, THE KING OF THE EAST—THE FAIRIES BUILD A GRAND PALACE FOR THE PRINCE, LIKE THAT OF BAKAWALI—THE KING HEARS OF THE NEW PALACE—STORY OF THE PRINCESS AND THE DEMON WHO EXCHANGED SEXES—THE PRINCE'S FATHER AND BRETHREN, WITH BAKAWALI (DISGUISED), VISIT HIM AT HIS PALACE, AND HE DISCLOSES HIMSELF.

LET us now return to Bakáwalí, whom we left asleep on her beautiful couch. When she awoke she fastened her bodice, put her dress in order, drew the comb through her hair, and went to the lake where grew her cherished Rose. On reaching the bank she discovered that the precious flower was gone, and at the same moment perceived that she wore a different ring from her own. “O Heaven!” cried she, “is it a dream or the effect of magic? But no; only a man could have done this deed, for none but a human being could elude the vigilance of the dívs. None is equal to thee in daring, and an ordinary man I am sure thou art not. Gold and silver are stolen by thieves; but thou art not a common robber. If I could but see thee I would lay thy hands on my eyes and kiss them over and over. Thou hast made a mine in my bosom and stolen away my heart. To thy satisfaction thou hast not seen me; but I doubt not thou hast feasted thy eyes with a sight of these lips, and who knows, but thou mayest have tasted the honey therefrom? Thou hast stolen the gold, and the casket only is here.” Bakáwalí then returned into her palace and summoned her attendants in order to have them punished for their carelessness, forgetting the maxim that “when the arrow of Fate is shot none can arrest it with the shield of prudence,” and said to them: “If you wish to live, bring the thief to me immediately.” They did as desired, but no trace whatever of the thief could be found. Bakáwalí resolved to go herself in quest of him. Rendering herself invisible to all eyes, she reached the capital of Zayn ul-Mulúk, where she beheld everywhere preparations being made for a festival, and heard on all sides the sound of musical instruments. Curious to know the cause of these rejoicings, she assumed the form of a young man, and inquired of the first person she met: “What is the reason of the mirth which prevails among the inhabitants of this city?” “The king,” replied the citizen, “was blind; but his sons, after searching a long time and coming through unheard-of trials, have at last succeeded in obtaining the Rose of Bakáwalí, which has restored his sight. On this account the padisháh has ordered that every one should give himself up to pleasure for a year, and that the sound of the naubat²⁷³ should everywhere be heard.”

Bakáwalí, delighted to hear tidings, at least, of her Rose, was in hopes of soon discovering the person who had stolen it from her. Returning to the bank of the river, she bathed in order to refresh herself after the fatigue of her journey, and having dressed, she proceeded to the royal palace. She was introduced to Zayn ul-Mulúk, who inquired of her who she was, and whence and why she had come. Bakáwalí answered thus, very composedly: “Your slave comes from the country of the west which is called Farrukh.²⁷⁴ I have left my home in the hope of entering the service of your majesty, and I venture to express the wish that I may be admitted among the number of officers attached to your royal person.” “I accept your services,” said the king; “remain with me.” For some time Bakáwalí performed her new duties, till one day the four sons of the king presented themselves at court. Zayn ul-Mulúk, according to his custom, received them most affectionately, pressed them to his bosom, kissed their heads and eyes, and made them sit beside himself. Bakáwalí asked an attendant who these personages were, and was informed that they were the king's own sons. Then with the touch-stone of discernment she tested the gold of their countenances, and felt convinced that it was not pure. “Has the king no other son,” she inquired, “who went with these in search of the Rose of Bakáwalí?” “He has not,” was the answer.^274a The fairy princess loved him who had taken possession of her ring, and her heart told her that he was of a quite different stamp from these four sons of Zayn ul-Mulúk. In despair, that after so many difficulties she had discovered traces of her Rose, but still could not find out the one who had plucked it, she cursed the fate which had sported with her prudent devices, and remained convinced that these princes had not plucked the Rose and that the king had another son. So she resolved to be patient and see what should come from behind the veil of mystery.

When the four wicked brothers of Táj ul-Mulúk had deprived him of the Rose of Bakáwalí he was at first confounded, but soon afterwards followed them, and when he arrived at the frontiers of his father's country, and found himself in a dense jungle full of wild beasts, he recollected the hair which Hammála had given him, and placed it on a fire which he lighted by means of a flint. There was not a quarter of it burnt when the fairy presented herself before him, accompanied by a thousand dívs, and asked him in what way she could be of service to him. The prince, after apologising for the liberty he had taken in summoning her, replied that he wished to have, then and in that spot, a palace equal to that of Bakáwalí, upon which the fairy despatched some of her followers to the four corners of the earth, to fetch the rubies of Badakshán, the carnelians of Yaman, and abundance of gold and silver and all kinds of precious stones. Within three days the dívs returned laden with treasures and at once began to erect a palace as instructed by the sháh-záda. It was soon finished, and one would have said that it was actually the palace of Bakáwalí. One fourth of the precious stones brought by the dívs could not be used and were deposited in the treasury of the palace. When all was ready, Hammála reminded the prince that what she had just done for him was on account of her love for Mahmúda, and counselled him never to soil with the dust of sorrow the robe of that damsel, and then departed.

Táj ul-Mulúk proceeded in great state to seek Dilbar and Mahmúda at the place where they were to wait for him. He provided them with palankíns, which were decorated with priceless gems and beautiful brocaded curtains, and preceded by slaves on horseback, carrying sticks of gold and silver in their hands. In this manner did he bring them to his palace, where they passed the time very agreeably.

One day, as a slave of the prince, named Sa'íd, was strolling through the forest he came upon some woodcutters, and asked them whither they were carrying the faggots they had prepared. “We are,” said they, “men of the east country, and it is by the sale of our wood that we support our families.” The slave desired them to convey their burdens to the house of his master, promising they should be richly recompensed. The men answered that they had never seen any sign of a habitation in that forest. “Follow me,” said the slave, “and you will soon be convinced I speak the truth, and that my master's house is not far distant.” The woodcutters complied in the hope of gain, and soon arrived near the palace of Táj ul-Mulúk. As the precious stones of which its walls were built reflected the rays of the sun, they thought it was a great fire. “May God preserve us,” they cried, “from the devil, who has been stoned!²⁷⁷ We will not go a step farther.” “Calm yourselves,” replied Sa'íd; “what you see is not fire, but the brilliancy of the stones which cover the walls. Continue to follow me, and fear nothing.” When they reached the palace, Sa'íd brought them before Táj ul-Mulúk, who received them with great kindness, and gave to each a handful of pearls and precious stones, saying to them that if they would come and stay with him he would give them every day twice as much as they had just received. So they left their own country and settled there. The news spread far and wide, and many others followed the example of the woodmen, and those who went remained in this new city. Every day the Kutwál²⁷⁸ was complaining to the minister of Zayn ul-Mulúk of the migration of his subjects, and how even in one night a thousand had quitted the capital. The minister inquired whither they had gone. “I have heard,” said the kutwál, “that in a forest a city has been built on foundations of gold, and that a palace has been erected which is unequalled in earth. The generosity of the king of that city bids fair to erase the name of Hatim^278a from the minds of the people; and such is the fame of his justice that the glory of Núshírván is eclipsed.^278b The minister asked: “How can a man do what is beyond the power of mortals to perform?” “But I have been credibly informed of it many times,” said the kutwál. “And that powerful God who transformed a man into a woman and metamorphosed a woman into a man can also bestow wealth (which is like a beautiful woman) on a human being. Have you not heard of the princess who borrowed virility from a dív and married a wife?” “No,” answered the vazír. “Attend then,” said the kutwál:

IN ancient times there lived a king, who had a hundred beautiful girls in his haram yet had no issue by any one of them. At length one of them gave birth to a daughter, and afterwards she bore three other children, but every time a female. When she was pregnant for the fourth time the king swore that if a daughter was born again he would have both the child and the mother destroyed. It happened that a daughter was again born; but lovely and fairylike was the infant. The mother, anxious to preserve the life of her darling, gave out that it was a son, and prevailed upon the astrologers to counsel the king not to see the child's face for ten years, for should he do so harm would come to him, and the father agreed to do as they desired.

When the girl grew up in years and understanding, and the prescribed period was near expiring, the mother explained matters to her, and requested her to assume the garb of a young man and thus appear before the king, so that in this way both their lives might be preserved. The daughter followed her mother's instructions, and in due course she was betrothed to the daughter of another monarch. When the wedding-day approached, the king caused her to be clothed in rich garments, and, placing her in a golden litter, despatched her to the country of the bride. The girl sometimes wept and sometimes laughed at the situation in which she was placed. At last when she reached a dense forest, where she had occasion to stay for the night, she could bear her shame no longer, and finding life nothing less than a burden, she left her litter secretly and wandered far into the wood, trusting that some beast of prey would destroy her.

After roaming about for some time, she found herself under the branches of a tall, umbrageous tree, in which dwelt a dív, who immediately fell in love with her beauty. In the shape of a young man he appeared to her, and inquired the cause of her distress. The girl told her story frankly, upon which the heart of the dív melted, and he offered to change her into a man and himself into a woman for a short time. She consented to this, and the transformation took place at once, after which she took her leave, with a light and happy heart, and rejoined her attendants unperceived by any of them. In a few days more they reached the country of the bride. The marriage was consummated and the old king returned to his own country. The prince who was originally a princess remained with his spouse until a child was born to him, and then he set out on a visit to his father. In passing through the forest he sought out the tree and found the dív sitting there in the form of a woman. “O dív,” cried the prince, “through thy favour I have obtained the wish of my heart. Take back your virility and restore my womanhood to me.” But this the dív could not do, as in the form of a woman he had fallen in love with another dív and expected soon to become a mother. “Therefore,” added the dív, “do thou retain thy manhood: I am content to remain a woman.”²⁸¹

The kutwál having finished his story, the vazír remarked: “God is great and powerful. I do not doubt this; but how a man can act so miraculously as you say the ruler of that new city has done, I cannot understand. Do you, however, go and inspect that wonderful palace and bring me an account of all that you see.” So the kutwál at once proceeded to Mulk-i Nighárín,^281a accompanied by a large body of cavaliers. Táj ul-Mulúk, on hearing of his approach, ordered all the ponds to be filled and the fountains to be set playing, and that he should be received in the ruby-room. When the prince graced the throne with his presence the kutwál rose, made his obeisance to him, and spoke as follows: “The news of your residence in this jungle, where you have a palace and a city, has reached the ears of the king, my master, who has sent me to verify the fact. Now permit me to explain to you that if you wish to remain independent, you must quit this place without delay. If not, you must put your neck in the collar of submission and present yourself at the court of the king, for one scabbard cannot hold two swords nor one country be governed by two sovereigns.” “It is true,” replied Táj ul-Mulúk, “that I have constructed buildings in a place inhabited by wild beasts, but I am only occupied here in the service of the Most High, and I do not covet sovereignty, but wish to be regarded as friendly towards your king.” The kutwál, satisfied with this declaration, returned to the vazír and related to him all that he had seen and heard, whereupon the vazír communicated it to Zayn ul-Mulúk. The fairy Bakáwalí, who was still in the king's service, heard the news with joy: she now beheld the Aurora of hope emerge from the night of despair.

Meanwhile Zayn ul-Mulúk bent his head for some time in the collar of reflection, then expressed his fear that this new city might one day be the ruin of his kingdom. But the vazír represented to him that it was a maxim of the sages, that discretion should be practised towards an enemy who could not be conquered, and therefore he recommended that the king should enter into an allegiance with the stranger. “I consent,” replied the monarch; “and, as no one can arrange this affair so well as yourself, do you go, and kill the serpent without breaking the stick.”²⁸³ The sagacious vazír accordingly went in great state to visit Táj ul-Mulúk, and was accorded a reception suited to his exalted rank. “You have already received a visit of a servant of my master, the king,” said the vazír. “He has spoken so highly of your qualities that the anger which had become kindled in the heart of the padisháh, on hearing of your settlement here, has been extinguished, and he purposes himself paying you a visit. What can be better than a union of two rivers of goodness and generosity?” Táj ul-Mulúk replied: “I accept with great pleasure the message which you bring me on the part of your royal master. I ought to have made the first advance, for the king's wish which you have conveyed to me is also my own.” It was then arranged that the king should come in a week, and, after the vazír had dined with Táj ul-Mulúk in the most sumptuous manner, he returned and gave his master a faithful account of his interview and the wonders of the new city.

That very night the sháh-záda placed Hammála's hair on the fire, and immediately she appeared with a thousand dívs. Mahmúda rose to greet her mother, who kissed and embraced both her children, and inquired if they were in health. Táj ul-Mulúk answered: “In your safety is our happiness and all our wants are supplied. But in eight days the king of the East will visit me, and I wish you to cause carpets of wool and red and green velvet to be spread on the ground from my palace to his, and erect at the distance of every two miles tents made of fine ermine, with strings of gold texture, screens of satin and brocade, and hooks of gold and silver. These tents must be so numerous that every attendant of the king may be accommodated separately.” Hammála gave the necessary orders to her followers and returned to her own country.

On the day appointed, the king set out to visit Táj ul-Mulúk, mounted on an elephant, in an amári²⁸⁴ of gold, accompanied by his ministers and a great number of cavaliers. The four sons of the king, mounted on their own elephants, were also of the party, while Bakáwalí attended as an officer of the royal household. Táj ul-Mulúk went one day's march to meet his father.²⁸⁵ He paid his respects to him and led him with joy to his palace, and made him sit down in the room of emeralds. The king was so astonished that he fell into a kind of stupor. Bakáwalí, on her part, almost lost her reason, when she beheld the prince. His handsome features pointed him out to her as the stealer of her Rose, and she was confirmed in this when she recognised that the palace was an exact copy of her own, for she felt sure that he who had designed it had seen the original. She wished at once to make herself known, but her natural timidity restrained her, and she resolved to wait patiently for a favourable opportunity to accomplish her purpose. Meanwhile a splendid feast was spread out, and music and song diffused pleasure over all. When every amusement was over, the king and Táj ul-Mulúk began to converse, and the prince inquired how many sons he had. The king pointed to the four princes and said that these were his only children. “I had one more,” he added, “by gazing on whose countenance I lost my eyesight. Thanks be to God that I have regained it now; but there is no knowing where that child has gone.” Táj ul-Mulúk asked how it was that the prince had turned away his face from duty and left his father's house, and farther inquired whether any one in the company would be able to recognise him. On this Zayn ul-Mulúk gave a detailed account of the birth of the lost prince as well as a history of his own blindness. He then pointed out one of his vazírs, who, he said, might be able to identify him. The prince turned towards him and inquired whether among all present he saw any one who bore a resemblance to Táj ul-Mulúk. The old and experienced man, after gazing steadfastly in the countenance of the speaker, replied that none but the prince himself presented any likeness to that person.

Hardly were these words uttered than Táj ul-Mulúk threw himself at the feet of his father, exclaiming: “I am that unfortunate son, who has wandered so long from your court in consequence of an adverse destiny and my sorrowful horoscope. Blessed be God who has at last permitted me to behold your venerable face and embrace your knees!” The king, deeply moved, pressed his young son to his bosom; then he returned thanks to God, saying to Táj ul-Mulúk that the astrologers who were consulted at his birth had predicted his present illustrious condition. “But tell me, dear son,” he continued, “have you remained free till now, like the cypress, without uniting yourself to some beautiful lady?” The prince replied: “I have two wives, whom I shall have the honour to present to your majesty,” and at once he went into the women's apartments and led out Dilbar and Mahmúda, who, however, stopped at the threshold of the hall and would not advance farther. The king impatiently exclaimed: “Why do they not come near me, that my eyes may be illumined and my heart delighted by beholding them?” The prince answered: “My sovereign, it is shame that restrains them. The four princes, your sons, were once in bondage to one of them, and bear the tokens on their backs. If you have any doubt of this, you can satisfy yourself.” At these words the pallor of confusion overspread the faces of the four princes, who immediately retired, fearing to be disgraced in public.²⁸⁷ Then the wives of Táj ul-Mulúk were introduced to the king, and the prince related their history; how he bore away the flower from the garden of Bakáwalí and saw her asleep in all her beauty; how his brothers had deprived him of the flower; and how he had built his palace in the forest. Zayn ul-Mulúk immediately thought of the mother of his son. “You,” said he, addressing the prince, “have restored my eyesight and opened the gates of joy to me. It is now incumbent on me to communicate the happy tidings to your mother, and relieve her from the pains of absence, by restoring her long-lost son to her.” He then arose to depart; and the same night he paid a visit to Táj ul-Mulúk's mother, begged a thousand pardons for all that he had done to her, and informed her of the return of her son.

BAKAWALI RETURNS TO HER OWN COUNTRY, AND THERE WRITES A LOVE-LETTER TO THE PRINCE, WHO SETS OUT TO VISIT HER—THE MOTHER OF BAKAWALI DISCOVERS THAT HER DAUGHTER IS IN LOVE WITH A HUMAN BEING, TOSSES THE PRINCE HIGH UP INTO THE AIR AND IMPRISONS BAKAWALI—THE PRINCE FALLS INTO A RIVER, EMERGES FROM IT IN SAFETY, OBTAINS SEVERAL MAGIC ARTICLES, IS CHANGED INTO A YOUNG WOMAN, THEN INTO A FOUL-VISAGED ABYSSINIAN, AND FINALLY REGAINS HIS OWN FORM.

BAKAWALI, who had heard the story of Táj ul-Mulúk, could no longer doubt but that he was the ravisher of her Rose and her ring. And when the king had returned to his capital she obtained permission to leave his service, and at once returned to her own palace, where she wrote a letter to her well-beloved, with her ring, and entrusted the packet to a fairy named Saman-rú,²⁸⁸ who was her confidante, desiring her to deliver it to Prince Táj ul-Mulúk when she found him alone and free from the cares of the world. The fairy spread her wings and in the twinkling of an eye appeared before the prince and delivered the letter of her mistress. The prince at once recognised the ring, opened the letter with the greatest eagerness, and read as follows:

“I begin in the name of God, who has no equal in the universe. He it is who placed the stars in the heavens and created both genii and men. To the fairy he has given beauty; and yet has he granted superiority to men over fairies, for even they are struck by the darts of love. Cast but thy eyes on the countenance of Laylá, and she will become Majnún for thee. And if the reflex of thy beauty shine on Shírín, she will become her own Farhád.²⁸⁹ The sun and the atoms that dance in his beams are equally enamoured of thee. The light of love thou hast lightened, and like a moth is burned in the flame.

“After my compliments to thee, O king of beauty and grace, let me tell thee that the arrows which sprang from the bows of thine eyebrows have wounded my heart to its core; and thy raven locks, descending luxuriantly, have enchained and enfettered me. Love has triumphed over me; he is my master both externally and internally. It is wrong to think that one heart is apprised of the feelings of another; but here am I burning, suffering, and no impression is made on thee. Without thee, my house is a scene of woe, and even heaven is hell. I am panting for the life-bestowing elixir of thy kisses. Thy love has deprived me of my heart; I should not wonder if I find no portion of it within my breast. Do thou accept my virgin love! Thou art the river, and I am dying of thirst; come at once and slake it. If you come not, I shall die of a broken heart; but on rising at the day of resurrection, I shall call thee to account. What wilt thou answer me then, when I ask thee why thou didst kill me? But this is enough. My feelings will be apparent from this.”²⁹⁰

On reading Bakáwalí's letter the fire of love which was concealed in the heart of Táj ul-Mulúk was fiercely kindled. Impatient as mercury, he wished at once to behold her who had charmed him and whom he had himself inspired with love. Meanwhile he took the pen in his hand and thus replied:

“O thou, who knowest well how to burn the heart of thy lover, the whole style of thy letter shows that thou art fully inclined to oppress my suffering bosom. Thou art beautiful; thou art indeed the robber that waits for his prey in the path of love. Thine eyebrows are like swords, and in thine eyes lurk enchantments and lightnings to captivate and burn the soul. The rose-bud is ashamed before thy countenance, and the ruby colourless before thy lips. I am an atom; thou art the sun indeed. O thou charming beauty, and lovelier than the idols of China!²⁹¹ every word of thy letter has made a lasting impression on my heart. I have passed my nights in sighs and groans. The impress of thy countenance will never be erased from the tablet of my memory. As long as the moon shall retain her light, so long shall my heart retain thy love. Never think that I shall forget thee; not for a moment shall my heart lose the idea of thy enchanting charms. Thy name fills me with impatience. When first I heard it I undertook to endure every trouble. I made friendship with the dívs to induce them to convey me to thy fairy-land. I saw thee, and the wound of my heart was terribly enlarged. Is it that a spark from my heart has fallen on thine, or has the lightning of desire struck thee? Yet I ought not to confide any more of my secrets to the pen; as it is said: ‘The pen should not be admitted into the secrets of lovers.’ Enough now.”

Táj ul-Mulúk applied to this letter, as a seal, his moist eye tinted with surma,²⁹² and handed it to Samánrú, charging the fairy to say many things from him to Bakáwalí which he could not express in writing, and the fairy, taking her leave, soon discharged her commission.

When Bakáwalí saw that the love of Táj ul-Mulúk was still more violent than her own, and that union alone could calm their mutual impatience, she summoned Hammála at once, who presently appeared before the princess, trembling at the peremptory command like the willow of Egypt; but finding her in tears, she expressed her concern. “Wretched go-between,” said Bakáwalí, in anger, “it is thou who hast kindled the fire which consumes me and caused my present condition, by giving to thy son-in-law the means of coming here. Wherefore, in order to repair thy fault, do thou bring quickly to me this dearly beloved being.” “Is it for such a trifle,” replied Hammála, with a smile, “that your cheeks are wet and your beauty disfigured? Rise and wash yourself, and let the smile return to your lips, for I will at once bring Táj ul-Mulúk to you—nothing is easier.” Swiftly flew Hammála and came to the prince. “Arise, thou moth,” said she smilingly, “thy candle invites thee.” On hearing these welcome words the prince fell at her feet. Hammála raised him, pressed him in her arms, and placing him on her shoulder carried him to the realm of Bakáwalí.

In the meantime Jamíla Khatún²⁹⁴ was informed that her daughter Bakáwalí was in love with a human being. She flew into a violent rage, and severely scolded her, saying that she was a disgrace to the fairies. Bakáwalí, laying her fingers on her ears, denied the assertion, and declared that she was still ignorant of the meaning of love, and that only in a dream had she seen a human being. It was after this scene that Hammála arrived with the prince, and when Saman-rú came, and privately informed Bakáwalí that her lover was in the garden; she told her to keep him concealed in some place of safety, as she had, much against her will, to remain with her mother till the greater part of the night was past.

Jamíla Khatún at last fell asleep, and Bakáwalí arose without disturbing her mother, and with palpitating bosom, alternating between fear and desire, she proceeded to the place where her lover was hidden. So violent were the feelings of Táj ul-Mulúk on beholding Bakáwalí that he swooned. She ran up to him, and placed his head on her knees, when her sweet breath had the effect of the essence of roses on the prince, who soon recovered consciousness, and on opening his eyes and seeing all her concern for him, he considered himself as the personification of happiness. Unfortunately, Jamíla Khatún awoke about the middle of the night and arose; and, seeing the garden lit up by the rays of the moon, walked out in front of the very spot where the lovers were reposing in each other's arms, believing themselves in perfect security. On seeing them the flames of anger broke out in her heart, and taking up Táj ul-Mulúk she hurled him like a stone from a sling into the regions of magic, and then slapped Bakáwalí until the hue of her cheeks was equal to that of the reddest tulip. After this she conveyed her to the garden of Iram, the residence of her father, Fírúz Sháh,²⁹⁵ to whom she disclosed all she had witnessed. Fírúz Sháh appointed a number of fairies to divert his daughter's heart from human love. But in vain did they busy themselves with this object night and day without intermission: the more they spoke the more she loved; the more they tried to extinguish the flame the more it blazed. They saw plainly that love had made a home in her heart, so at last they told Fírúz Sháh that all their efforts were of no avail, and he, finding her deaf to all good counsel, threw a talismanic influence over her, and Bakáwalí found herself confined in golden fetters.

When Jamíla Khatún had hurled Táj ul-Mulúk up in the air, he fell into an unknown sea, the waves of which tossed him to and fro. Now like a pearl he would sink to the bottom, and now like a bubble rise to the surface. After remaining some days in this condition he at last reached the shore of a green island: so true it is that even death cannot lay his hand on the life of lovers. The heat of the sun reanimating his body, he regained his strength and could rise up and walk. Eager to get away from this island, he collected the branches of trees, and having joined them together in the form of a raft, invoked the name of God,²⁹⁶ cast it into the sea and placed himself on it. After drifting on the sea for several days he reached a shore which skirted a frightful desert. At night, through fear of wild beasts, he climbed a tree, but ere long he heard a rumbling sound on the south side of the desert, and presently perceived a monstrous dragon approach and place itself at the foot of the tree into the branches of which he had climbed. The dragon brought from its mouth a serpent which emitted a gem so brilliant that it lighted up the jungle for many miles. The wild beasts and birds came to dance before the dragon; they were soon rendered senseless and all devoured by the monster, after which the serpent swallowed the gem and re-entered the mouth of the dragon, who departed the way it had come. The prince wished he could obtain possession of the gem, for which purpose he long remained in thought, devising a plan, but morning dawned before he came to any determination. He then walked towards the shore and brought away from there a heavy lump of clay. In the evening he again climbed the tree and sat patiently. When the dragon came and repeated the scene of the previous evening, the prince threw the lump of clay down on the gem, and having thus covered it the whole forest was plunged into darkness, so that the dragon and the serpent knocked their heads against the stones and died.²⁹⁷ On the morrow Táj ul-Mulúk came down from the tree, and taking the precious gem from beneath the clay placed it in his girdle, and set out in hopes of finding some inhabited spot. He walked on for several days without success, sleeping at night among the branches of trees.

It happened one night, as he had secured himself in a tree where a maina²⁹⁸ had its nest, he heard the little ones ask their mother what treasures there were in the jungle. She replied: “As you proceed towards the south there is on the edge of a lake a tree of enormous height. Any one placing a piece of its bark on his head will become invisible to all, while everything is visible to him; but no person can go to that tree, because it is guarded by a huge dragon, which neither sword nor arrow can wound.” The young ones inquired: “How, then, could any one reach there?” The maina answered: “If a courageous and prudent man should go to the border of the lake, he must leap into it, when the dragon will attack him, and he will be changed into a raven, and must then place himself on one of the western branches of that tree, where he will find green and red fruits. Should he eat one of the red fruits, he will regain his original form; and by eating a green fruit he will become invulnerable, and by placing one in his girdle he could travel through the air. The leaves will heal wounds, and its wood open the strongest locks and break the most solid bodies.” Táj ul-Mulúk listened most attentively to this conversation, and resolved to profit by it.²⁹⁹

In the morning he went to the lake, and the dragon darted forth to attack him. The prince leaped into the water, and was changed into a raven; then flying to the tree, he ate of the red fruit, and recovering his proper form plucked some green fruits and placed them in his girdle; of one of the branches he made a staff, and, taking some of the healing leaves and a piece of the bark sufficient to make an invisible cap, he flew away. He soon left the jungle and arrived at an inhabited place. He cut open a part of his thigh, placed the gem in it, and by aid of the leaves healed the wound in a moment.

After proceeding a short distance he came to the marble border of a lake, around which grew the most beautiful flowers. On seeing the clear and cool water he felt a strong desire to bathe in it, so he at once undressed himself and dived into the pond; but when he came to the surface again he saw neither the lake nor the place where he was before, but found himself near a strange city, and, what was stranger still, he felt that he was no longer a man, but metamorphosed into a beautiful young woman, with cheeks like the jasmine flower. Táj ul-Mulúk was greatly concerned at this wonderful change, but in the meantime he saw no remedy but patience. He sat down, quite ashamed, when a young man, passing by, saw, as he supposed, the features of a húrí, and asked by what accident he came there. Táj ul-Mulúk replied: “My father was a merchant, and it was his custom to take me with him on his trading journeys. We came into this forest with a caravan, and at midnight robbers attacked us, pillaged all our goods, and killed my father and several others. The rest fled, and I only am left in the midst of this solitude, without shelter, or strength to go farther.” “If you take me as your husband,” said the young man, “I will lead you to my house, in which you may rule as mistress.” With the form of a woman the prince was also endowed with her nature, and becoming at once enamoured of the youth he followed him and duly became his wife. In course of time a son was born, and on the fortieth day he went to bathe in a lake which was near the house.³⁰⁰ When he withdrew his head from the water, he saw nothing of what surrounded him a moment before, but found himself changed into a young Abyssinian. Presently a hideous negress appeared before him, and seizing him by the girdle exclaimed: “O man without feeling! for three days have thy children suffered from hunger, and I have never ceased searching for you! Where hast thou been hiding thyself? But never mind—what is done is done. Come now, where is the wood which thou hast collected? Give it to me, that I may sell it and procure food for our starving children.” “Great God!” cried Táj ul-Mulúk, turning his eyes towards heaven, “how long wilt thou keep me in this state of affliction? From the day when the mother of Baká-walí tossed me into the sea, I have not breathed a single moment free from the clutches of misfortune.” In short, that sable hag pulled him, nolens volens, to her dwelling. Arrived there, a crowd of children surrounded him, crying: “Father! father! what hast thou brought for us?” Then the negress gave him an axe, and told him to go into the forest and cut some wood for the support of his family. The prince quitted the cottage, and as he went along called to mind that it was by plunging into a lake that his form had been twice changed, and he resolved to make a third trial. Accordingly he dived into the waters of the first lake on his way, lifted up his head, and found himself restored to his original shape, and on the border of the lake where he had taken his first plunge. He returned thanks to God, and determined never again to bathe in any lake. His magical cap and stick he found lying on the very spot where he had placed them before leaping into the lake which changed his sex, and taking them up he departed thence.

My friends,³⁰² those very lakes which Táj ul-Mulúk should have avoided are the pleasures of this world, which, like the mirage, deceive man. It was not necessary for him to fill his pitcher from every stream, nor to smell the flowers of every garden. Thorns have often the appearance of roses, and seem to be even more beautiful. If you enter into the world to lay hold of the pearl of pleasure, you will lose your hat and stick,—images of the goodness and power of God, and so, like Táj ul-Mulúk, you will cease to have the noble form of men. When you return to yourself you go to the brink of the stream of the remembrance of God and plunge into it; and drawing out your head, you again find the hat and stick of grace.

THE PRINCE COMES TO THE CASTLE OF A FIERCE DEMON CALLED SHAH PYKAR, WHERE HE FINDS RUH-AFZA, COUSIN OF BAKA-WALI, A PRISONER—HE RESCUES HER FROM THE DEMON AND CONVEYS HER TO HER PARENTS—HE OBTAINS BAKAWALI IN MARRIAGE AND RETURNS WITH HIS BEAUTEOUS FAIRY BRIDE TO HIS OWN PALACE.

TAJ UL-MULUK, after suffering every inconvenience, determined at last to leave the earth altogether, and, by the aid of the green fruit which he had with him, to travel about in the air. One day he passed over a mountain so high that by its side Káf would seem a mere hillock, and of granite so hard that mount Bistán³⁰³ would be reduced to powder by collision with one of its rocks. On the summit was a beautiful palace, constructed of precious stones, into which he entered from curiosity. He looked around but found no living creature, and was walking through the rooms when his ears caught a wailing sound, and going towards the place whence it issued he discovered a beautiful damsel extended on a couch and weeping very bitterly. The prince, taking off his hat and thus making himself visible, begged her to explain how and why she was there. “I am a fairy,” said she, “and am called Rúh-afzá.³⁰⁴ My father, Muzaffar Sháh,^304a rules over the island of Firdaus.^304b One day I had gone to the Garden of Iram^304c to visit my cousin Baká-walí, who was unwell, and on my return a dív with black countenance carried me away and brought me here. Then he wished me to yield to his passion, but I refused, and hence he persecutes me, and tries by all means to increase my sufferings.” The prince asked what was her cousin's malady, and Rúh-afzá replied: “She loves a human being, whom she contrived to bring into her presence, but she has been separated from him, and my uncle keeps her in close confinement.” At these words Táj ul-Mulúk could not suppress his sighs, and with pale cheeks and tears in his eyes confessed that he was the human creature whom Bakáwalí loved. “Alas!” added he, “while she is suffering in prison, I am pining away and wandering in search of her.” Then he told Rúh-afzá all his own history, and the recital so touched the beautiful fairy that she declared herself willing to do all in her power to help the lovers if she were freed from the dív. “Be not afraid,” said the prince; “no one can prevent your going. Come with me, and if the dív should appear, I shall settle matters with him. My only difficulty is that I am without weapons.” The fairy directed him to the armoury of the dív, from which he took a sword of the purest water. Then touching with his magic stick the chains which bound her feet they broke in pieces, and they took their way to the island of Firdaus. But they had only proceeded a short distance when a horrible noise was heard behind them. “Take care,” cried Rúh-afzá to the prince—“here is my terrible enemy!” Táj ul-Mulúk, with great presence of mind, drew his magic cap from under his arm and put it on the head of his lovely companion, and then turned to confront the dív. “Accursed one!” cried the prince, “advance not a step farther, if you would not be made a corpse by a single blow.” The dív grinned, showing his great teeth, and sneeringly asked: “Who has ever heard of a sparrow wishing to fight with the símurgh,³⁰⁶ or an ant with an elephant? I should blush to stain my hand with the blood of a fly, and strike at a handful of earth—I, who can turn aside mount Káf with a back stroke of my hand. Give me up my mistress and depart.” “Thou vile and lewd wretch,” exclaimed Táj ul Mulúk, “dost thou dare to call Rúh-afzá thy mistress? Had I not been restrained by the grace of God, ere this time I should have torn thy foul tongue out of thy mouth.” The dív burnt with anger at these words, and lifting up a stone weighing a hundred máns^306a threw it at the prince, upon which the latter, to avoid it, by virtue of the green fruit which he carried with him, rose up into the air, and with his magic staff dealt such a blow on the neck of the dív that he trembled all over. Then the dív uttered loud cries, and presently a great number of other dívs, ox-headed and elephant-bodied, came to his assistance and joined in battle against the sháh-záda, who after a most formidable engagement proved victorious, and those of his foes who survived fled in dismay. But no sooner was the field cleared of the enemy than Táj ul-Mulúk fainted in consequence of his exertions. The beautiful Rúh-afzá, seeing this, ran up to him, laid her hand like a rose-leaf on his bosom, and with her fragrant breath recalled him to consciousness, and, giving him back his magic cap, warmly praised his valorous achievement. Then they continued their journey, and arriving at the capital of Firdaus, Rúh-afzá, leaving the prince in a garden belonging to herself, and bearing her own name, proceeded to her father's palace, where she was received by Muzaffar Sháh and her mother with every token of affection. Rúh-afzá told them of her adventures, but concealed the fact of her deliverer being the lover of Bakáwalí. Her father at once proceeded to the garden and thanked Táj ul-Mulúk for rescuing his daughter, and overwhelmed him with tokens of respect and honour.

Muzaffar Sháh then wrote a letter to Fírúz Sháh, acquainting him of the return of Rúh-afzá. The monarch read it with joy, and induced Jamíla Khatún to go and see her niece. Bakáwalí wished to accompany her, which gave great pleasure to her mother, because she thought that the journey would remove the mildew of sorrow from the mirror of her heart. Jamíla unloosed the chains which bound Bakáwalí, and both departed together for the island of Firdaus. When Muzaffar Sháh was informed of their arrival he sent his daughter to meet them. Rúh-afzá greeted her aunt most heartily, kissed her forehead, fell at her feet, and then exchanged congratulations suitable to the occasion; after which she whispered to Baká-walí: “Be you glad also, for I have brought a physician who will cure your disease, by prescribing the sherbet of love to you.” The heart of Bakáwalí was full of joy, but she did not venture to reply before her mother. Muzaffar Sháh and Husn-árá³⁰⁸ showed the greatest kindness to their sister and her daughter. The door of speech was opened and different things were talked about, especially the manner in which Rúh-afzá had been rescued. The following morning Jamíla Khatún wished to take farewell of her niece, but the latter entreated her to allow Bakáwalí to remain a few days longer with her. Jamíla consented to leave her for a week with her cousin, and returned to the garden of Iram. Then Rúh-afzá led Bakáwalí to that part of the palace where Táj ul-Mulúk was dwelling. As soon as they drew near the chamber a doleful sound was heard from within. Bakáwalí asked: “Who is this groaning?” Her cousin answered: “It is a new victim. Come, if you wish, and I will show him to you.” At last she prevailed upon Bakáwalí to enter the chamber, and brought her into the presence of the prince. The moment the eyes of the lovers fell on each other patience was lost, sense remained dormant, the reins of discretion dropped from their hands, love triumphed over all, and they ran forward and embraced with all the warmth which genuine passion can alone inspire. They wept for joy, and blotted out with their tears the remembrance of the sorrows which had caused their long separation. The lovers remained together, and gave themselves up to mutual tokens of affection until at last the day arrived when Bakáwalí was obliged to return to her parents. Rúh-afzá promised to use her utmost efforts to get them united, and persuaded them to await with patience the course of events. Bakáwalí yielded to this advice and returned home.

Meanwhile Rúh-afzá related in detail to her mother the history of the love of her cousin and Táj ul-Mulúk. After the recital Husn-árá held her head for a long time bowed down in the collar of reflection, and then said to her daughter: “Although the union of a man with a fairy be an unusual thing, yet, as this mortal has delivered you from a cruel bondage, I ought, out of gratitude, to save him from some sorrow and enable him to succeed in his object.” Having taken this resolution, she called for a skilful painter and caused him to draw the portrait of Táj ul-Mulúk, and then proceeded to the garden of Iram, where she stayed a few days with Fírúz Sháh and Jamíla Khatún. One day in conversation with the latter she addressed her as follows: “My dear sister, a pearl of beautiful water is only useful when shown in a necklace. Why do you allow Bakáwalí to pine away in virginity?” “Perhaps you have already heard,” replied Jamíla, “that my daughter has placed her affections on a human being. She does not wish to be united to one of her own race. What can I do in this matter? Must I give up the customs of our ancestors? Should I allow my daughter to make a marriage which has never before taken place amongst us?” “True,” rejoined Husn-árá, “it is unwise to place a precious gem in the hands of one who cannot appreciate it; but if you knew all the merits of the human race you would never entertain such thoughts as these. Hear me: man is the most perfect of the creatures of God.³¹⁰ He is the image of the Deity, is glorified by all, and is considered as the lord of the creation. His sway extends over the elements, and, clothed in the garments of virtue, he is more than a sovereign on earth. The light of God beams in him. Every attribute of the Deity has its corresponding representation on earth; but in man alone can we find all the several virtues bound, as it were, in a single volume. Each leaf that trembles to the gale is a leaf of the works of the Creator.³¹¹ O Jamíla Khatún, man is a superior creature, and we are but his servants. What an honour it is therefore to be allied to a superior.” By such words Husn-árá endeavoured to extinguish in the heart of her sister the hatred which she had for the human race. “That is all very well,” said Jamíla, “but to a man my daughter shall never be given.” Thereupon Husn-árá placed Táj ul-Mulúk's portrait in her hands, saying: “Tell me, if ever the pen of destiny has drawn such a handsome face in the world. Make haste, then, to unite this lovely jasmine to that rose of beauty.” At length Jamíla consented to bestow her daughter on the prince, and Husn-árá returned to Firdaus, and reported the result of her expedition.

Jamíla related to her husband, Fírúz Sháh, the con versation she had with her sister, and showed him the likeness of Táj ul-Mulúk, which he sent to Bakáwalí, with the message that he was willing she should marry the young prince of the East, since such was her desire. Bakáwalí at once recognised her dearly beloved, and felt that this change in the sentiments of her parents was due to Rúh-afzá. So she hastened to her father, and said: “Sire, children ought to obey their parents, therefore I accept the husband whom you offer me. Were he a dív or an Abyssinian, I would consider him as one of the youths of paradise, or as the Moon of Canaan.”³¹² Fírúz Sháh at once gave orders to make preparations for the marriage. All the houses were decorated with gold, and songs and dances resounded throughout the city. Letters of invitation were despatched everywhere; troops of fairies came to swell the festive gathering. The wine went gaily round,^312a and plates with cakes and sweets. Fírúz Sháh treated all with princely hospitality. As the festivities began well, so they ended. In the island of Firdaus the same arrangements were made by Muzaffar Sháh and the same ceremonies performed.

On the day before the marriage orders were given to the amírs and vazírs that they should array themselves in the most brilliant garments. The army was directed to be drawn out. Husn-árá also adorned herself with the most precious jewels, and her maids and attendants were as splendidly decorated. At last, when the auspicious moment arrived,³¹³ they brought the prince, arrayed in royal robes, and placed him on a throne of state. A gorgeous turban adorned his head, whence descended long folds of flowing cloth, richly embroidered with pearls and flowers. His neck was surrounded with wreaths of valuable pearls, and his wrists encircled with the precious nauratan.^313a He was then placed on a beautiful horse, caparisoned in the richest fashion. Muzaffar Sháh, with several other sovereigns, rode in the train. The palankíns of the ladies followed. When the procession arrived at the palace of Fírúz Sháh he sent some of his officers to conduct them to the reception room where the company had assembled. Jamíla and Husn-árá then came forward, the former as mother of the bride, the latter as fulfilling the same duty for the bridegroom. The prince and princess were duly united in marriage, and congratulations resounded throughout the hall. Wines and sherbets were passed round abundantly. The singers only ceased their love-songs when sleep overtook them, and then they reposed in each other's arms as on cushions.

In the morning, as the prince went to the bath, Rúh-afzá came into the nuptial chamber and found Bakáwalí still asleep, and perceived on her cheeks the marks of the teeth of Táj ul-Mulúk,³¹⁴ and on her bosom the trace of his hands tinged with mehndí.^314a Muzaffar Sháh and Husn-árá soon took their leave of their relations and set out for their own country. Some time after, Táj ul-Mulúk, with the consent of Bakáwalí, asked permission to quit the palace of Fírúz Sháh. In giving his sanction, the king of the fairies presented the prince with a great number of slaves of both sexes, and, besides the dowry of Bakáwalí, ready money for the journey; and many articles of use and ornament were also bestowed on him, a mere catalogue of the names of which would fill a volume. Táj ul-Mulúk, attended with every pomp and magnificence, took Bakáwalí to his own palace. Dilbar and Mah-múda on beholding him were restored to joy, and the dry field of their hope was again refreshed with the shower of gladness. The beauty and grace of Baká-walí, however, filled them with confusion, but the fairy tenderly embraced them both and assured them that she would never disturb their domestic happiness. They spent their time in peace and mutual love and never had the least jealousy or rivalry between themselves. The prince passed his days with these rosy-lipped beauties, immersed in a sea of bliss.

BAKAWALI GOES TO THE COURT OF INDRA, WHERE SHE SINGS AND DANCES—THE DEITY, ENRAGED AT HER LOVE FOR A HUMAN BEING, PRONOUNCES A CURSE UPON HER—THE PRINCE GOES TO CEYLON, WHERE HE FINDS BAKAWALI CONFINED IN A TEMPLE, THE LOWER PART OF HER BODY BEING TURNED INTO MARBLE—CHITRAWAT, THE DAUGHTER OF THE RAJA, FALLS IN LOVE WITH HIM, AND ON HIS DECLINING HER OVERTURES HE IS THROWN INTO PRISON.

INDIAN writers say, that there was a city called Amarnagar, whose inhabitants were immortal, the king of which, named Indra,³¹⁶ passed his days and nights in joyful festivities, and the food of his soul was song and dancing. His sway extended over all the world of the jinn, and his court was constantly attended by the parís, who danced before him. One night Indra observed that Bakáwalí, the daughter of Fírúz Sháh, had not been present for some time, and demanded to know the reason. “It is,” replied one of the parís, “because she has been caught in the net of love by a man, and, intoxicated with this passion, she is constantly with him and has no longer any dislike for his race.” On hearing this Indra was greatly enraged, and directed several fairies to bring her instantly. By an aërial chariot they were carried to the garden of Táj ul-Mulúk, where they awoke Bakáwalí, told her of the wrath of Indra and intimated his command. She was therefore compelled to accompany them to Amarnagar, and, trembling, came before the king, and with folded hands paid her dutiful respects; but the king, casting on her a look of anger, reprimanded her with great severity, and ordered that she should be thrown into the fire, so that her body might lose the odour which the contact with a mortal had imparted to it. The fairies put her accordingly into a furnace where she was reduced to ashes; after which they recited a charm over a basin of water, and sprinkling it on the ashes restored her to life. Thus purified, she came before Indra, and began to dance. With her first motion, she trod upon the hearts of the spectators, and in one turn threw the beholders out of themselves: every mouth applauded her, every tongue commended her. When she had ended, she saluted the assembly and returned in the same chariot to her garden. After bathing in rose-water she rejoined her lord. On the morrow she rose up according to her custom, and conducted herself all day in her usual manner till night came, when she again ascended to the court of Indra to repeat the proceedings of the preceding night; and thus she continued for some time, Táj ul-Mulúk suspecting nothing.

One night, however, while she was at the court of Indra, the prince awoke, and finding her not by his side sought her in vain both on the terrace and in the garden. He went to sleep again, and, meanwhile, Bakáwalí returned and lay down on the marital couch. The prince was much astonished, on awaking in the morning, to find her by his side, but, feigning to know nothing of her absence, he determined to discover the secret. Before lying down on his couch next night, he cut his finger and put salt on the wound to prevent him from dropping asleep. At midnight the flying chariot appeared, and just as Bakáwalí was about to mount it the prince, without being perceived, fastened himself firmly to one of the corners, and they were speedily at the gate of Indra. There the prince saw what he had never before seen as regards immortal beauties; and heard what he had never before heard with respect to musical sounds. But when he beheld the terrible purification of Bakáwalí, and saw her reduced to ashes, he could no longer contain himself, and struck his head with both hands. Presently, boundless was his astonishment when he saw his beloved rise up again from her ashes and advance towards Indra. As the crowd was numerous, he followed her without attracting any attention. It chanced that the musician attending Bakáwalí was very old, and could not, from infirmity, perform his duties properly.³¹⁸ The prince approached the musician, and said in a whisper: “If you are tired with playing, I will take your place for a short time with much pleasure, as I am considered skilful in this exercise.” The old man accepted the proposal and handed him the instrument. No sooner had the prince struck the first note than the movements of Bakáwalí grew animated and ravishing. Indra was so delighted that he took from his neck a collar, of the value of nine lakhs of rupís, and cast it before Bakáwalí, who, in a retrograde movement, gave it in charge of the clever musician. When the festivities were over Bakáwalí returned home, and went as usual to bathe in the tank of rose-water. Meanwhile Táj ul-Mulúk gained his couch and feigned to be fast asleep.

When morning dawned the prince related to Baká-walí his adventure of the previous night, confirming the truth of his narrative by showing her the necklace of Indra. She expressed her fears lest a repetition of the adventure should cause them distress, but said she would that night try her fate by taking him with her. Accordingly the prince accompanied her to the court of Indra, and was presented by her to the king as a skilled musician; and as soon as the prince began to play and Bakáwalí to dance, the assembly were overcome with astonishment, and Indra exclaimed: “Ask what thou desirest, and I will give it to thee.”³¹⁹ Bakáwalí replied: “Great king, I am in want of nothing, save that you will give me this musician and let me go.” At these words Indra, in anger, and regarding Bakáwalí as a courtesan, said that as he had given his word he must not draw back from it; but for twelve years the lower half of her body should be of marble.³²⁰

Fate, alas! ordaineth still,
Grief and joy are twin-born here:
Now 'tis spring with laughing flowers,
Now 'tis autumn bleak and sere!
A crown adorns the head to-day,
In the grave it lies to-morrow!
Now like flowers the heart expands,
Now 'tis spotted all with sorrow!
Pleasures vanish fast away,
Short-lived is the sunny day!

It is related that Bakáwalí immediately after her transformation disappeared, and Táj ul-Mulúk rolled on the ground through excess of grief; but the fairies, pitying his condition, took him up and cast him in a forest on earth. For three days he remained there without sense or motion. On the fourth he opened his eyes, and found, instead of his beloved, nothing but thorns in his arms. He wandered on every side, calling upon Bakáwalí, and asking every tree to direct him to her. One day he arrived on the banks of a pond. Beautiful stairs were on each side and trees loaded with fruits were planted everywhere. The prince waited for a moment, then bathed, and laid himself down under the shade of a tree, and thinking of his beloved he fell asleep. It happened that a number of fairies alighted there, and after bathing in the pond, sat down to dry their hair. The eyes of one falling on the prince, she observed to her companions: “There is the musician of Bakáwalí.” The moment that these words were heard by Táj ul-Mulúk he opened his eyes, arose, came before the fairies, and, weeping, inquired if they knew where Bakáwalí was. Their hearts melted within them. They said they had not seen her, but had heard that she was in a temple in Ceylon, the gates of which remained closed during the day and were open during the night; adding that Bakáwalí's body was changed to stone from her waist downward. The prince inquired in what direction was her present abode, and how far it was from the place where they were standing. They answered: “Leaving out the inconvenience of travel, if a person were to journey all his life he would never reach it.” Táj ul-Mulúk despaired on hearing this, and then, bidding adieu to life, commenced dashing his head against the stones. The fairies, compassionating his case, consulted among themselves, with a view of devising such measures as would enable them to carry him to the desired quarter, and there leave him to the fate that might befall him. They removed him instantly, and, in the saying of a word, placed him in the land of Ceylon.

After a moment his despair was somehow cheered with hope. He gazed upon a city which rivalled Paradise in loveliness, surrounded as it was with every surprising object. Not one of the men or women appeared to be ugly there. Nay, the very trees were so symmetrical as to strike the beholder with wonder. Rambling about, he at last found himself in the public thoroughfare, where he met a Bráhman, who was a devotee. Of him he inquired: “In what shrines do you offer up your prayers?” The Bráhman answered: “In that of Rájá Chitrasan,³²² who governs this country.” The prince next asked: “How many temples are there in this city?” The Bráhman satisfied his inquiries, and then added, that lately a new temple had been discovered in the south, the doors of which were never opened during the day, and no one knew what it contained. The prince was delighted at this intelligence, and took his way as pointed out, until he reached the building and sat down patiently. In the night one of its doors suddenly opened. He entered and found Bakáwalí half in her original form and half petrified, reclining against the wall. On beholding him she was much astonished, and inquired how he had come thither. The prince gave a faithful account of his adventures. The night was then passed in conversation. And when morning was about to dawn Bakáwalí bade him depart, “for,” said she, “if the sunbeams find you here you will be changed into a shape like mine.” She then pulled out a pearl from her earring and gave it to the prince, and desired him to sell it and use the proceeds for his own subsistence for a few days. The prince took it to the city and sold it for some thousands of rupís. He then bought a house, and having furnished it, engaged a number of servants. It was usual with him to pass his nights with Bakáwalí and return home in the morning, and thus several years rolled away.

In the meantime the prince had become acquainted with many of the inhabitants, who generally undertook to escort him through the city. In one of his walks he came upon a party of naked creatures, on whom every mark of poverty was visible. He observed that these men, although in the garb of beggars, had still some tokens of nobility in their features, and inquired: “What may be the cause of this?” His friends answered that some of those individuals were actually princes, and some the sons of nobles, but they were all the victims of love.³²³ “The Rájá Chitrasan has a daughter named Chitrawat,³²⁴ who is as bright as the moon—nay, more, she is a star in the heaven of loveliness. Amongst women she is perfectly unrivalled. Grace is visible in her steps and magic in her eyes.^324a Thousands die before her arching eyebrows, and hundreds of thousands are entrapped in her raven tresses: those tresses that are darker than night—nay, darker than the fate of her lovers. Her eyes teem with nectar and poison. In one moment they can kill, in another, restore to life. In her love there is nothing but suffering, sorrow, and loss of reputation.^324b In brief, she is really a fairy, whose charms enslave both infidels and Muslims. But what is worse, she has two companions whose beauty has also wrecked the peace of many. One is the daughter of a betel-seller³²⁵ and is called Nirmalá;^325a the other is the child of a gardener and is called Chapalá.^325b All three are sincerely attached to each other. Sitting or rising, in all concerns of life, they are inseparable companions. Moreover, each is at liberty to choose her own husband. But hitherto none has proved so fortunate as to be honoured with the favour of either of those beauties.”

Some time after this the prince found himself under the balcony of the Princess Chitrawat, and beheld thousands gazing longingly on her bright features, even as the bulbul regards the blushing beauties of the rose. Like maniacs, they were blubbering amongst themselves, while she, the proud beauty, sat on her balcony exulting at the view of their sufferings. It was at this moment that Táj ul-Mulúk appeared. Their eyes met. The shaft of love passed at once through her heart. She was wounded. Her patience was lost, and sense forsook her for the time. Down she fell, and her attendants ran and lifted her up. They sprinkled rose-water on her face, put a scent-bottle to her nostrils, and she presently revived. She was, however, still motionless and speechless, and although several inquired the cause of her indisposition, she returned not a word in answer, but continued gazing steadfastly in the same direction. Then it was that Nirmalá looked down from the window and discovered the prince; and after hearing all the circumstances of the case from Chitrawat, comforted her friend thus: “O princess, your sufferings distract me, and make me lose my equanimity. Why are you anxious? Your father has already made you mistress of your own hand, and it depends upon your choice to marry any one you may love. Be comforted: the youth on the black charger shall be thine, though he should be even an angel. Depend on me; I will entrap him in such a way that escape will be altogether impossible.” She then deputed a female go-between to undertake the work.

Boldly did this woman come forward, and seizing the reins of the prince's horse, “Knowest thou,” she asked him, “that the poor are sacrificed and lovers impaled here? The fair lady of this palace can bind the hearts of all in her glossy tresses, and at one glance cast them dead upon the earth. Whence is thy boldness, that thou castest thy glance on the mansions of kings? Art thou a spark able to melt the hearts of the fair ones, and to dissolve their stony nature? Whence art thou? What country dost thou inhabit? Where is thy native land? And what is thy family?” Táj ul-Mulúk at once divined that she was sent by some one, and answered: “Silence! Do not re-open my wounds. My native land is brighter than the sun, and the name of it is known to emperors. Tell the person who has deputed you, not to cast a glance on such a distressed traveller as myself, nor harbour any thoughts in her heart that may have the slightest reference to love:

Go to him who will approve thee;
Love him only who can love thee.”

The artful go-between then ascertained that he was a prince of the East, that his name was Táj ul-Mulúk, and that his connections were high. These particulars she communicated to Chitrawat.

After this the prince frequently passed along the same road, so that he might have an opportunity of looking up at the balcony. Even as the moon wanes from her fourteenth night, so did the health and spirits of the princess, who pined inwardly for him. She tried long to keep the secret to herself, but her attempt was in vain. In a few days even her parents came to know of her sufferings. Her father, the king, employed an accomplished dame to repair to Táj ul-Mulúk, and try all her arts to bring about a marriage between him and his daughter; at all events, to endeavour by every means to gain his heart. The woman faithfully performed her mission and dwelt long on commendations of the charms of the princess. Táj ul-Mulúk returned his respects to the king, and said that he was a wanderer from his country, that he had exchanged the robes of royalty for the troubles of travelling, and that he had alienated himself from relations and friends; therefore, to propose an alliance with him was like tracing figures on water and tying the wind in a napkin.

When this message was delivered to the rájá it made him sadly thoughtful, and drove him to ask counsel of his minister, who assured him that it was not a difficult matter for the king to bring a houseless stranger into subjection. He even offered to undertake such measures as should ultimately entrap him; and his plan was to bring a charge of theft against the prince. Now it so happened that the pecuniary resources of Táj ul-Mulúk were altogether exhausted, and, as he was purposing applying to Bakáwalí, he recollected the jewel which he had taken from the serpent and concealed in his thigh.³²⁸ He sent for a surgeon and had the jewel taken out, afterwards curing the wound by means of his wonderful ointment. When he had fully recovered, he took the gem to the bazár; but every jeweller was struck with surprise, and declared himself unable to pay the price. They informed the vazír that a stranger had come into the city, wishing to dispose of a jewel which none but the king could purchase. The minister on hearing this caused the stranger to be arrested and brought before him, and knowing him to be the prince with whom Chitrawat was in love, he lost no time in bringing a charge of robbery against him and committing him to prison. He then told the king that the bird that had flown away from the cage was ensnared again, and would doubtless comply with the wishes of the sovereign.

THE PRINCE IS MARRIED TO CHITRAWAT, BUT, VISITING BAKA-WALI EVERY NIGHT, HIS NEW BRIDE COMPLAINS TO HER FATHER OF HIS INDIFFERENCE, AND THE RAJA SENDS SPIES TO DOG HIS STEPS—THE TEMPLE IS DISCOVERED AND RAZED TO THE GROUND, AND THE PRINCE IS IN DESPAIR.

RAJA CHITRASAN used every endeavour to make the prince suffer all the woes of imprisonment to compel him to marry his daughter; but what caused the greatest pang in the heart of Táj ul-Mulúk was his absence from Bakáwalí. Night and day he wailed and dashed his head against the walls and door, till at length the gaoler informed the king that the new prisoner was suffering much, and if not soon released would certainly die, and his blood would be on the king's head. To this the king answered not a word, but sending for his daughter desired her to go to the prison and cast the shadow of her bright face on the prince. “Perhaps,” said he, “like the moth, he may flutter in the lustre of your beauty, and his pride be reduced to ashes.”

Chitrawat received these instructions with delight. She adorned herself with all care, and thus heightened the effect of all her natural charms, and attended by Nirmalá and Chapalá, like the moon with Venus and Mercury in her train, she proceeded to the prison. On entering, this Zulaykhá encountered her lover, whose beauty was still equal to that of Joseph.³³⁰ In all her loveliness she stood before him. Her teeth glittered like pearls of the purest water, and the redness of her lips would have shamed the blushing ruby. Her neck shone with silvery whiteness. As she moved, the richest odours were diffused from her garments, and 'itr^330a breathed around her person. Her almond eyes were enchanting to behold, and her amber cheeks spread fragrance far and near. The dimples on her chin attracted the hearts of all beholders; but virgin modesty forbade her to expose to view the pomegranates of her breasts. Nothing, however, would attract the notice of the prince. In a word, when Chitrawat found that the magic of her eyes and the fascination of her brow had no effect upon the heart of the prince, she fell before him and struggled with her sufferings. Then it was that the prince felt pity and drew her to his arms, and consented to marry her, for he saw that unless he did so there was no chance of his release.

Nirmalá communicated the happy intelligence to the rájá, and informed him that the princess had returned home successful in the object she had in view. The rájá immediately ordered the liberation of the prince, caused him to be taken to a splendid bath and arrayed in royal garments, after which he appointed a mansion for his use. In an auspicious hour he joined him and his daughter in wedlock according to the rites and ceremonies of the country. When Táj ul-Mulúk entered the chamber of Chitra-wat, he found Nirmalá and Chapalá in attendance. They received him with great warmth, which was not returned by the prince.

When a quarter of the night was over, he rose from the nuptial couch, and took his way towards Bakáwalí's temple, where that fairy, not having seen him for some time, was longing for his return. As soon as her eyes fell on the prince her heart rejoiced, but the moment she saw his hands and feet tinged with the hue of myrtle, her jasmine-like face reddened with anger.³³² “Well, prince,” said she, in a taunting manner, “you have come at last; but what a fashion you have adopted! You have drowned the name of lover, and shamed the character of faith on earth. Henceforward never dare to love, or proclaim yourself a lover. What hast thou done, O cruel one? Is this thy gratitude, that, while I am changed to a stone here, thy fingers boast the redness of the myrtle? Whilst I pine here in loneliness, thou reposest on the couch of luxury; and while my heart is breaking for thee, thou enjoyest pleasures with some other rosy-coloured damsel! While I die here for thee, how canst thou be happy, O Táj ul-Mulúk?”

On hearing these words the prince expressed the sincerest regret, and answered: “Beloved, whither are your thoughts wandering? Although I am a famous prince, yet I regard myself as your slave—all that is mine is also thine. From the day when I first beheld you, nothing has pleased me so much as the sight of your charms. Friends, luxuries, mirth, music, my mind disowns them all alike, being constantly fixed on you. And since I am entirely your own, how can I be attracted by the beauty of others? Do not mistrust me: my love is too sincere to suffer any change, and the allegiance I owe you can never be turned aside. I can never have any concern with others when I have placed life and death in your hands. But what could I do? I was powerless and in prison. I had no intention whatever of marrying another, but had I not done so, there was no hope of release. If I had not complied with the wish of another, how could I have seen you again? I should have died in confinement, and you would have remained pining in this temple. Hence I married.”³³³

Bakáwalí replied in wrath: “Why have recourse to such falsehoods? Can any one be married by compulsion? It is sufficient: I have examined your faith and love. May you be happy! I will remain content with my misery, knowing well that in the day of distress none but God is our friend.” With a breaking heart did the prince hear these words. He heaved a deep sigh and wept. Bakáwalí could not endure this; she joined him in tears, and both continued sobbing for some time. At last the prince fell at her feet and she raised and embraced him. “I am not seriously angry with you,” she said; “all that I have spoken was but to try your fidelity. I am happy in your happiness, and am the last person to be indignant with you.” In this way they went on, till the prince explained how he was compelled to marry Chitrawat, and at length succeeded in dispelling all suspicions from her mind.³³⁴ When morning dawned he returned home, and took his place beside his new bride.

Thus night after night the prince passed with Baká-walí, and the day in conversation with Chitrawat, who was naturally very much out of temper at such conduct. She wondered how it was that her own charms had no effect on the heart of her husband, and ultimately complained to her father of the ungracious manner in which she was treated by the prince. Spies were appointed by the king to watch the nocturnal movements of Táj ul-Mulúk. They discovered him wending his way to the temple of Bakáwalí, where he passed the night, and whence he returned at early dawn. When the king was informed of this, he caused the temple to be demolished and the stones cast into an adjacent stream. On the following night, Táj ul-Mulúk, as usual, went to visit Bakáwalí, and finding no vestige of the temple, he rolled on the ground and exclaimed:

“If I of thee a trace could find,
To that spot I'd willing go;
But I'm powerless: if the earth
Would open wide, I'd sink below!”

At length, overcome by despair, he gave free vent to his tears, and finally returned home. For some days sorrow and hopelessness were his inseparable companions; but when he became convinced that another meeting with Bakáwalí could never take place, and that his grief was of no avail, he turned his attention to the enchanting conversation of Chitrawat, and then it was that the buds of her hopes expanded, touched by the zephyr of his love, and the shell of her desire was made fragrant with the pearls of his affection.

BAKAWALI IS RE-BORN IN THE HOUSE OF A FARMER—WHEN SHE IS OF MARRIAGEABLE AGE THE PRINCE AND CHITRAWAT MEET HER AND THEY ALL THREE PROCEED TO HIS OWN COUNTRY, WHERE HE IS WELCOMED AFFECTIONATELY BY DILBAR AND MAHMUDA—BAHRAM, THE SON OF ZAYN UL-MULUK'S VAZIR, FALLS IN LOVE WITH RUH-AFZA, THE COUSIN OF BAKAWALI.

THEY say that the ground on which the temple of Bakáwalí once stood was tilled by a farmer, who sowed it with mustard-seed. Táj ul-Mulúk often repaired thither to gaze upon the fields, which were spread with carpets of the richest verdure. When the plants emerged from the soil and blossomed the prince visited the fields each morning and evening, and thus addressed them:

“Flowers of the field! how fare ye here?
Love's fragrance in your bloom I find;
From earth emerging ye appear—
Say, where's the charmer of my mind?”

In due time the mustard-plants ripened, and the farmer reaped his crop and put it in the oil press. Peasants are generally accustomed to try the first fruits of their fields themselves. Hence it happened that the farmer's wife, partaking of a dish prepared with the oil thus produced, became pregnant, although she had hitherto been sterile. In due course she gave birth to a fairy-faced daughter, whose presence illumined the heretofore dark abode of the farmer. It was soon noised abroad that a hitherto sterile woman had brought forth a fair daughter through the virtue of some mustard oil. As for the infant, the neighbours all declared that, while even now the splendour of her countenance eclipsed that of the moon, when she should have reached her fourteenth year it would excel the glory of the sun itself.

When Táj ul-Mulúk heard of this wonderful occurrence, he summoned the farmer and his babe to his presence; and the moment he cast his eyes upon the latter, he recognised the features of his beloved, and was convinced that Bakáwalí had been thus re-born in the farmer's humble abode.³³⁶ He gave the farmer a large sum of money and desired him to bring up the infant with every possible care. When she was seven years of age, many were the applications made for her hand in marriage; but the farmer, remembering that the prince had shown a deep interest in her welfare, knew not how to decide. To all he replied that when the girl came to be of marriageable age, she should have free permission to choose her husband. When she was on the verge of her tenth year,³³⁷ Táj ul-Mulúk sent a messenger to her father, demanding the hand of his daughter in marriage. The farmer trembled when he heard this, saying: “How can a poor farmer dare to make the king's son-in-law the husband of his daughter? Should I even do so, the result must be that her position will be that of a slave; and I cannot think of such a fate for my lovely child. When Bakáwalí heard him thus soliloquise, “Father,” said she, “hear me. My name is Bakáwalí, and I am a fairy. Do not be anxious on my account; for the rose is always destined to grace the head, and the pearl to adorn the princely diadem. In answer, desire the prince to wait for a few days more.” The messenger of Táj ul-Mulúk returned and gave him an account of all that he had heard. The prince was highly delighted; his sorrows all vanished. He rewarded the messenger and dismissed him.

The dark days of Bakáwalí having passed away, troops of fairies now came to visit her, and with them Saman-rú, enrobed with richly-embroidered garments, and glittering with jewels, and seated on a golden throne. Bakáwalí changed her dress, put on her ornaments, and when all was ready she addressed her father, saying: “Hitherto I have been your guest; now I am about to depart.” She then led him behind the house, and pointed out a spot which contained hidden treasures under ground. Then she left him, and ascending the throne, guided by her attendant fairies, alighted in the mansion where Táj ul-Mulúk was sitting in company of Chitrawat, Nirmalá, and Chapalá. Bakáwalí entered the chamber alone. On approaching Chitrawat she embraced her with sisterly affection. Chitrawat was so much struck with the beauty of Bakáwalí that she sank on her sofa quite exhausted. Then Bakáwalí recounted her adventures to Táj ul-Mulúk, and heard his in return. She asked Chitrawat if her heart still glowed with love for the prince, “because, if so, my house is yours.” Chitra-wat replied: “I live only in the prince; and when he departs, how can I continue to live? I am ready to go with you.”

On a sign from Bakáwalí, her attendants made themselves visible; and it is related that when they appeared, Ceylon was so densely filled that no space of four fingers' breadth even was left unoccupied:³³⁹ confusion reigned throughout the city. Even the king was dismayed, and sought the shelter of his palace. The moment he entered Táj ul-Mulúk rose to greet him. He went a few steps in advance, and led the king to a seat on his own throne. He then gave him a detailed history of his love for Bakáwalí. For some time the king seemed much distressed; but at length signs of joy were visible in his countenance, and rising from his seat he placed the hands of his daughter into those of Bakáwalí, saying: “I trust my only child to you; not, indeed, as a rival, but as a slave. My only hope is, that you will not withhold your kindness from one who is bound to regard you as her superior.” He then gave them leave to depart.

Táj ul-Mulúk ascended the fairy throne; Bakáwalí and Chitrawat sat on either side of him; while Nir-malá and Chapalá stood respectfully before them. In a moment the throne alighted on the threshold of Táj ul-Mulúk's palace, and the two princesses entered. Bahrám,^339a the son of the minister of Zayn-ul-Mulúk, who had been left in charge of the palace and gardens of the prince, came forth to welcome his master and mistress home. Táj ul-Mulúk received him graciously, accepted his presents,³⁴⁰ and rewarded him with a robe of honour. He then entered the palace, and was received with the utmost delight by Mahmúda and Dilbar, with whom, as well as with Chitrawat and Bakáwalí, the stream of life glided through peace and tranquility.

Historians relate that Táj ul-Mulúk addressed letters to Fírúz Sháh, Muzaffar Sháh, and his father, communicating to them the happy intelligence of his return. The perusal of these letters afforded much pleasure to the recipients, who forthwith set out to meet him. Fírúz Sháh and Jamíla Khatún set out for the East attended by splendid equipages. Muzaffar Sháh and Husn-árá followed their example. Zayn ul-Mulúk, with his lawful wife for his companion, and his army preceding him, went after the other princes to the country of Nighárín,^340a which they reached in a few days. They observed that its vicinity was so crowded with men and fairies that there was not sufficient space left to plant a seed of sesamum even.^340b Táj ul-Mulúk and Bakáwali were highly delighted to receive their guests. Sorrow departed from the heart of each. Nought was heard but songs and music—nought was seen save dancing and mirth. With the fourth day the feast ended, and the princes departed, highly pleased with the hospitality of Táj ul-Mulúk. But Bakáwalí prevailed upon Rúh-afzá to remain with her a few days longer, and a carnelian room was set apart for her sleeping chamber.

It happened one night, when Rúh-afzá was sleeping near the window, that her flowing locks descended therefrom, and a bright gem was glittering in one of the ribbons that tied her tresses. At that time Bahrám was roving about, enjoying the moonlight scene. As he approached the window, his eyes fell on the gem glittering there. He thought that a dragon was holding his jewel in his mouth.³⁴¹ But on looking more attentively, he perceived that it was a ruby glittering in a lock of hair which had escaped from the window. He then supposed that the room must be occupied by Bakáwalí, and that the lock of hair was hers. All that night he knew no rest. When morning dawned he could restrain himself no longer. He asked Saman-rú whose chamber that was, and she told him it was Rúh-afzá's. The moment he heard this the fire of love blazed in his heart, and maniac-like he wandered to and fro. The next midnight he watched for an opportunity, applied a scaling-ladder to the window, and entered the chamber. There he saw the rival of Venus sleeping gracefully on a golden bed. Beholding this, he became senseless, like one intoxicated, and as he was yet a stranger to the pleasure which was now stealing through his veins, incontinently he threw himself on the bed, embraced the fairy and kissed her rapturously. That instant Rúh-afzá started up and found that the intruder was Bahrám; and though she secretly loved him, she was displeased at this breach of the rules of decency. She pretended to be highly offended and slapped him till he was fairly pushed out of the window, and Bahrám retired weeping to his own apartment.

Next morning Rúh-afzá begged permission of Baká-walí to depart: and although the latter endeavoured to persuade her to prolong her visit, she was resolute, for she was well aware that if Bakáwalí came to know of the incident of the last night, she would laugh at her and plague her with her sarcastic remarks. At length she bade adieu to her fair hostess, and set out for the island of Firdaus. But love accompanied her; for her thoughts were only of Bahrám. No comfort came to her by day, and no rest through the live-long night. Her eyes were always moist with tears, and the simúm of grief withered the bloom of her cheeks.

BAHRAM IS LONG LOVE-SICK, BUT BY THE HELP OF TWO SYM-PATHISING FAIRY DAMSELS IS FINALLY UNITED TO THE BEAUTIFUL RUH-AFZA, AND ALL ENDS HAPPILY.

MEANWHILE Bahrám became thinner and thinner every day; but Saman-rú alone knew the cause. She was constantly advising him to chase away from his heart that love for a person of another race, which could only render him unhappy. “The example,” said she, “of the perfect union which exists between Táj ul-Mulúk and Bakáwalí should not lead you astray. It is a happy exception. But it is contrary to the nature of things for a human being to join himself to one of etherial substance.” These words made no impression on the mind of Bahrám, and when she saw that the thorn of love had pierced so deeply into his heart that it was hopeless to attempt its extraction, she declared that all she could do was to conduct him to Firdaus. Bahrám eagerly accepted this offer, and Saman-rú then clothed him in women's apparel, which suited him well, as he was yet beardless, and carried him through the air to Firdaus, to the house of her sister, called Banaf-shá, ³⁴³ who was hair-dresser to Rúh-afzá. The latter was delighted at seeing Saman-rú, and at once asked who was the young lady whom she had brought with her. “She is one of my friends,” said she, “who desires to see this country. I have taken the liberty of bringing her to you, in hopes that you will be so good as to show her all the sights.” “Certainly,” said Banafshá; “I am willing to do anything that might please you.” After this Saman-rú returned to Bakáwalí, and Bahrám remained in the house of Banafshá, who showed her every kindness, led her each day into a different garden, and pointed out everything worth seeing; in the evening she discharged her duties as hair-dresser to Rúh-afzá.

One evening Banafshá presented Bahrám to her young mistress, as a friend of Saman-rú. She at once recognised Bahrám, in spite of his disguise, but dissembled so well that he believed she did not know him. She induced Banafshá to leave the young person with her. Therefore she withdrew and Bahrám remained with his mistress. And when the Eternal Designer of the affairs of this world had illumed the earth with the clear light of the moon, Rúh-afzá led Bahrám into her private chamber, and said: “What is your name, madam?” He replied: “I have had no name for a long time: I only know yours.” “Why have you come here?” “Ask the taper: it will tell you why the moth throws itself into the flame.” These pleasant words gratified Rúh-afzá, but, affecting a severe countenance, she said: “You are deceiving me; for I observe from your words that you are not a woman. You have entered here by false pretences, and have thus exposed my honour to the wind. Say, yourself, what punishment does such hardihood deserve?” Poor Bahrám, who was quite ignorant of the artifices of coquetry, and remembered the hard blows of his mistress on a former occasion, thought that she was about to strike him again and drive him from her presence. He trembled through fear and repeated these verses:

“Kill me; for better 'tis to die before
Thy sight, than live to suffer more and more.”

Then he fell down quite unconscious, and Rúh-afzá, not being able to carry her feigned severity farther, ran up to him, put his head on her knees, showered kisses on him, and by the sweet perfume of her breath brought back his senses.

When Bahrám opened his eyes he perceived that he had assumed the rôle of the Rose and Rúh-afzá that of the Nightingale.³⁴⁵ Soon did he forget his former vexations. Rúh-afzá, who was violently in love with him, did not wish him to leave her, so to conceal him from the looks of the malicious she fastened round his neck a talisman which changed him into a bird.³⁴⁶ In this form she kept him in a golden cage, which was hung up before her eyes during the day, but at night she caused him to come out, and restored him to his proper shape. This continued for some time; but, as the Hindú proverb says, “love and musk cannot be long hidden”; and Husn-árá began to suspect that all was not as it should be with her daughter. One morning, at daybreak, she went to her daughter's chamber, and beating her, exclaimed: “You have drowned yourself in a vase full of water! You are lost to all shame! You have disgraced the name of your father! Let me at least know the name of your audacious accomplice, else I will strangle you with my own hands!” These violent words caused Rúh-afzá to tremble. “Dispel, my dear mother,” said she, “your vain dream. I have never seen a mortal but at a distance. Should a kind mother believe the gossiping reports of strangers?” But in spite of her most vehement protestations, her mother believed her not; she insisted that the ravisher who was in the house should be seized and punished as he deserved. By her order cunning spies were employed to search for Bahrám—in the earth, the air, and the sea, but without success: they were all ignorant of the secret of the golden cage.³⁴⁷ Husn-árá, despairing at the failure of her spies, scolded. her daughter's maids, and threatened them with the wrath of Muzaffar Sháh; whereupon one of them, called Gul-rukh,^347a pointed out the mysterious cage, saying that she had often observed Rúh-afzá, both night and day, caressing the dove which was shut up in it;—might it not, be surmised that there was some secret in that circumstance? Immediately Husn-árá proceeded to her daughter's chamber and seized hold of the cage. Rúh-afzá, with horror and dismay, saw her beloved bird in the talons of the falcon; but, trembling for herself, she dared not utter a word, still less could she snatch it out of the hands of the fowler of destiny. Husn-árá carried the cage to her husband, who drew out the bird, and felt its wings and all its feathers to see if he could discover any talisman. At last he found what was on the bird's neck, and on removing it, Bahrám appeared before him in his natural form. The attendants were greatly astonished, and Muzaffar Sháh, wild with passion, said to Bahrám: “Wicked wretch! fear you not my anger? Death alone can punish thy audacity!” “Sire,” replied Bahrám, “I fear not death; but I shall deeply regret my beloved mistress in leaving life; and even in my grave a stream of blood will flow from my eyes.”³⁴⁸ The anger of Muzaffar Sháh, far from being appeased by these words, increased to such a height that he gave orders to his people to go outside the city and throw Bahrám into the fire, so that he should be reduced to ashes.

By good fortune, Táj ul-Mulúk and Bakáwalí were at that moment walking together in the garden of Iram, and as they were not far from Jazína-Firdaus, they determined to visit Rúh-afzá. On going thither they passed the very spot where Bahrám was about to be burnt. He was already on the fatal pyre, with the flames surrounding him. Bakáwalí, seeing the pyre and the great crowd around it, ordered her chariot to draw near and cried out: “Extinguish the fire and bring that young man to me. I shall cause a thousand of you to be put to death, if you do not—ay, and raze all your houses to the ground!” These threats greatly disconcerted the officials, so they put out the fire and led Bahrám before the princess, who made him enter her chariot, and conducted him into a quiet garden, where leaving him with Táj ul-Mulúk, she then proceeded to visit Muzaffar Sháh and Husn-árá, who received her with the greatest kindness, and after embracing her, inquired the occasion of her visit. “It is mere chance,” said she, “which brings me to you; but I have seen on my way hither an incident which caused me great pain: some of your people were about to burn the son of my father-in-law's vazír, and, but for my interference, he would ere this have been reduced to ashes. Why did you dream of giving such instructions? Would his death change anything that has occurred? Would it efface the tika³⁴⁹ of slander? Supposing a hundred persons already know of the adventure of Rúh-afzá, presently it will be known to thousands. What you should rather do is pardon Bahrám his fault, and marry him to your daughter; for he is full of spirit and of a handsome appearance. If you despise human nature so much, why did you marry me to Táj ul-Mulúk? Is there any difference between your daughter and me?”

Muzaffar Sháh bent his head on hearing this remonstrance, and said he would think over it. Then Bakáwalí went in search of Rúh-afzá and found her in tears; but patting her on the head she said smilingly: “You have cried enough; wash yourself, change your dress, and come forth from your cell. I have brought back your lover, safe and sound, and hope that you will soon be married.” Rúh-afzá thanked Bakáwalí and embraced her most affectionately, and the cousins remained together all night.³⁵⁰ On the morrow Baká-walí led Rúh-afzá before her parents to be reconciled to them, after which she set out with Táj ul-Mulúk and Bahrám for Jazíra-i Iram. She related to her father and mother the story of Rúh-afzá and Bahrám, and persuaded them to do for the latter, without loss of time, what her uncle had done for Táj ul-Mulúk. They agreed, and, having clothed Bahrám in royal robes, proceeded in great state to Firdaus, where suitable arrangements had been made to receive the marriage procession, which soon arrived at the palace of Muzaffar Sháh. The wedding guests were conducted into the reception room, where dance and music continued the whole night. After the ceremony of the collar and betel, they brought the bridegroom into the interior of the palace, in order to accomplish the formalities which still remained to be performed. Bakáwalí behaved towards Bahrám as though she had been his sister. She held for him the Kurán and the looking-glass, and made him drink the cup half-emptied by Rúh-afzá.³⁵¹ When all these ceremonies had been performed, Muzaffar Sháh and Husn-árá gave to their daughter, on the day of separation, a considerable dowry, great quantity of ready money as well as jewels and slaves. Fírúz Sháh and Táj ul-Mulúk at the head of the nuptial procession returned to Jazír-i Iram, where they continued the festive rejoicings for several days, after which Bakáwalí and her devoted husband conducted Bahrám and his bride in great splendour to Mulk-i Nighárín. The father and mother of Bahrám were overjoyed at the sight of their beloved son, and warmly expressed their gratitude to Bakáwalí, who had brought him such great good fortune. To celebrate the marriage of his son, the vazír gave a grand banquet, to which great and small were alike invited, and even the king himself honoured it with his presence. The festival continued for several days. Everybody received presents; money was distributed in abundance—all were delighted. After the king had been escorted back to his palace and all the guests had retired to their homes, Bakáwalí summoned Hammála, and ordered her to transport her palace to that spot, which was soon accomplished, when she presented it to Rúh-afzá and Bahrám for their residence. Thus terminated the adventures of these lovers: each was content and happy.