One Thousand and One Nights, page 1330
This relation vividly reminded Medjeddin of his own father; he knew, from the great love he had always shown him, that he must have pined for his loss, and his mournful countenance and bowed-down form presented themselves before his mind. “Princess,” said he, “your desire cannot be greater than mine. Still, I swear to you, that I will not return to my father till I have safely conducted you to your native land, or have seen you safe into the hands of those who will bring you to your father; if I do not, may Heaven not grant my father life to receive this joy!”
They journeyed on with renewed vigour. But evening was drawing near, and it was necessary to find a resting-place for the night; fortune was favourable; they soon found a nook overhung by a large and lofty bush. Medjeddin broke away the boughs, so as to form a hedge which fenced round a small spot in which he concealed the princess, leaving only a narrow entrance, before which he lay down to watch. Night passed without danger. However anxiously Medjeddin strove against sleep in order to watch over his companion, it at last weighed down his eyelids; and they both awoke with the first rays of the sun. They wandered the whole day, resting occasionally; at every step the journey became more hazardous; the thickets became thicker and higher; they were often obliged to creep between the boughs, and their clothes hung in rags. On the fourth day they reached the foot of the mountains. There they found cultivated land and human habitations. Medjeddin inquired where they were, and asked the way to the sea. The people told them the name of the country, which was unknown to Medjeddin and to the princess Jasmin, and added, that on the other side of the high mountains lay a large flat land, bordering on the sea. They received this information with great joy, and, tired and footsore as they were, addressed themselves, without loss of time, to the task of crossing the mountains, and at last, after a wearisome journey, during which they had seen the sun rise and set seven times, they arrived at the flat country and the sea-coast of which they had been told. A ship lay ready at anchor; and when they inquired its destination, the steersman answered, “We are going to Zanguebar, to fetch a cargo of cinnamon.” To Medjeddin’s question where they came from, and the name of the land where they were, he received for answer, “that the ship belonged to a merchant of Balsora, and that it had been cast on these unknown shores by a violent storm.”
When the princess perceived that the ship was going towards her native land, she was very much rejoiced. She took one of the precious stones out of the fillet on her forehead, and gave it for the passage money of herself and her companion. The following morning they weighed anchor, and, after a prosperous voyage, reached the very same place where the enchanter’s ship had formerly lain at anchor, when he carried off the princess.
They were landed in a small boat, and Jasmin led her deliverer through the beautiful leafy walks of the imperial gardens. In this way they came to a terrace, from which they could see the ship. Instead of pressing hastily forwards, they concealed themselves behind a bush, for on the terrace sat a venerable and noble-looking man, with the profoundest melancholy stamped on his features; he was looking seawards, and the vessel had just caught his eye; a flood of tears ran down his face, “Ah!” cried he, “it was just so on the day that my sorrows began! There lay the ship of the robber; there landed the boat which carried away my beloved daughter and her betrothed. It was even at the same hour of the day. I have sent messengers into all the neighbouring lands; I have caused the opposite sea-coasts to be searched; but all has been in vain. I must die, and never see my child again.”
He pronounced these words aloud, and covered his face, as he bowed himself forward on his hands.
The princess Jasmin was rushing towards him, but Medjeddin held her back, and said, “Let me first prepare him for your arrival, for otherwise joy may kill him.” And he came forward, and bowed himself before the sorrowing old man.
The king then said, “Who are you? Are you a beggar, and do you need any gift? It shall be given you; go to my palace.”
Medjeddin stood up and answered, “From my appearance, you might well take me for a beggar, O great king Omar. But know that under these ragged clothes is concealed a magician, who is able to change your tears into smiles, your sobs into transports of joy.”
“Can any man on earth do this?” asked Omar.
“I have only to speak three words,” answered the other, “and it will happen. Are you strong enough to support the highest joy that your heart can feel or conceive?”
At these questions, a ray of hope kindled in the soul of the mourning father. “What is it? Who are you who can promise this?” asked he; and, on Medjeddin repeating his question, he answered, “I think so,” regarding him, at the same time, with eager looks.
“Approach, princess Jasmin,” cried the youth; and she sprang forward into her father’s open arms.
Medjeddin’s promise was indeed fulfilled; the aged monarch’s tears were changed into smiles of joy. Their embrace continued long. At last Omar raised himself, beckoned Medjeddin to approach, and said, “You are indeed a magician such as I have never seen before. By your words you have changed the mournful course of my life into the brightest sunshine. I will not now ask you who you are, and what I have to thank you for, nor inquire what chance brought you to my daughter; I shall only give myself up to joy at her return.”
They went back to the capital in the king’s barge, and soon the joyful news of the unexpected reappearance of the princess spread every where. Crowds assembled at the palace to ascertain if the news were true, and the princess at length went out of the principal gate of the palace, and showed herself at the head of the flight of steps which led up to it. Then arose a shout of joy from ten thousand voices, and loud wishes for her health and happiness.
The next day, after the king had heard from his daughter the history of her imprisonment, and of the devotion with which Medjeddin had watched over her and when Medjeddin had in turn narrated his history Omar became very thoughtful, and caused his council to assemble, to deliberate how they should reward him. “If he were not so young,” said some of them “he might be made grand vizier, the next in dignity to the king, or be appointed governor of a province. But his youth prevents his being placed over the people next to the king.”
After longer consultation, the eldest of the councillors rose, and said, “Omar, my king and lord, the youth has certainly performed a great service to you and the princess Jasmin; it seems to me, therefore, that his reward ought to come from you. It is fitting that the king, having received from him a great benefit in his family, should reward him from his family. Were I in such a case, I would constitute him Mundiana, and give him for a wife the daughter whom he has restored.”
The whole assembly were of the same opinion, and the king gave them to understand that this was also his wish. “I am old,” said he, “and can easily perceive that the cares of this land will soon need other hands to support them. I shall be much pleased to see my daughter with so good a husband. The prince Mundiana Mesoud, whom I had before chosen, has disappeared; and this youth, although of lower birth, is of noble soul, and will soon, under my guidance, acquire the necessary experience to enable him to promote justice and order in my kingdom.”
He did not delay, but immediately caused Medjeddin to be called. A costly band of gold and silver was fastened round his forehead, and the king then said, “I herewith appoint you Mundiana;” and the assembled councillors immediately added their congratulations.
Medjeddin expressed his gratitude in becoming terms, but inquired, smiling, what was the precise nature of the dignity conferred on him.
The eldest councillor stepped forward and said, “This name points out the highest post of honour which the king can bestow. You are found worthy of this honour, and no other lives who bears the title, because the Mundiana Prince Mesoud has disappeared.”
An elephant covered with costly trappings was now brought in by its keeper, and upon it was a richly ornamented seat. On this the new officer was placed, and led through the streets. Heralds went before him, and cried aloud, “Listen to what Omar makes known to all people. This youth has restored to him his dearest jewel, which he had lost. In gratitude, the king has nominated him Mundiana, and has appointed his daughter Jasmin for his wife. To-morrow the betrothal will be celebrated; and every body is invited to the court of the palace to partake of the general joy.”
Medjeddin hardly knew how all this had come about. He had received clothes and rich arms as a present from the king, and the king so highly favoured him, that he was not only to be husband of the princess Jasmin, but was to succeed Omar on the throne, and to reign over that beautiful and rich land. In his happiness he forgot his early life, his father’s sorrow, and even his playfellow Maryam and his father’s faithful friend Salek, and thought no more of his home or his father-land. The next day his betrothal with the princess was celebrated with great pomp.
The princess had willingly yielded to her father’s wish, without manifesting any particular joy, although, she felt a very sincere friendship for her intended husband, and treated him with great respect and attention, as she did not forget in her prosperity how much she had owed to him in the time of misfortune. The first days and weeks after the ceremony of betrothal were devoted to recreation and amusement, after which he was formally introduced by the king to the council, and instructed in the business of the state. The king and councillors had soon reason to wonder at the acuteness of his judgment in difficult cases, and above all, at his quick perception of right and order. Throughout the country, the justice and wisdom of the king’s future son-in-law were praised, and it was hoped that fortune would permit him to rule over the land. A whole year had now elapsed, and the day was fast approaching when he was to marry the princess and ascend the throne. One day, as usual, he sought his betrothed, the princess Jasmin, in her apartments. He happened to enter very rapidly after his announcement by the attendant, and saw the princess hastily wiping her eyes; and as he drew nearer, he perceived the traces of her tears. Sympathising with her, he asked the cause of her grief; she tried to avoid answering him, but as he continued to urge her, she at last said, “I dare tell you why these tears flow, because you are good and compassionate, and will not consider it a crime that I have a feeling and constant heart. You know that I was formerly beloved by prince Mesoud, the son of the neighbouring king; I related to you that this prince was changed into a black bird by the enchanter, and flew from the ship to the promontory of the island where our country seat was situated. Now I must tell you that I grieve so much the more about this prince’s fate, as from my own change I can compassionate his mournful condition. I could not repress the desire to ascertain his fate, and I have obtained certain news of his present condition, by the secret knowledge of a certain wise man. I have learned that he still lives in his new form, and that he has flown away, from fear of the machinations of the demon hunter, called among us Dolda Waldas, and is now in far distant regions; and that it is ordained by fate that he shall never regain his human form if I give my hand to another husband. Sorrow at his mournful destiny has drawn these tears from my eyes, the traces of which you observed.”
This narrative made a deep impression on Medjeddin; he discovered that Jasmin had acceded to her father’s wish only from gratitude and filial obedience, whilst her affections were still fixed on the absent prince. He saw that he could purchase the good fortune of being the husband of the noble princess, and son-in-law of the great king Omar, and after him king of Zanguebar, only by the misfortunes of prince Mesoud. He asked himself if this were right, and was obliged to confess that justice and honour were opposed to it. He saw that the intoxication of good fortune had hitherto blinded him. Then the remembrance of his father came before him, and his imagination pictured him pining away at the uncertainty of his son’s fate. He bitterly reproached himself for his long forgetfulness, and for not having sent an embassy to announce his safe arrival in Zanguebar. Scarcely had these thoughts and feelings arisen in his breast, than he made up his mind: he went to the king, told him all, and begged him to let him go and fulfil a son’s duty to a father whom he had too long neglected. Omar sighed deeply at these disclosures of his expected son-in-law; he proposed to send a ship to bring his father, so that he might spend the rest of his life in sharing his son’s good fortune and companionship. Upon this Medjeddin declared to him, with determination, that he could never be his son-in-law or successor to the throne. “I cannot purchase such good fortune at another’s expense,” said he; “it was otherwise before I knew the decision of fate; but now that I know that the prince Mesoud must, through my happiness, always remain in his present condition, if I thus take away the possibility of his ever returning to his human form, I should be in the highest degree culpable, if I did not voluntarily give up my good fortune.”
All the persuasions and arguments of Omar were useless. The councillors also, and the grand vizier and the governors of the provinces, begged him to continue in the land, and to take still more share in the government. He remained firm in his resolution; he promised the princess, who was astonished at his honourable spirit, that, as soon as he had seen and comforted his father, he would seek information about prince Mesoud from all the sages and magicians of his native land, and that he would try all means to restore him to his former condition. As he was determined to set out, the king gave him costly presents, including many precious stones from his treasury, and provided him with a ship, and all necessaries for the voyage.
The heavens seemed to favour the resolution of the returning son: the finest weather and most favourable winds seconded his journey, and the ship anchored in the harbour without accident. He took some servants, bought some camels, which he loaded with the king’s presents, and so went through Balsora along the river to Bagdad. One beautiful evening he came near the city, and recognised the very place where he had lain at the feet of his father and Salek, and listened to their conversation; their last discourse there returned to his memory. “Well,” said he to himself, “my own experience has indeed proved how true it is that it is easy for a man to be seduced from virtue into one false step, if he be not watchful, but relies on his own power: I thought that my heart was sure to be always right, and neglected the practice of weighing carefully each action beforehand. In this manner have I so much forgotten my love for my father, and had nearly committed a great wrong, having been about to sacrifice to my vanity, in the intoxication of good fortune, the happiness of the princess and her betrothed. And you, my father, were also right when you maintained that a heart accustomed to virtue from early years would only for a short time wander from the right road. I have myself experienced the truth of these words, and I therefore thank you with tears that you brought me up to what was good.” As he spoke, he espied a small solitary hut where the palm-trees used to stand. A venerable man, much marked by sorrow, appeared at the door; he stood still before the threshold, and regarded the youth with astonishment; the young man gazed earnestly at him. Then suddenly recognising the features of the old man, he threw himself on his knees before him, seized his hand, and covered it with kisses.
“My father,” cried he, “is it so indeed? have you become so much altered in the course of so few years? that is my fault. Father, forgive your offending son, who forgot you in the height of prosperity.”
El Kattab extended his other hand to him, blessed him, and said: “Rise up, my son, rise; he who feels repentance is forgiven.” He rose and threw himself into his father’s arms.
When he looked up again, he saw a man approaching, accompanied by a maiden, whose features he recognised. It was Salek and his daughter Maryam, Medjeddin’s playfellow. After welcoming him, they sat down, and Medjeddin related to them all that had happened to him since the memorable evening. He related, truly and candidly, how he had forgotten his father, and nearly fallen into greater crimes, because he had been blinded by fortune, by greatness, and by honours. As they were sitting and conversing, they observed three birds coming up from a distance, and who seemed to be chasing one another. They soon perceived that one of them was a black bird flying in great fright from a large hawk. It was obvious that the hawk would soon have seized his prey, had he not been pursued in turn by a larger bird, to avoid which, he was often compelled to dart from side to side: at last they came to close conflict. The pursued black bird fell into Medjeddin’s lap; the hawk, struck by his pursuer, fell to the ground at their feet, and was, by the strong hooked bill and sharp claws of his adversary, soon killed and torn to pieces. Scarcely had this taken place, when the conqueror changed into a venerable-looking sage. He turned to Medjeddin, who was quite astonished, and said: “Dip quickly your forefinger in the blood of this slain bird, and anoint with it the beak of the black one.”
Medjeddin obeyed immediately; and scarcely had he touched the black bird’s beak with the blood, ere it was transformed, and a handsome youth in kingly dress stood before them.
“Guess who this is,” said the genius.
“The prince Mesoud?” asked Medjeddin.
