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,[158] 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.”[159] 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 amári[160] 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.[161] 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.[162] 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.
CHAPTER V.
BAKÁWALÍ RETURNS TO HER OWN COUNTRY, AND THERE WRITES A LOVE-LETTER TO THE PRINCE, WHO SETS OUT TO VISIT HER—THE MOTHER OF BAKÁWALÍ DISCOVERS THAT HER DAUGHTER IS IN LOVE WITH A HUMAN BEING, TOSSES THE PRINCE HIGH UP INTO THE AIR AND IMPRISONS BAKÁWALÍ—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.
Bakáwalí, 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,[163] 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.[164] 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.”[165]