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.[174] 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 Bakáwalí 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,[175] 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.
CHAPTER VI.
THE PRINCE COMES TO THE CASTLE OF A FIERCE DEMON CALLED SHAH PYKAR, WHERE HE FINDS RUH-AFZA, COUSIN OF BAKÁWALÍ, A PRISONER—HE RESCUES HER FROM THE DEMON AND CONVEYS HER TO HER PARENTS—HE OBTAINS BAKÁWALÍ IN MARRIAGE AND RETURNS WITH HIS BEAUTEOUS FAIRY BRIDE TO HIS OWN PALACE.
Táj ul-Mulúk, 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 Bistán[176] 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.[177] My father, Muzaffar Sháh,[178] rules over the island of Firdaus.[179] One day I had gone to the Garden of Iram[180] to visit my cousin Bakáwalí, 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,[181] 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[182] 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 Bakáwalí: “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-árá[183] 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.[184] 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.[185] 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 conversation 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.”[186] 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,[187] 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.