Part 1

[Transcriber's Note: Bold text is surrounded by =equal signs= and italic text is surrounded by _underscores_.]

EDMUND DULAC'S PICTURE-BOOK FOR THE FRENCH RED CROSS

PUBLISHED FOR THE DAILY TELEGRAPH BY HODDER AND STOUGHTON LONDON · NEW YORK · TORONTO

CONTENTS

PAGE

THE STORY OF THE BIRD FENG A FAIRY TALE FROM CHINA 1

YOUNG ROUSSELLE: A FRENCH SONG OF THE OLDEN TIME 5

LAYLÁ AND MAJNÚN: A PERSIAN LOVE STORY 9

THE NIGHTINGALE: AFTER A FAIRY TALE BY HANS ANDERSEN 29

THREE KINGS OF ORIENT: A CAROL 41

SINDBAD THE SAILOR: A TALE FROM THE THOUSAND AND ONE NIGHTS 43

THE LITTLE SEAMSTRESS: A FRENCH SONG OF THE OLDEN TIME 55

THE REAL PRINCESS: AFTER A FAIRY TALE BY HANS ANDERSEN 57

MY LISETTE: AN OLD FRENCH SONG 61

CINDERELLA: A FAIRY TALE FROM THE FRENCH 65

THE CHILLY LOVER: A SONG FROM THE FRENCH 79

THE STORY OF AUCASSIN AND NICOLETTE: AN OLD WORLD IDYLL 81

BLUE BEARD: AN OLD TALE FROM THE FRENCH 85

CERBERUS, THE BLACK DOG OF HADES 99

THE LADY BADOURA: A TALE FROM THE THOUSAND AND ONE NIGHTS 102

THE SLEEPER AWAKENED: A TALE FROM THE THOUSAND AND ONE NIGHTS 110

JUSEF AND ASENATH: A LOVE STORY OF EGYPT 124

ILLUSTRATIONS

JUSEF AND ASENATH

Asenath _Frontispiece_

PAGE

THE STORY OF THE BIRD FENG

The wonderful bird, like a fire of many colours come down from heaven, alighted before the princess, dropping at her feet the portrait 1

YOUNG ROUSSELLE What do you think of Young Rousselle? 8

LAYLÁ AND MAJNÚN In a high chamber of the palace--it was as wondrous as that of a Sultan 16

If the desert were my home--then would I let the world go by 18

She would sit for hours, with the bird perched on the back of her hand, listening to its soft intonation of that one word 'Majnún' 22

THE NIGHTINGALE Even the poor fisherman would pause in his work to listen 32

THREE KINGS OF ORIENT O Star of Wonder, Star of Night 41

SINDBAD THE SAILOR Knowest thou that my name is also Sindbad? 50

THE LITTLE SEAMSTRESS I never at all Saw sewing so small! 55

THE REAL PRINCESS Not a wink the whole night long 58

MY LISETTE 'Tis Lisette whom I adore, And with reason, more and more! 62

CINDERELLA

'There,' said her godmother, pointing with her wand, ... 'pick it and bring it along' 72

THE CHILLY LOVER O Ursula, for thee My heart is burning,-- But I'm so cold! 80

THE STORY OF AUCASSIN AND NICOLETTE But Nicolette one night escaped 82

BLUE BEARD Seven and one are _eight_, madam! 86

CERBERUS Cerberus, the black dog of Hades 99

THE LADY BADOURA Nay, nay; I will not marry him 102

THE SLEEPER AWAKENED Behold the reward of those who meddle in other people's affairs 120

EDMUND DULAC 128

EDMUND DULAC'S PICTURE BOOK

PUBLISHED ON BEHALF OF THE

CROIX ROUGE FRANÇAISE

_COMITÉ DE LONDRES_ 9 KNIGHTSBRIDGE, LONDON, S.W.

=_Président d'honneur_= =_Présidente_= S. E. MONSIEUR PAUL CAMBON VICOMTESSE DE LA PANOUSE

=Under the Patronage of= H.M. QUEEN ALEXANDRA

The work of the FRENCH RED CROSS is done almost entirely by the willing sacrifice of patriotic people who give little or much out of their means. The Comité is pleased to give the fullest possible particulars of its methods and needs. It is sufficient here to say that every one who gives even a shilling gives a wounded French soldier more than a shilling's worth of ease or pleasure.

The actual work is enormous. The number of men doctored, nursed, housed, fed, kept from the worries of illness, is great, increasing, and will increase.

You must remember that everything to do with sick and wounded has to be kept up to a daily standard. It is you who give who provide the drugs, medicines, bandages, ambulances, coal, comfort for those who fight, get wounded, or die to keep you safe. Remember that besides fighting for France, they are fighting for the civilised world, and that you owe your security and civilisation to them as much as to your own men and the men of other Allied Countries.

There is not one penny that goes out of your pockets in this cause that does not bind France and Britain closer together. From the millionaire we need his thousands; from the poor man his store of pence. We do not beg, we insist, that these brave wounded men shall lack for nothing. We do not ask of you, we demand of you, the help that must be given.

There is nothing too small and nothing too large but we need it.

Day after day we send out great bales of goods to these our devoted soldiers, and we must go on.

Imagine yourself ill, wounded, sick, in an hospital, with the smash and shriek of the guns still dinning in your ears, and imagine the man or woman who would hold back their purse from helping you.

Times are not easy, we know, but being wounded is less easy, and being left alone because nothing is forthcoming is terrible. You have calls upon you everywhere, you say; well, these men have answered their call, and in the length and breadth of France they wait your reply.

What is it to be?

=Will you please send anything you can afford to EDMUND DULAC, c/o "THE DAILY TELEGRAPH," LONDON, E.C.=

THE STORY OF THE BIRD FENG

A FAIRY TALE FROM CHINA

IN the Book of the Ten Thousand Wonders there are three hundred and thirty-three stories about the bird called _Feng_, and this is one of them.

Ta-Khai, Prince of Tartary, dreamt one night that he saw in a place where he had never been before an enchantingly beautiful young maiden who could only be a princess. He fell desperately in love with her, but before he could either move or speak, she had vanished. When he awoke he called for his ink and brushes, and, in the most accomplished willow-leaf style, he drew her image on a piece of precious silk, and in one corner he wrote these lines:

The flowers of the pæony Will they ever bloom? A day without her Is like a hundred years.

He then summoned his ministers, and, showing them the portrait, asked if any one could tell him the name of the beautiful maiden; but they all shook their heads and stroked their beards. They knew not who she was.

So displeased was the prince that he sent them away in disgrace to the most remote provinces of his kingdom. All the courtiers, the generals, the officers, and every man and woman, high and low, who lived in the palace came in turn to look at the picture. But they all had to confess their ignorance. Ta-Khai then called upon the magicians of the kingdom to find out by their art the name of the princess of his dreams, but their answers were so widely different that the prince, suspecting their ability, condemned them all to have their noses cut off. The portrait was shown in the outer court of the palace from sunrise till sunset, and exalted travellers came in every day, gazed upon the beautiful face, and came out again. None could tell who she was.

Meanwhile the days were weighing heavily upon the shoulders of Ta-Khai, and his sufferings cannot be described; he ate no more, he drank no more, and ended by forgetting which was day and which was night, what was in and what was out, what was left and what was right. He spent his time roaming over the mountains and through the woods crying aloud to the gods to end his life and his sorrow.

It was thus, one day, that he came to the edge of a precipice. The valley below was strewn with rocks, and the thought came to his mind that he had been led to this place to put a term to his misery. He was about to throw himself into the depths below when suddenly the bird _Feng_ flew across the valley and appeared before him, saying:

'Why is Ta-Khai, the mighty Prince of Tartary, standing in this place of desolation with a shadow on his brow?'

Ta-Khai replied: 'The pine tree finds its nourishment where it stands, the tiger can run after the deer in the forests, the eagle can fly over the mountains and the plains, but how can I find the one for whom my heart is thirsting?'

And he told the bird his story.

The _Feng_, which in reality was a _Feng-Hwang_, that is, a female _Feng_, rejoined:

'Without the help of Supreme Heaven it is not easy to acquire wisdom, but it is a sign of the benevolence of the spiritual beings that I should have come between you and destruction. I can make myself large enough to carry the largest town upon my back, or small enough to pass through the smallest keyhole, and I know all the princesses in all the palaces of the earth. I have taught them the six intonations of my voice, and I am their friend. Therefore show me the picture, O Ta-Khai, and I will tell you the name of her whom you saw in your dream.'

They went to the palace, and, when the portrait was shown, the bird became as large as an elephant, and exclaimed, 'Sit on my back, O Ta-Khai, and I will carry you to the place of your dream. There you will find her of the transparent face with the drooping eyelids under the crown of dark hair such as you have depicted, for these are the features of Sai-Jen, the daughter of the King of China, and alone can be likened to the full moon rising under a black cloud.'

At nightfall they were flying over the palace of the king just above a magnificent garden. And in the garden sat Sai-Jen, singing and playing upon the lute. The _Feng-Hwang_ deposited the prince outside the wall near a place where bamboos were growing and showed him how to cut twelve bamboos between the knots to make the flute which is called Pai-Siao and has a sound sweeter than the evening breeze on the forest stream.

And as he blew gently across the pipes, they echoed the sound of the princess's voice so harmoniously that she cried:

'I hear the distant notes of the song that comes from my own lips, and I can see nothing but the flowers and the trees; it is the melody the heart alone can sing that has suffered sorrow on sorrow, and to which alone the heart can listen that is full of longing.'

At that moment the wonderful bird, like a fire of many colours come down from heaven, alighted before the princess, dropping at her feet the portrait. She opened her eyes in utter astonishment at the sight of her own image. And when she had read the lines inscribed in the corner, she asked, trembling:

'Tell me, O _Feng-Hwang_, who is he, so near, but whom I cannot see, that knows the sound of my voice and has never heard me, and can remember my face and has never seen me?'

Then the bird spoke and told her the story of Ta-Khai's dream, adding:

'I come from him with this message; I brought him here on my wings. For many days he has longed for this hour, let him now behold the image of his dream and heal the wound in his heart.'

Swift and overpowering is the rush of the waves on the pebbles of the shore, and like a little pebble felt Sai-Jen when Ta-Khai stood before her....

The _Feng-Hwang_ illuminated the garden sumptuously, and a breath of love was stirring the flowers under the stars.

It was in the palace of the King of China that were celebrated in the most ancient and magnificent style the nuptials of Sai-Jen and Ta-Khai, Prince of Tartary.

And this is one of the three hundred and thirty-three stories about the bird _Feng_ as it is told in the Book of the Ten Thousand Wonders.

YOUNG ROUSSELLE

A FRENCH SONG OF THE OLDEN TIME

YOUNG Rousselle has three houses got, Never a roof to all the lot,-- For swallows' nests they will serve quite well-- What do you think of Young Rousselle? Ah! ah! ah! truth to tell, A jolly good chap is Young Rousselle.

Young Rousselle, he has three top-coats; Two are of cloth as yellow as oats; The third, which is made of paper brown, He wears if it freezes or rain comes down. Ah! ah! ah! truth to tell, A jolly good chap is Young Rousselle.

Young Rousselle, he has three old hats; Two are as round as butter-pats; The third has two little horns, 'tis said, Because it has taken the shape of his head. Ah! ah! ah! truth to tell, A jolly good chap is Young Rousselle.

Young Rousselle, he has three fine eyes; Each is quite of a different size; One looks east and one looks west, The third, his eye-glass, is much the best. Ah! ah! ah! truth to tell, A jolly good chap is Young Rousselle.

Young Rousselle, he has three black shoes Two on his feet he likes to use; The third has neither sole nor side: That will do when he weds his bride. Ah! ah! ah! truth to tell, A jolly good chap is Young Rousselle.

Young Rousselle three hairs can find: Two in front and one behind; And, when he goes to see his girl, He puts all three of them in curl. Ah! ah! ah! truth to tell, A jolly good chap is Young Rousselle.

Young Rousselle, three boys he has got: Two are nothing but trick and plot; The third can cheat and swindle well,-- He greatly resembles Young Rousselle. Ah! ah! ah! truth to tell, A jolly good chap is Young Rousselle.

Young Rousselle, he has three good tykes; One hunts rabbits just as he likes, One chivies hares,--and, as for the third, He bolts whenever his name is heard. Ah! ah! ah! truth to tell, A jolly good chap is Young Rousselle.

Young Rousselle, he has three big cats, Who never attempt to catch the rats; The third is blind, and without a light He goes to the granary every night. Ah! ah! ah! truth to tell, A jolly good chap is Young Rousselle.

Young Rousselle, he has daughters three, Married as well as you'd wish to see; Two, one could scarcely beauties call, And the third, she has just no brains at all. Ah! ah! ah! truth to tell, A jolly good chap is Young Rousselle.

Young Rousselle, he has farthings three,-- To pay his creditors these must be; And, when he has shown these riches vast, He puts them back in his purse at last. Ah! ah! ah! truth to tell, A jolly good chap is Young Rousselle.

Young Rousselle, he will run his rig A long while yet ere he hops the twig, For, so they say, he must learn to spell To write his own epitaph,--Young Rousselle! Ah! ah! ah! truth to tell, A jolly good chap is Young Rousselle.

LAYLA AND MAJNÚN

A PERSIAN LOVE STORY

_Laylá_, Pearl of the Night!

She was beautiful as the moon on the horizon, graceful as the cypress that sways in the night wind and glistens in the sheen of a myriad stars. Her hair was bright with depths of darkness; her eyes were dark with excess of light; her glance was shadowed by excess of light. Her smile and the parting of her lips were like the coming of the rosy dawn, and, when love came to her--as he did with a load of sorrow hidden in his sack--she was as a rose plucked from Paradise to be crushed against her lover's breast; a rose to wither, droop, and die as Ormazd snatched it from the hand of Ahriman.

Out of the night came _Laylá_, clothed with all its wondrous beauties: into the night she returned, and, while the wind told the tale of her love to the cypress above her grave, the stars, with an added lustre, looked down as if to say, '_Laylá_ is not lost: she was born of us; she hath returned to us. Look up! look up! there is brightness in the night where _Laylá_ sits; there is splendour in the sphere where _Laylá_ sits.

As the moon looks down on all rivers, though they reflect but one moon,--so the beauty of _Laylá_, which smote all hearts to love. Her father was a great chief, and even the wealthiest princes of other lands visited him, attracted by the fame of _Laylá's_ loveliness. But none could win her heart. Wealth and royal splendour could not claim it, yet it was given to the young Qays, son of the mighty chief of Yemen. Freely was it given to Qays, son of the chief of Yemen.

Now _Laylá's_ father was not friendly to the chief of Yemen. Indeed, the only path that led from the one to the other was a well-worn warpath; for long, long ago their ancestors had quarrelled, and, though there were rare occasions when the two peoples met at great festivals and waived their differences for a time, it may truly be said that there was always hate in their eyes when they saluted. Always? Not always: there was one exception. It was at one of these festivals that Qays first saw _Laylá_. Their eyes met, and, though no word was spoken, love thrilled along a single glance.

From that moment Qays was a changed youth. He avoided the delights of the chase; his tongue was silent at feast and in council; he sat apart with a strange light in his eyes; no youth of his tribe could entice him to sport, no maiden could comfort him. His heart was in another house, and that was not the house of his fathers.

And _Laylá_--she sat silent among her maidens with eyes downcast. Once, when a damsel, divining rightly, took her lute and sang a song of the fountain in the forest, where lovers met beneath the silver moon, she raised her head at the close of the song and bade the girl sing it again--and again. And, after this, in the evenings when the sun was setting, she would wander unattended in the gardens about her father's palace, roaming night by night in ever widening circles, until, on a night when the moon was brightest, she came to the confines of the gardens where they adjoined the deep forest beyond;--but ever and ever the moonlight beyond. And here, as she gazed adown the spaces between the tree trunks, she saw, in an open space where the moonbeams fell, a sparkling fountain, and knew it for that which had been immortalised in the sweet song sung by her damsel with the lute. There, from time immemorial, lovers had met and plighted their vows. A thrill shot through her at the thought that she had wandered hither in search of it. Her cheeks grew hot, and, with a wildly beating heart, she turned and ran back to her father's palace. Ran back, ashamed.

Now, in a high chamber of the palace,--it was as wondrous as that of a Sultan,--where _Laylá_ was wont to recline at the window looking out above the tree-tops, there were two beautiful white doves; these had long been her companions, perching on her shoulder and pecking gently at her cheek with 'Coo, coo, coo';--preeking and preening on her shoulder with 'Coo, coo, coo.' They would come at her call and feed from her hand; and, when she threw one from the window, retaining the other against her breast, the liberated one seemed to understand that it might fly to yonder tree; and there it would sit cooing for its mate until _Laylá_, having held her fluttering bird close for a time, would set it free. 'Ah!' she would sigh to herself, as the bird flew swiftly to its mate, 'when love hath wings it flies to the loved one, but alas! I have no wings.' And yet it was by the wings of a dove that her lover sent her a passionate message, which threw her into joy and fear, and finally led her footsteps to the place of lovers' meeting.

Qays, in the lonely musings which had beset him of late, recalled the story--well known among the people--of _Laylá's_ two white doves. As he recalled it he raised himself upon his elbow on his couch and said to himself, 'If I went to her father, saying, "Give me thy daughter to wife!" how should I be met? If I sent a messenger, how would _he_ be met? But the doves--if all tales be true, they fly in at her window and nestle to her bosom.'

With his thought suddenly intent upon the doves, he called his servant Zeyd, who came quickly, for he loved his master.

'Thou knowest, Zeyd,' said Qays, 'that in the palace of the chief of Basráh there are two white doves, one of which flies forth at its mistress's bidding, and cooes and cooes and cooes until its mate is permitted to fly to it.'

'I know it well, my master. They are tame birds, and they come to their mistress's hand.'

'Would they come, thinkest thou, to _thy_ hand?'

Zeyd, who was in his master's confidence, and knew what troubled him, answered the question with another.

'Dost thou desire these doves, O my master? My father was a woodman and I was brought up in the forests. Many a wilder bird than a dove have I snared in the trees. I even know the secret art of taking a bird with my hand.'

'Then bring me one of these doves, but be careful not to injure it--not even one feather of its plumage.'

Zeyd was as clever as his word. On the third evening thereafter he brought one of _Laylá's_ white doves to Qays and placed it in his hand. Then Qays stroked the bird and calmed its fears, and, bidding Zeyd hold it, he carefully wrapt and tied round its leg a small soft parchment on which were written the following verses:--

Thy heart is as a pure white dove, And it hath come to me; And it hath brought me all thy love, Flying from yonder tree.

Thou shalt not have thy heart again, For it shall stay with me; Yet thou shalt hear my own heart's pain Sobbing in yonder tree.

There is a fount where lovers meet: To-night I wait for thee. Fly to me, love, as flies the dove To dove in yonder tree.

Now _Laylá_, who had sent her dove into the warm night, sat listening at her window to hear it coo to its mate held close in her bosom. But it cooed not from its accustomed bough on yonder tree. Holding the fluttering mate to her she leaned forth from the window, straining her ears to catch the well-known note, but, hearing nothing, she said to herself, 'What can have happened? Whither has it flown? Never was such a thing before. Perchance the bird is sleeping on the bough.'

Then, as the moon rose higher and higher above the tree-tops, shedding a glistening radiance over everything, she waited and waited, but there came no doling of the dove, no coo from yonder tree. At last, unable to account for it, she took the bird from her bosom and stroked it and spoke to it; then she threw it gently in the air as if to send it in search of its lost mate to bring it back.

The bird flew straight to the tree, and, perching there, cooed again and again, but there was no answering coo of its mate. Finally _Laylá_ saw it rise from the tree and circle round the palace. Many times she saw it flash by and heard the beating of its wings, until at last it flew in at the window; and, when she took it and pressed it to her, she felt that it was trembling. For sure, it was distressed and trembling.

'Alas! poor bird!' she said, stroking it gently. 'It is hard to lose one's lover, but it is harder still never to have found him.'