Part 1

TURKISH FAIRY TALES

PREFACE

These stories were collected from the mouths of the Turkish peasantry by the Hungarian savant Dr. Ignatius Kunos, during his travels through Anatolia,[1] and published for the first time in 1889 by the well-known Hungarian Literary Society, “A Kisfaludy Társaság,” under the Title of _Török Népmések_ (“Turkish Folk Tales”), with an introduction by Professor Vámbery. That distinguished Orientalist, certainly the greatest living authority on the primitive culture of the Turko-Tartaric peoples, who is as familiar with Uzbeg epics and Uiguric didactics as with the poetical masterpieces of Western Europe, is enthusiastic in his praises of these folk-tales. He compares the treasures of Turkish folk-lore to precious stones lying neglected in the byways of philology for want of gleaners to gather them in, and he warns the student of ethnology that when once the threatened railroad actually invades the classic land of Anatolia, these naively poetical myths and legends will, infallibly, be the first victims of Western civilization.

The almost unique collection of Dr. Ignatius Kunos may therefore be regarded as a brand snatched from the burning; in any case it is an important “find,” as well for the scientific folk-lorist as for the lover of fairy-tales pure and simple. That these stories should contain anything absolutely new is, indeed, too much to expect. Professor Vámbery himself traces affinities between many of them and other purely Oriental stories which form the bases of _The Arabian Nights_. A few Slavonic and Scandinavian elements are also plainly distinguishable, such, for instance, as that mysterious fowl, the Emerald Anka, obviously no very distant relative of the Bird Mogol and the Bird Zhar, which figure in my _Russian Fairy Tales_ and _Cossack Fairy Tales and Folk Tales_ respectively, while the story of the _Enchanted Turban_ is, in some particulars, curiously like Hans Andersen’s story, _The Travelling Companion_. Nevertheless, these tales have a character peculiarly their own; above all, they are remarkable for a vivid imaginativeness, a gorgeous play of fancy, compared with which the imagery of the most popular fairy tales of the West seem almost prosaically jejune, and if, as Professor Vámbery suggests, these _Népmések_ provide the sort of entertainment which beguiles the leisure of the Turkish ladies while they sip their mocha and whiff their fragrant narghilies, we cannot but admire the poetical taste and nice discrimination, in this respect, of the harem and the seraglio.

I have Englished these tales from the first Hungarian edition, so that this version is, perhaps, open to the objection of being a translation of a translation. Inasmuch, however, as I have followed my text very closely, and having regard to the fact that Hungarian and Turkish are closely cognate dialects (in point of grammatical construction they are practically identical), I do not think they will be found to have lost so very much of their original fragrance and flavour.

I have supplemented these purely Turkish with four semi-Turkish tales translated from the original Roumanian of Ispirescu’s _Legende sau Basmele Românilorŭ_. Bucharest, 1892. This collection, which I commend to the notice of the Folk-Lore Society, is very curious and original, abounding as it does in extraordinarily bizarre and beautiful variants of the best-known fairy tales, a very natural result of the peculiar combination in Roumanian of such heterogeneous elements as Romance, Slavonic, Magyar, and Turkish.

R. NISBET BAIN.

_July 1896_

CONTENTS

PAGE THE STAG-PRINCE 1

THE THREE ORANGE-PERIS 12

THE ROSE-BEAUTY 30

MAD MEHMED 42

THE GOLDEN-HAIRED CHILDREN 53

THE HORSE-DEVIL AND THE WITCH 74

THE CINDER-YOUTH 84

THE PIECE OF LIVER 97

THE MAGIC TURBAN, THE MAGIC WHIP, AND THE MAGIC CARPET 102

THE WIND-DEMON 112

THE CROW-PERI 134

THE FORTY PRINCES AND THE SEVEN-HEADED DRAGON 143

THE WORLD’S MOST BEAUTEOUS DAMSEL 154

THE PADISHAH OF THE FORTY PERIS 166

THE SERPENT-PERI AND THE MAGIC MIRROR 176

STONE-PATIENCE AND KNIFE-PATIENCE 188

THE GHOST OF THE SPRING AND THE SHREW 196

ROUMANIAN FAIRY TALES

PAGE

THE STORY OF THE HALF-MAN-RIDING-ON-THE-WORSE-HALF-OF-A-LAME-HORSE 209

THE ENCHANTED HOG 222

BOY-BEAUTIFUL, THE GOLDEN APPLES, AND THE WERE-WOLF 244

YOUTH WITHOUT AGE, AND LIFE WITHOUT DEATH 260

TURKISH FAIRY TALES

THE STAG-PRINCE

Once upon a time, when the servants of Allah were many, there lived a Padishah[2] who had one son and one daughter. The Padishah grew old, his time came, and he died; his son ruled in his stead, and he had not ruled very long before he had squandered away his whole inheritance.

One day he said to his sister: “Little sister! all our money is spent. If people were to hear that we had nothing left they would drive us out of doors, and we should never be able to look our fellow-men in the face again. Far better, therefore, if we depart and take up our abode elsewhere.” So they tied together the little they had left, and then the brother and sister quitted their father’s palace in the night-time, and wandered forth into the wide world.

They went on and on till they came to a vast sandy desert, where they were like to have fallen to the ground for the burning heat. The youth felt that he could go not a step further, when he saw on the ground a little puddle of water. “Little sister!” said he, “I will not go a step further till I have drunk this water.”

“Nay, dear brother!” replied the girl, “who can tell whether it be really water or filth? If we have held up so long, surely we can hold up a little longer. Water we are bound to find soon.”

“I tell thee,” replied her brother, “that I’ll not go another step further till I have drunk up this puddle, though I die for it,”--and with that he knelt down, sucked up every drop of the dirty water, and instantly became a stag.

The little sister wept bitterly at this mischance; but there was nothing for it but to go on as they were. They went on and on, up hill and down dale, right across the sandy waste till they came to a full spring beneath a large tree, and there they sat them down and rested. “Hearken now, little sister!” said the stag, “thou must mount up into that tree, while I go to see if I can find something to eat.” So the girl climbed up into the tree, and the stag went about his business, ran up hill and down dale, caught a hare, brought it back, and he and his sister ate it together, and so they lived from day to day and from week to week.

Now the horses of the Padishah of that country were wont to be watered at the spring beneath the large tree. One evening the horsemen led their horses up to it as usual, but, just as they were on the point of drinking, they caught sight of the reflection of the damsel in the watery mirror and reared back. The horsemen fancied that perhaps the water was not quite pure, so they drew off the trough and filled it afresh, but again the horses reared backwards and would not drink of it. The horsemen knew not what to make of it, so they went and told the Padishah.

“Perchance the water is muddy,” said the Padishah.

“Nay,” replied the horsemen, “we emptied the trough once and filled it full again with fresh water, and yet the horses would not drink of it.”

“Go again,” said their master, “and look well about you; perchance there is some one near the spring of whom they are afraid.”

The horsemen returned, and, looking well about the spring, cast their eyes at last upon the large tree, on the top of which they perceived the damsel. They immediately went back and told the Padishah. The Padishah took the trouble to go and look for himself, and raising his eyes perceived in the tree a damsel as lovely as the moon when she is fourteen days old, so that he absolutely could not take his eyes off her. “Art thou a spirit or a peri?”[3] said the Padishah to the damsel.

“I am neither a spirit nor a peri, but a mortal as thou art,” replied the damsel.

In vain the Padishah begged her to come down from the tree. In vain he implored her, nothing he could say would make her come down. Then the Padishah waxed wroth. He commanded them to cut down the tree. The men brought their axes and fell a-hewing at the tree. They hewed away at the vast tree, they hewed and hewed until only a little strip of solid trunk remained to be cut through; but, meanwhile, eventide had drawn nigh and it began to grow dark, so they left off their work, which they purposed to finish next day.

Scarcely had they departed when the stag came running out of the forest, looked at the tree, and asked the little sister what had happened. The girl told him that she would not descend from the tree, so they had tried to cut it down. “Thou didst well,” replied the stag, “and take care thou dost not come down in future, whatever they may say.” With that he went to the tree, licked it with his tongue, and immediately the tree grew bigger round the hewed trunk than before.

The next day, when the stag had again departed about his business, the Padishah’s men came and saw that the tree was larger and harder round the trunk than ever. Again they set to work hewing at the tree, and hewed and hewed till they had cut half through it; but by that time evening fell upon them again, and again they put off the rest of the work till the morrow and went home.

But all their labour was lost, for the stag came again, licked the gap in the tree with his tongue, and immediately it grew thicker and harder than ever.

Early next morning, when the stag had only just departed, the Padishah and his wood-cutters again came to the tree, and when they saw that the trunk of the tree had filled up again larger and firmer than ever, they determined to try some other means. So they went home again and sent for a famous old witch, told her of the damsel in the tree, and promised her a rich reward if she would, by subtlety, make the damsel come down. The old witch willingly took the matter in hand, and bringing with her an iron tripod, a cauldron, and sundry raw meats, placed them by the side of the spring. She placed the tripod on the ground, and the kettle on the top of it but upside down, drew water from the spring and poured it not into the kettle, but on the ground beside it, and with that she kept her eyes closed as if she were blind.

The damsel fancied she really was blind, and called to her from the tree. “Nay but, my dear elder sister! thou hast placed the kettle on the tripod upside down, and art pouring all the water on the ground.”

“Oh, my sweet little damsel!” cried the old woman, “that is because I have no eyes to see with. I have brought some dirty linen with me, and if thou dost love Allah, thou wilt come down and put the kettle right, and help me to wash the things.” Then the damsel thought of the words of the little stag, and she did _not_ come down.

The next day the old witch came again, stumbled about the tree, laid a fire, and brought forth a heap of meal in order to sift it, but instead of meal she put ashes into the sieve. “Poor silly old granny!” cried the damsel compassionately, and then she called down from the tree to the old woman, and told her that she was sifting ashes instead of meal. “Oh, my dear damsel!” cried the old woman, weeping, “I am blind, I cannot see. Come down and help me a little in my affliction.” Now the little stag had strictly charged her that very morning not to come down from the tree whatever might be said to her, and she obeyed the words of her brother.

On the third day the old witch again came beneath the tree. This time she brought a sheep with her, and brought out a knife to flay it with, and began to jag and skin it from behind instead of cutting its throat. The poor little sheep bleated piteously, and the damsel in the tree, unable to endure the sight of the beast’s sufferings, came down from the tree to put the poor thing out of its misery. Then the Padishah, who was concealed close to the tree, rushed out and carried the damsel off to his palace.

The damsel pleased the Padishah so mightily that he wanted to be married to her without more ado; but the damsel would not consent till they had brought her her brother, the little stag: until she saw him, she said, she could have not a moment’s rest. Then the Padishah sent men out into the forest, who caught the stag and brought him to his sister. After that he never left his sister’s side. They lay down together, and together they rose up. Even when the Padishah and the damsel were wedded, the little stag was never far away from them, and in the evening when he found out where they were, he would softly stroke each of them all over with one of his front feet before going to sleep beside them, and say--

“This little foot is for my sister, That little foot is for my brother.”

But time, as men count it, passes quickly to its fulfilment, more quickly still passes the time of fairy tales, but quickest of all flies the time of true love. Yet our little people would have lived on happily if there had not been a black female slave in the palace. Jealousy devoured her at the thought that the Padishah had taken to his bosom the ragged damsel from the tree-top rather than herself, and she watched for an opportunity of revenge.

Now there was a beautiful garden in the palace, with a fountain in the midst of it, and there the Sultan’s damsel used to walk about. One day, with a golden saucer in her hand and a silver sandal on her foot, she went towards the great fountain, and the black slave followed after her and pushed her in. There was a big fish in the basin, and it immediately swallowed up the Sultan’s pet damsel. Then the black slave returned to the palace, put on the golden raiment of the Sultan’s damsel, and sat down in her place.

In the evening the Padishah came and asked the damsel what she had done to her face that it was so much altered. “I have walked too much in the garden, and so the sun has tanned my face,” replied the girl. The Padishah believed her and sat down beside her, but the little stag came also, and when he began to stroke them both down with his fore-foot he recognized the slave-girl as he said--

“This little foot is for my sister, And this little foot is for my brother.”

Then it became the one wish of the slave-girl’s heart to be rid of the little stag as quickly as possible, lest it should betray her.

So after a little thought she made herself sick, and sent for the doctors, and gave them much money to say to the Padishah that the only thing that could save her was the heart of the little stag to eat. So the doctors went and told the Padishah that the sick woman must swallow the heart of the little stag, or there was no hope for her. Then the Padishah went to the slave-girl whom he fancied to be his pet damsel, and asked her if it did not go against her to eat the heart of her own brother?

“What can I do?” sighed the impostor; “if I die, what will become of my poor little pet? If he be cut up I shall live, while he will be spared the torments of those poor beasts that grow old and sick.” Then the Padishah gave orders that a butcher’s knife should be whetted, and a fire lighted, and a cauldron of water put over the fire.

The poor little stag perceived all the bustling about and ran down into the garden to the fountain, and called out three times to his sister--

“The knife is on the stone, The water’s on the boil, Haste, little sister, hasten!”

And thrice she answered back to him from the fish’s maw--

“Here am I in the fish’s belly, In my hand a golden saucer, On my foot a silver sandal, In my arms a little Padishah!”

For the Sultan’s pet damsel had brought forth a little son in the fish’s belly.

Now the Padishah was intent on catching the little stag when it ran down into the garden to the fountain, and, coming up softly behind it, heard every word of what the brother and sister were saying to each other. He quietly ordered all the water to be drained off the basin of the fountain, drew up the fish, cut open its belly, and what do you think he saw? In the belly of the fish was his wife, with a golden saucer in her hand, and a silver sandal on her foot, and a little son in her arms. Then the Padishah embraced his wife, and kissed his son, and brought them both to the palace, and heard the tale of it all to the very end.

But the little stag found something in the fish’s blood, and when he had swallowed it, he became a man again. Then he rushed to his sister, and they embraced and wept with joy over each other’s happiness.

But the Padishah sent for his black slave-girl, and asked her which she would like the best--four good steeds or four good swords. The slave-girl replied: “Let the swords be for the throats of my enemies, but give me the four steeds that I may take my pleasure on horseback.” Then they tied the slave-girl to the tails of four good steeds, and sent her out for a ride; and the four steeds tore the black girl into little bits and scattered them abroad.

But the Padishah and his wife lived happily together, and the king’s son who had been a stag abode with them; and they gave a great banquet, which lasted four days and four nights; and they attained their desires, and may ye, O my readers, attain your desires likewise.

THE THREE ORANGE-PERIS

In the olden times, when there were sieves in straws and lies in everything, in the olden times when there was abundance, and men ate and drank the whole day and yet lay down hungry, in those olden, olden times there was once a Padishah whose days were joyless, for he had never a son to bless himself with.

One day he was in the path of pleasure with his Vizier, and when they had drunk their coffee and smoked their chibooks, they went out for a walk, and went on and on till they came to a great valley. Here they sat down to rest a while, and as they were looking about them to the right hand and to the left, the valley was suddenly shaken as if by an earthquake, a whip cracked, and a dervish, a green-robed, yellow-slippered, white-bearded dervish, suddenly stood before them. The Padishah and the Vizier were so frightened that they dared not budge; but when the dervish approached them and addressed them with the words, “Selamun aleykyum,”[4] they took heart a bit, and replied courteously, “Ve aleykyum selam.”[5]

“What is thy errand here, my lord Padishah?” asked the dervish.

“If thou dost know that I am a Padishah, thou dost also know my errand,” replied the Padishah.

Then the dervish took from his bosom an apple, gave it to the Padishah, and said these words: “Give half of this to thy Sultana, and eat the other half thyself,” and with these words he disappeared.

Then the Padishah went home, gave half the apple to his consort, and ate the other half himself, and in exactly nine months and ten days there was a little prince in the harem. The Padishah was beside himself for joy. He scattered sequins among the poor, restored to freedom his slaves, and the banquet he gave to his friends had neither beginning nor end.

Swiftly flies the time in fairy tales, and the child had reached his fourteenth summer while yet they fondled him. One day he said to his father: “My lord father Padishah, make me now a little marble palace, and let there be two springs under it, and let one of them run with honey, and the other with butter!” Dearly did the Padishah love his little son, because he was his only child, so he made him the marble palace with the springs inside it as his son desired. There then sat the King’s son in the marble palace, and while he was looking at the springs that bubbled forth both butter and honey, he saw an old woman with a pitcher in her hand, and she would fain have filled it from the spring. Then the King’s son caught up a stone and flung it at the old woman’s pitcher, and broke it into pieces. The old woman said not a word, but she went away.

But the next day she was there again with her pitcher, and again she made as if she would fill it, and a second time the King’s son cast a stone at her and broke her pitcher. The old woman went away without speaking a word. She came on the third day also, and it fared with her pitcher then as on the first two days. Then the old woman spoke. “Oh, youth!” cried she, “’tis the will of Allah that thou shouldst fall in love with the three Orange-peris,” and with that she quitted him.

From thenceforth the heart of the King’s son was consumed by a hidden fire. He began to grow pale and wither away. When the Padishah saw that his son was ill, he sent for the wise men and the leeches, but they could find no remedy for the disease. One day the King’s son said to his father: “Oh, my dear little daddy Shah! these wise men of thine cannot cure me of my disease, and all their labours are in vain. I have fallen in love with the three Oranges, and never shall I be better till I find them.”

“Oh, my dear little son!” groaned the Padishah, “thou art all that I have in the wide world: if thou dost leave me, in whom can I rejoice?” Then the King’s son slowly withered away, and his days were as a heavy sleep; so his father saw that it would be better to let him go forth on his way and find, if so be he might, the three Oranges that were as the balsam of his soul. “Perchance too he may return again,” thought the Padishah.

So the King’s son arose one day and took with him things that were light to carry, but heavy in the scales of value, and pursued his way over mountains and valleys, rising up and lying down again for many days. At last in the midst of a vast plain, in front of the high-road, he came upon her Satanic Majesty the Mother of Devils, as huge as a minaret. One of her legs was on one mountain, and the other leg on another mountain; she was chewing gum (her mouth was full of it) so that you could hear her half-an-hour’s journey off; her breath was a hurricane, and her arms were yards and yards long.

“Good-day, little mother!” cried the youth, and he embraced the broad waist of the Mother of Devils. “Good-day, little sonny!” she replied. “If thou hadst not spoken to me so politely, I should have gobbled thee up.” Then she asked him whence he came and whither he was going.

“Alas! dear little mother,” sighed the youth, “such a terrible misfortune has befallen me that I can neither tell thee nor answer thy question.”

“Nay, come, out with it, my son,” urged the Mother of Devils.

“Well then, my sweet little mother,” cried the youth, and he sighed worse than before, “I have fallen violently in love with the three Oranges. If only I might find my way thither!”