Lang Andrew
The Grey Fairy Book
Bobino
Once on a time there was a rich merchant, who had an only son called Bobino. Now, as the boy was clever, and had a great desire for knowledge, his father sent him to be under a master, from whom he thought he would learn to speak all sorts of foreign languages. After some years with this master, Bobino returned to his home.
One evening, as he and his father were walking in the garden, the sparrows in the trees above their heads began such a twittering, that they found it impossible to hear each other speak. This annoyed the merchant very much, so, to soothe him, Bobino said: ‘Would you like me to explain to you what the sparrows are saying to each other?’
The merchant looked at his son in astonishment, and answered: ‘What can you mean? How can you explain what the sparrows say? Do you consider yourself a soothsayer or a magician?’
‘I am neither a soothsayer nor a magician,’ answered Bobino; ‘but my master taught me the language of all the animals.’
‘Alas! for my good money!’ exclaimed the merchant. ‘The master has certainly mistaken my intention. Of course I meant you to learn the languages that human beings talk, and not the language of animals.’
‘Have patience,’ answered the son. ‘My master thought it best to begin with the language of animals, and later to learn the languages of human beings.’
On their way into the house the dog ran to meet them, barking furiously.
‘What can be the matter with the beast?’ said the merchant. ‘Why should he bark at me like that, when he knows me quite well?’
‘Shall I explain to you what he is saying?’ said Bobino.
‘Leave me in peace, and don’t trouble me with your nonsense,’ said the merchant quite crossly. ‘How my money has been wasted!’
A little later, as they sat down to supper, some frogs in a neighbouring pond set up such a croaking as had never been heard. The noise so irritated the merchant that he quite lost his temper and exclaimed: ‘This only was wanting to add the last drop to my discomfort and disappointment.’
‘Shall I explain to you?’ began Bobino.
‘Will you hold your tongue with your explanations?’ shouted the merchant. ‘Go to bed, and don’t let me see your face again!’
So Bobino went to bed and slept soundly. But his father, who could not get over his disappointment at the waste of his money, was so angry, that he sent for two servants, and gave them orders, which they were to carry out on the following day.
Next morning one of the servants awakened Bobino early, and made him get into a carriage that was waiting for him. The servant placed himself on the seat beside him, while the other servant rode alongside the carriage as an escort. Bobino could not understand what they were going to do with him, or where he was being taken; but he noticed that the servant beside him looked very sad, and his eyes were all swollen with crying.
Curious to know the reason he said to him: ‘Why are you so sad? and where are you taking me?’
But the servant would say nothing. At last, moved by Bobino’s entreaties, he said: ‘My poor boy, I am taking you to your death, and, what is worse, I am doing so by the order of your father.’
‘But why,’ exclaimed Bobino, ‘does he want me to die? What evil have I done him, or what fault have I committed that he should wish to bring about my death?’
‘You have done him no evil,’ answered the servant ‘neither have you committed any fault; but he is half mad with anger because, in all these years of study, you have learnt nothing but the language of animals. He expected something quite different from you, that is why he is determined you shall die.’
‘If that is the case, kill me at once,’ said Bobino. ‘What is the use of waiting, if it must be done?’
‘I have not the heart to do it,’ answered the servant. ‘I would rather think of some way of saving your life, and at the same time of protecting ourselves from your father’s anger. By good luck the dog has followed us. We will kill it, and cut out the heart and take it back to your father. He will believe it is yours, and you, in the meantime, will have made your escape.’
When they had reached the thickest part of the wood, Bobino got out of the carriage, and having said good-bye to the servants set out on his wanderings.
On and on he walked, till at last, late in the evening, he came to a house where some herdsmen lived. He knocked at the door and begged for shelter for the night. The herdsmen, seeing how gentle a youth he seemed, made him welcome, and bade him sit down and share their supper.
While they were eating it, the dog in the courtyard began to bark. Bobino walked to the window, listened attentively for a minute, and then turning to the herdsmen said: ‘Send your wives and daughters at once to bed, and arm yourselves as best you can, because at midnight a band of robbers will attack this house.’
The herdsmen were quite taken aback, and thought that the youth must have taken leave of his senses.
‘How can you know,’ they said, ‘that a band of robbers mean to attack us? Who told you so?’
‘I know it from the dog’s barking,’ answered Bobino. ‘I understand his language, and if I had not been here, the poor beast would have wasted his breath to no purpose. You had better follow my advice, if you wish to save your lives and property.’
The herdsmen were more and more astonished, but they decided to do as Bobino advised. They sent their wives and daughters upstairs, then, having armed themselves, they took up their position behind a hedge, waiting for midnight.
Just as the clock struck twelve they heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and a band of robbers cautiously advanced towards the house. But the herdsmen were on the look-out; they sprang on the robbers from behind the hedge, and with blows from their cudgels soon put them to flight.
You may believe how grateful they were to Bobino, to whose timely warning they owed their safety. They begged him to stay and make his home with them; but as he wanted to see more of the world, he thanked them warmly for their hospitality, and set out once more on his wanderings. All day he walked, and in the evening he came to a peasant’s house. While he was wondering whether he should knock and demand shelter for the night, he heard a great croaking of frogs in a ditch behind the house. Stepping to the back he saw a very strange sight. Four frogs were throwing a small bottle about from one to the other, making a great croaking as they did so. Bobino listened for a few minutes, and then knocked at the door of the house. It was opened by the peasant, who asked him to come in and have some supper.
When the meal was over, his host told him that they were in great trouble, as his eldest daughter was so ill, that they feared she could not recover. A great doctor, who had been passing that way some time before, had promised to send her some medicine that would have cured her, but the servant to whom he had entrusted the medicine had let it drop on the way back, and now there seemed no hope for the girl.
Then Bobino told the father of the small bottle he had seen the frogs play with, and that he knew that was the medicine which the doctor had sent to the girl. The peasant asked him how he could be sure of this, and Bobino explained to him that he understood the language of animals, and had heard what the frogs said as they tossed the bottle about. So the peasant fetched the bottle from the ditch, and gave the medicine to his daughter. In the morning she was much better, and the grateful father did not know how to thank Bobino enough. But Bobino would accept nothing from him, and having said good-bye, set out once more on his wanderings.
One day, soon after this, he came upon two men resting under a tree in the heat of the day. Being tired he stretched himself on the ground at no great distance from them, and soon they all three began to talk to one another. In the course of conversation, Bobino asked the two men where they were going; and they replied that they were on their way to a neighbouring town, where, that day, a new ruler was to be chosen by the people.
While they were still talking, some sparrows settled on the tree under which they were lying. Bobino was silent, and appeared to be listening attentively. At the end of a few minutes he said to his companions, ‘Do you know what those sparrows are saying? They are saying that to-day one of us will be chosen ruler of that town.’
The men said nothing, but looked at each other. A few minutes later, seeing that Bobino had fallen asleep, they stole away, and made with all haste for the town, where the election of a new ruler was to take place.
A great crowd was assembled in the market-place, waiting for the hour when an eagle should be let loose from a cage, for it had been settled that on whose-soever house the eagle alighted, the owner of that house should become ruler of the town. At last the hour arrived; the eagle was set free, and all eyes were strained to see where it would alight. But circling over the heads of the crowd, it flew straight in the direction of a young man, who was at that moment entering the town. This was none other than Bobino, who had awakened soon after his companions had left him, and had followed in their footsteps. All the people shouted and proclaimed that he was their future ruler, and he was conducted by a great crowd to the Governor’s house, which was for the future to be his home. And here he lived happily, and ruled wisely over the people.
The Dog and the Sparrow
There was once upon a time a sheep-dog whose master was so unkind that he starved the poor beast, and ill-treated him in the cruellest manner. At last the dog determined to stand this ill-usage no longer, and, one day, he ran away from home. As he was trotting along the road he met a sparrow, who stopped him and said: ‘Brother, why do you look so sad?’
The dog answered: ‘I am sad because I am hungry, and have nothing to eat.’
‘If that’s all, dear brother,’ said the sparrow, ‘come to the town with me, and I’ll soon get food for you.’
So they went together to the town, and when they came to a butcher’s shop, the sparrow said to the dog: ‘You stand still and I’ll peck down a piece of meat for you.’
First she looked all round to see that no one was watching her, and then she set to work to peck at a piece of meat that lay on the edge of a shelf, till at last it fell down. The dog seized it ravenously, and ran with it to a dark corner where he gobbled it up in a very few minutes.
When he had finished it, the sparrow said: ‘Now come with me to another shop, and I will get you a second piece, so that your hunger may be satisfied.’ When the dog had finished the second piece of meat, the sparrow asked him: ‘Brother, have you had enough now?’
‘Yes,’ replied the dog, ‘I’ve had quite enough meat, but I haven’t had any bread yet.’
The sparrow said: ‘You shall have as much bread as you like, only come with me.’ Then she led him to a baker’s shop, and pecked so long at two rolls on a shelf that at last they fell down, and the dog ate them up.
But still his hunger was not appeased; so the sparrow took him to another baker’s shop, and got some more rolls for him. Then she asked him: ‘Well, brother, are you satisfied?’
‘Yes,’ he replied; ‘and now let us go for a little walk outside the town.’
So the two went for a stroll into the country; but the day was very hot, and after they had gone a short distance the dog said: ‘I am very tired, and would like to go to sleep.’
‘Sleep, then,’ said the sparrow, ‘and I will keep watch meantime on the branch of a tree.’
So the dog lay down in the middle of the road, and was soon fast asleep. While he was sleeping a carter passed by, driving a waggon drawn by three horses, and laden with two barrels of wine. The sparrow noticed that the man was not going out of his way to avoid the dog, but was driving right in the middle of the road where the poor animal lay; so she called out: ‘Carter, take care what you are about, or I shall make you suffer for it.’
But the carter merely laughed at her words, and, cracking his whip, he drove his waggon right over the dog, so that the heavy wheels killed him.
Then the sparrow called out: ‘You have caused my brother’s death, and your cruelty will cost you your waggon and horses.’
‘Waggon and horses, indeed,’ said the carter; ‘I’d like to know how you could rob me of them!’
The sparrow said nothing, but crept under the cover of the waggon and pecked so long at the bunghole of one of the barrels that at last she got the cork away, and all the wine ran out without the carter’s noticing it.
But at last he turned round and saw that the bottom of the cart was wet, and when he examined it, he found that one of the barrels was quite empty. ‘Oh! what an unlucky fellow I am!’ he exclaimed.
‘You’ll have worse luck still,’ said the sparrow, as she perched on the head of one of the horses and pecked out its eyes.
When the carter saw what had happened, he seized an axe and tried to hit the sparrow with it, but the little bird flew up into the air, and the carter only hit the blind horse on the head, so that it fell down dead. ‘Oh! what an unlucky fellow I am!’ he exclaimed again.
‘You’ll have worse luck yet,’ said the sparrow; and when the carter drove on with his two horses she crept under the covering again, and pecked away at the cork of the second barrel till she got it away, and all the wine poured out on to the road.
When the carter perceived this fresh disaster he called out once more: ‘Oh! what an unlucky fellow I am!’
But the sparrow answered: ‘Your bad luck is not over yet,’ and flying on to the head of the second horse she pecked out its eyes.
The carter jumped out of the waggon and seized his axe, with which he meant to kill the sparrow; but the little bird flew high into the air, and the blow fell on the poor blind horse instead, and killed it on the spot. Then the carter exclaimed: ‘Oh! what an unlucky fellow I am!’
‘You’ve not got to the end of your bad luck yet,’ sang the sparrow; and, perching on the head of the third horse, she pecked out its eyes.
The carter, blind with rage, let his axe fly at the bird; but once more she escaped the blow, which fell on the only remaining horse, and killed it. And again the carter called out: ‘Oh! what an unlucky fellow I am!’
‘You’ll have worse luck yet,’ said the sparrow, ‘for now I mean to make your home desolate.’
The carter had to leave his waggon on the road, and he went home in a towering passion. As soon as he saw his wife, he called out: ‘Oh! what bad luck I have had! all my wine is spilt, and my horses are all three dead.’
‘My dear husband,’ replied his wife, ‘your bad luck pursues you, for a wicked little sparrow has assembled all the other birds in the world, and they are in our barn eating everything up.’
The carter went out to the barn where he kept his corn and found it was just as his wife had said. Thousands and thousands of birds were eating up the grain, and in the middle of them sat the little sparrow. When he saw his old enemy, the carter cried out: ‘Oh! what an unlucky fellow I am!’
‘Not unlucky enough yet,’ answered the sparrow; ‘for, mark my words, carter, your cruel conduct will cost you your life;’ and with these words she flew into the air.
The carter was much depressed by the loss of all his worldly goods, and sat down at the fire plotting vengeance on the sparrow, while the little bird sat on the window ledge and sang in mocking tones: ‘Yes, carter, your cruel conduct will cost you your life.’
Then the carter seized his axe and threw it at the sparrow, but he only broke the window panes, and did not do the bird a bit of harm. She hopped in through the broken window and, perching on the mantelpiece, she called out; ‘Yes, carter, it will cost you your life.’
The carter, quite beside himself with rage, flew at the sparrow again with his axe, but the little creature always eluded his blows, and he only succeeded in destroying all his furniture. At last, however, he managed to catch the bird in his hands. Then his wife called out: ‘Shall I wring her neck?’
‘Certainly not,’ replied her husband, ‘that would be far too easy a death for her; she must die in a far crueller fashion than that. I will eat her alive;’ and he suited the action to his words. But the sparrow fluttered and struggled inside him till she got up into the man’s mouth, and then she popped out her head and said: ‘Yes, carter, it will cost you your life.’
The carter handed his wife the axe, and said: ‘Wife, kill the bird in my mouth dead.’
The woman struck with all her might, but she missed the bird and hit the carter right on the top of his head, so that he fell down dead. But the sparrow escaped out of his mouth and flew away into the air.
[From the German, Kletke.]
The Story of the Three Sons of Hali
Till his eighteenth birthday the young Neangir lived happily in a village about forty miles from Constantinople, believing that Mohammed and Zinebi his wife, who had brought him up, were his real parents.
Neangir was quite content with his lot, though he was neither rich nor great, and unlike most young men of his age had no desire to leave his home. He was therefore completely taken by surprise when one day Mohammed told him with many sighs that the time had now come for him to go to Constantinople, and fix on a profession for himself. The choice would be left to him, but he would probably prefer either to be a soldier or one of the doctors learned in the law, who explain the Koran to the ignorant people. ‘You know the holy book nearly by heart,’ ended the old man, ‘so that in a very short time you would be fitted to teach others. But write to us and tell us how you pass your life, and we, on our side, will promise never to forget you.’
So saying, Mohammed gave Neangir four piastres to start him in the great city, and obtained leave for him to join a caravan which was about to set off for Constantinople.
The journey took some days, as caravans go very slowly, but at last the walls and towers of the capital appeared in the distance. When the caravan halted the travellers went their different ways, and Neangir was left, feeling very strange and rather lonely. He had plenty of courage and made friends very easily; still, not only was it the first time he had left the village where he had been brought up, but no one had ever spoken to him of Constantinople, and he did not so much as know the name of a single street or of a creature who lived in it.
Wondering what he was to do next, Neangir stood still for a moment to look about him, when suddenly a pleasant-looking man came up, and bowing politely, asked if the youth would do him the honour of staying in his house till he had made some plans for himself. Neangir, not seeing anything else he could do, accepted the stranger’s offer and followed him home.
They entered a large room, where a girl of about twelve years old was laying three places at the table.
‘Zelida,’ said the stranger, ‘was I not quite right when I told you that I should bring back a friend to sup with us?’
‘My father,’ replied the girl, ‘you are always right in what you say, and what is better still, you never mislead others.’ As she spoke, an old slave placed on the table a dish called pillau, made of rice and meat, which is a great favourite among people in the East, and setting down glasses of sherbet before each person, left the room quietly.
During the meal the host talked a great deal upon all sorts of subjects; but Neangir did nothing but look at Zelida, as far as he could without being positively rude.
The girl blushed and grew uncomfortable, and at last turned to her father. ‘The stranger’s eyes never wander from me,’ she said in a low and hesitating voice. ‘If Hassan should hear of it, jealousy will make him mad.’
‘No, no,’ replied the father, ‘you are certainly not for this young man. Did I not tell you before that I intend him for your sister Argentine. I will at once take measures to fix his heart upon her,’ and he rose and opened a cupboard, from which he took some fruits and a jug of wine, which he put on the table, together with a small silver and mother-of-pearl box.
‘Taste this wine,’ he said to the young man, pouring some into a glass.
‘Give me a little, too,’ cried Zelida.
‘Certainly not,’ answered her father, ‘you and Hassan both had as much as was good for you the other day.’
‘Then drink some yourself,’ replied she, ‘or this young man will think we mean to poison him.’
‘Well, if you wish, I will do so,’ said the father; ‘this elixir is not dangerous at my age, as it is at yours.’
When Neangir had emptied his glass, his host opened the mother-of-pearl box and held it out to him. Neangir was beside himself with delight at the picture of a young maiden more beautiful than anything he had ever dreamed of. He stood speechless before it, while his breast swelled with a feeling quite new to him.
His two companions watched him with amusement, until at last Neangir roused himself. ‘Explain to me, I pray you,’ he said, ‘the meaning of these mysteries. Why did you ask me here? Why did you force me to drink this dangerous liquid which has set fire to my blood? Why have you shown me this picture which has almost deprived me of reason?’
‘I will answer some of your questions,’ replied his host, ‘but all, I may not. The picture that you hold in your hand is that of Zelida’s sister. It has filled your heart with love for her; therefore, go and seek her. When you find her, you will find yourself.’
‘But where shall I find her?’ cried Neangir, kissing the charming miniature on which his eyes were fixed.
‘I am unable to tell you more,’ replied his host cautiously.
‘But I can’ interrupted Zelida eagerly. ‘To-morrow you must go to the Jewish bazaar, and buy a watch from the second shop on the right hand. And at midnight – ’
But what was to happen at midnight Neangir did not hear, for Zelida’s father hastily laid his hand over her mouth, crying: ‘Oh, be silent, child! Would you draw down on you by imprudence the fate of your unhappy sisters?’ Hardly had he uttered the words, when a thick black vapour rose about him, proceeding from the precious bottle, which his rapid movement had overturned. The old slave rushed in and shrieked loudly, while Neangir, upset by this strange adventure, left the house.
He passed the rest of the night on the steps of a mosque, and with the first streaks of dawn he took his picture out of the folds of his turban. Then, remembering Zelida’s words, he inquired the way to the bazaar, and went straight to the shop she had described.
In answer to Neangir’s request to be shown some watches, the merchant produced several and pointed out the one which he considered the best. The price was three gold pieces, which Neangir readily agreed to give him; but the man made a difficulty about handing over the watch unless he knew where his customer lived.
‘That is more than I know myself,’ replied Neangir. ‘I only arrived in the town yesterday and cannot find the way to the house where I went first.’
‘Well,’ said the merchant, ‘come with me, and I will take you to a good Mussulman, where you will have everything you desire at a small charge.’
Neangir consented, and the two walked together through several streets till they reached the house recommended by the Jewish merchant. By his advice the young man paid in advance the last gold piece that remained to him for his food and lodging.
As soon as Neangir had dined he shut himself up in his room, and thrusting his hand into the folds of his turban, drew out his beloved portrait. As he did so, he touched a sealed letter which had apparently been hidden there without his knowledge, and seeing it was written by his foster-mother, Zinebi, he tore it eagerly open. Judge of his surprise when he read these words:
‘My dearest Child, – This letter, which you will some day find in your turban, is to inform you that you are not really our son. We believe your father to have been a great lord in some distant land, and inside this packet is a letter from him, threatening to be avenged on us if you are not restored to him at once. We shall always love you, but do not seek us or even write to us. It will be useless.’
In the same wrapper was a roll of paper with a few words as follows, traced in a hand unknown to Neangir:
‘Traitors, you are no doubt in league with those magicians who have stolen the two daughters of the unfortunate Siroco, and have taken from them the talisman given them by their father. You have kept my son from me, but I have found out your hiding-place and swear by the Holy Prophet to punish your crime. The stroke of my scimitar is swifter than the lightning.’
The unhappy Neangir on reading these two letters – of which he understood absolutely nothing – felt sadder and more lonely than ever. It soon dawned on him that he must be the son of the man who had written to Mohammed and his wife, but he did not know where to look for him, and indeed thought much more about the people who had brought him up and whom he was never to see again.
To shake off these gloomy feelings, so as to be able to make some plans for the future, Neangir left the house and walked briskly about the city till darkness had fallen. He then retraced his steps and was just crossing the threshold when he saw something at his feet sparkling in the moonlight. He picked it up, and discovered it to be a gold watch shining with precious stones. He gazed up and down the street to see if there was anyone about to whom it might belong, but there was not a creature visible. So he put it in his sash, by the side of a silver watch which he had bought from the Jew that morning.
The possession of this piece of good fortune cheered Neangir up a little, ‘for,’ thought he, ‘I can sell these jewels for at least a thousand sequins, and that will certainly last me till I have found my father.’ And consoled by this reflection he laid both watches beside him and prepared to sleep.
In the middle of the night he awoke suddenly and heard a soft voice speaking, which seemed to come from one of the watches.
‘Aurora, my sister,’ it whispered gently. ‘Did they remember to wind you up at midnight?’
‘No, dear Argentine,’ was the reply. ‘And you?’
‘They forgot me, too,’ answered the first voice, ‘and it is now one o’clock, so that we shall not be able to leave our prison till to-morrow – if we are not forgotten again – then.’
‘We have nothing now to do here,’ said Aurora. ‘We must resign ourselves to our fate – let us go.’
Filled with astonishment Neangir sat up in bed, and beheld by the light of the moon the two watches slide to the ground and roll out of the room past the cats’ quarters. He rushed towards the door and on to the staircase, but the watches slipped downstairs without his seeing them, and into the street. He tried to unlock the door and follow them, but the key refused to turn, so he gave up the chase and went back to bed.
The next day all his sorrows returned with tenfold force. He felt himself lonelier and poorer than ever, and in a fit of despair he thrust his turban on his head, stuck his sword in his belt, and left the house determined to seek an explanation from the merchant who had sold him the silver watch.
When Neangir reached the bazaar he found the man he sought was absent from his shop, and his place filled by another Jew.
‘It is my brother you want,’ said he; ‘we keep the shop in turn, and in turn go into the city to do our business.’
‘Ah! what business?’ cried Neangir in a fury. ‘You are the brother of a scoundrel who sold me yesterday a watch that ran away in the night. But I will find it somehow, or else you shall pay for it, as you are his brother!’
‘What is that you say?’ asked the Jew, around whom a crowd had rapidly gathered. ‘A watch that ran away. If it had been a cask of wine, your story might be true, but a watch – ! That is hardly possible!’
‘The Cadi shall say whether it is possible or not,’ replied Neangir, who at that moment perceived the other Jew enter the bazaar. Darting up, he seized him by the arm and dragged him to the Cadi’s house; but not before the man whom he had found in the shop contrived to whisper to his brother, in a tone loud enough for Neangir to hear, ‘Confess nothing, or we shall both be lost.’
When the Cadi was informed of what had taken place he ordered the crowd to be dispersed by blows, after the Turkish manner, and then asked Neangir to state his complaint. After hearing the young man’s story, which seemed to him most extraordinary, he turned to question the Jewish merchant, who instead of answering raised his eyes to heaven and fell down in a dead faint.
The judge took no notice of the swooning man, but told Neangir that his tale was so singular he really could not believe it, and that he should have the merchant carried back to his own house. This so enraged Neangir that he forgot the respect due to the Cadi, and exclaimed at the top of his voice, ‘Recover this fellow from his fainting fit, and force him to confess the truth,’ giving the Jew as he spoke a blow with his sword which caused him to utter a piercing scream.
‘You see for yourself,’ said the Jew to the Cadi, ‘that this young man is out of his mind. I forgive him his blow, but do not, I pray you, leave me in his power.’
At that moment the Bassa chanced to pass the Cadi’s house, and hearing a great noise, entered to inquire the cause. When the matter was explained he looked attentively at Neangir, and asked him gently how all these marvels could possibly have happened.
‘My lord,’ replied Neangir, ‘I swear I have spoken the truth, and perhaps you will believe me when I tell you that I myself have been the victim of spells wrought by people of this kind, who should be rooted out from the earth. For three years I was changed into a three-legged pot, and only returned to man’s shape when one day a turban was laid upon my lid.’
At these words the Bassa rent his robe for joy, and embracing Neangir, he cried, ‘Oh, my son, my son, have I found you at last? Do you not come from the house of Mohammed and Zinebi?’
