Фредерик Марриет
The Pacha of Many Tales
It was about the first hour after noon that the beautiful Babe-bi-bobu, suddenly rising from her recumbent attitude, clapped her pretty little hands, the fingers of which were beautifully tipped with henna, and beckoning to her attendants, retired gracefully from the hall of audience. The surprise and commotion was great, and what made her conduct more particular was, that the only son of the chief brahmin who had first raised the question, and headed the Anti-molist party, was at the moment of the princess’s departure, prostrate before the throne, with his forehead, indeed, to the ground, but his bosom swelling high with hope and ambition. Within a bower of orange trees, in the deep recesses of the royal gardens, to which she had hastened, sat the panting princess. She selected some flowers from those which were scattered round her, and despatched them to her favourite musician and attendant, Acota. Who was there in the whole kingdom of Souffra who could so sweetly touch the mandolin as Acota? Yet, who was there, not only in Souffra, but in all the adjacent countries, who struck such occasional discordant notes as Acota, and that in the ear of the beautiful princess Babe-bi-bobu, who, far from being displeased, appeared to approve of his occasional violence, which not only threatened to crack the strings of the instrument, but the tympanums of those who were near, who longed to escape, and leave the princess to enjoy the dissonance alone, little thinking that the discord was raised that their souls’ harmony might be undisturbed by the presence of others, and that the jarring of the strings was more than repaid to the princess, by the subsequent music of Acota’s voice.
Acota seated himself, at a signal from the princess, and commenced his playing, if such it could be called, thrumming violently, and jarring every chord of his instrument to a tone of such dissonance, that the attendant girls put their fingers into their ears, and pitied the beautiful Babe-bi-bobu’s bad taste in music.
“Ah! Acota,” said the princess, opening upon him all the tenderness of her large and beaming eyes, “how weary am I of sitting on my cushion, and seeing fop after fop, fool after fool, dawdle down upon their faces before me; and, moreover, I am suffocated with perfumes. Strike your mandolin again louder, beloved of my soul—still louder, that I may be further relieved of this unwished-for crowd.”
Thereupon, Acota seized his mandolin, and made such an unaccountable confusion of false notes, such a horrid jarring, that all the birds within one hundred yards shrieked as they fled, and the watchful old chamberlain, who was always too near the princess, in her opinion, and never near enough, in his own, cried out, “Yah—yah—baba senna, curses on his mother, and his mandolin into the bargain!” as his teeth chattered; and he hastened away, as fast as his obesity would permit him. The faithful damsels who surrounded the princess could neither stand it nor sit it any longer—they were in agonies, all their teeth were set on edge; and at last, when Acota, with one dreadful crash, broke every string of his instrument, they broke loose from the reins of duty, and fled in every direction of the garden, leaving the princess and Acota alone.
“Beloved of my soul,” said the princess, “I have at last invented a plan by which our happiness will be secured!” and in a low tone of voice, but without looking at each other, that they might not attract the observation of the chamberlain, they sweetly communed. Acota listened a few minutes to the soft voice of the princess, and then took up his broken-stringed mandolin, and with a profound reverence for the benefit of the old chamberlain, he departed.
In the mean time, a rumour was spread abroad that at sunset a public examination of all the candidates was to take place on the bank of the rapid-flowing river, which ran through a spacious meadow near to the city, in order to reject those candidates who might prove, by any scar or blemish, not to come expressly within the meaning of the old king’s will. Twelve old fakirs, and twenty-four mollahs with spectacles, were appointed as examining officers. It was supposed, as this was a religious ceremony, that all the females of Souffra, who were remarkable for their piety, would not fail to attend—and all the world were eager for the commencement of the examination. O then it was pleasant to see the running, and mounting, and racing, among the young Souffrarian rayahs, who were expected to be examined; and a stranger would have thought that a sudden pestilence had entered the city, from the thousands upon thousands who poured out from it, hastening to the river side, to behold the ceremony. But to the astonishment of the people, almost all the rayahs, as soon as they were mounted, left the city in an opposite direction, some declaring, that they were most surely without scar or blemish, but still they could not consent to expose their persons to the gaze of so many thousands; others declared that they left on account of scars and honourable wounds received in battle; and until that afternoon, the Souffrarians were not aware of how much modesty and how much courage they had to boast in their favoured land; and many regretted, as they viewed the interminable line of gallant young men depart, that the will of the late king should have made scars received in battle to be a bar to advancement; but they were checked by the brahmins, who told them that there was a holy and hidden mystery contained in the injunction of the old king’s will.
“By the beard of the Prophet, it takes a long time to get a husband for this princess of yours, Menouni,” observed the pacha with a yawn.
“Your sublime highness will not be surprised at it, when you consider the conditions of the old king’s will.”
The examination was most strict, and even a small cut was sufficient to render a young man ineligible; a corn was considered as a blemish—and a young man even having been bled by a leech to save his life, lost him all chance of the princess.
“Pray may I ask, if a barber had cut the skin in shaving their heads, was that considered as a scar?”
“Most decidedly, your highness.”
“Then those fakirs and mollahs, with their spectacles, and the brahmins, were a parcel of fools. Were they not Mustapha?”
“Your highness’s wisdom is like the overflowing of the honey pot,” replied Mustapha.
“You know, Mustapha, as well as I do, that it is almost impossible not to draw blood, if there happens to be a pimple, or a bad razor; but, however, proceed, Menouni, and if possible marry this beautiful princess.”
About two hours before sunset the beautiful Babe-bi-bobu, “the cream tart of delight,” more splendidly dressed than before, again entered the hall of audience, and found to her surprise, that there remained out of the many thousands of young rayahs, not fifty who could pretend to the honour of her hand and throne. Among them, no longer dressed as a musician, but robed in the costume of his high caste, stood the conscious and proud Acota; and, although his jewels might not have vied with those worn by others who stood by him, yet the brightness of his eyes more than compensated. Next to Acota stood Mezrimbi, the son of the chief brahmin, and he, only, could be compared to Acota in personal beauty; but his character was known—he was proud, overbearing, and cruel. The beauteous Babe-bi-bobu feared him, for there was a clause in her father’s will, by which, if the first choice of the princess should prove by any intermediate accident to be ineligible, his father, the chief brahmin, was empowered to make a selection for the princess, and his decision was to be equally inviolable. The beauteous eyes of the princess first lighted upon the form of Mezrimbi, and she trembled, but the proud bearing of Acota reassured her; and waving her hand as she sat, she addressed the assembled youths as follows:—
“Faithful and gentle rayahs, impute it to no want of modesty that, for once, I sink the graceful bashfulness of the virgin, and assume the more forward deportment of the queen. When all appear to possess such merit, how can I slight all but one by my decision? Let me rather leave it to the immortal Vishnu to decide who is most worthy to reign over this our kingdom of Souffra. Let Vishnu prompt you to read your destiny; I have placed a flower in this unworthy bosom, which is shortly to call one of you its lord. Name, then, the flower, and he who first shall name it, let him be proclaimed the lawful king of Souffra. Take, then, your instruments, noble rayahs, and to their sounds, in measured verse, pour out the name of the hidden flower, and the reason for my choice. Thus shall fate decide the question, and no one say that his merits have been slighted.”
Having finished her address, the beauteous princess let fall her veil, and was silent. A shout of applause was followed by wild strummings and tunings of mandolins, and occasional scratching of heads or turbans, to remember all that Hafiz had ever written, or to aid their attempts at improviso versification. Time flew on, and no one of the young rayahs appeared inclined to begin. At last one stepped forward, and named the rose, in a borrowed couplet. He was dismissed with a graceful wave of the hand by the princess, and broke his mandolin in his vexation, as he quitted the hall of audience. And thus did they continue, one after another, to name flower after flower, and quit the hall of audience in despair. Then might these beautiful youths, as they all stood before the princess, be compared, themselves, to the most beauteous flowers, strong rooted in their hopes, and basking in the sun of her presence; and, as their hopes were cut off; what were they but the same flowers severed from their stalks, and drooping before the sunny beams, now too powerful to be borne, or loaded with the dew of tears, removed to fade away unheeded? There were but few left, when Mezrimbi, who had, as he thought, hit upon the right name, and who, watching the countenance of Acota, which had an air of impatient indifference upon it, which induced Mezrimbi to suppose that he had lighted upon the same idea, and might forestall him, stepped forward with his mandolin. Mezrimbi was considered one of the best poets in Souffra; in fact, he had every talent, but not one virtue. He bent forward in an elegant attitude, and sang as follows:—
“Who does the nightingale love? Alas! we
Know. She sings of her love in the silence of
Night, and never tells the name of her adored one.
“What are flowers but the language of love?
And does not the nightingale rest her breast
Upon the thorn as she pours out her plaintive notes?
“Take then out of thy bosom the sweet flower of May
Which is hidden there, emblematical of thy love,
And the pleasing pain that it has occasioned.”
When Mezrimbi had finished the two first verses, the beauteous princess started with fear that he had gained her secret, and it was with a feeling of agony that she listened to the last; agony succeeded by a flow of joy, at his not having been successful. Impatiently she waved her hand, and as impatiently did Mezrimbi depart from her presence.
Acota then stepped forward, and after a prelude, the beauty of which astonished all those around the queen’s person, for they had no idea that he could play in tune, sang in a clear melodious voice the following stanzas:—
“Sweet, blushing cheek! the rose is there,
Thy breath, the fragrance of its bowers;
Lilies are on thy bosom fair,
And e’en thy very words seem flowers.
“But lily, rose, or flower, that blows
In India’s garden, on thy breast
Must meet its death—by breathing sweets
Where it were ecstasy to rest.
“A blossom from a nettle ta’en.
Is in thy beauteous bosom bound,
Born amid stings, it gives no pain,
’Tis sweetness among venom found.”
Acota was silent. The beauteous princess, as the minstrel finished, rose slowly and tremulously from her cushions, and taking the blossom of a nettle from her bosom, placed it in the hands of the happy Acota, saying, with a great deal of piety, “It is the will of Heaven.”
“But how was it possible for Acota to find out that the princess had a nettle blossom in her bosom?” interrupted the pacha. “No man could ever have guessed it. I can’t make that out. Can you, Mustapha?”
“Your sublime highness is right; no man ever could have guessed such a thing,” replied Mustapha. “There is but one way to account for it, which is, that the princess must have told him her intentions when they were alone in the royal garden.”
“Very true, Mustapha—well, thank Allah, the princess is married at last.”
“I beg pardon of your sublime highness, but the beauteous princess is not yet married,” said Menouni; “the story is not yet finished.”
“Wallah el nebi!” exclaimed the pacha. “By God and his Prophet, is she never to be married?”
“Yes, your sublime highness, but not just yet. Shall I proceed?”
“Yes, Menouni, and the faster you get on the better.”
Amidst the cries of “Long live Acota, Souffraria’s legitimate king.”
“Legitimate. Pray, good Menouni, what may that word mean?”
“Legitimate, your sublime highness, implies that a king and his descendants are chosen by Allah to reign over a people.”
“Well, but I don’t see that Allah had much to do with the choice of Acota.”
“Nor with the choice of any other king, I suspect, your sublime highness; but still the people were made to believe so, and that is all that is sufficient. Allah does not interfere in the choice of any but those who reign over true believers. The sultan is the Holy Prophet’s vicegerent on earth—and he, guided by the Prophet, invests virtue and wisdom with the kalaats of dignity, in the persons of his pachas.”
“Very true,” said the pacha, “the sultan is guided by Allah, and,” continued he in a low tone to Mustapha, “a few hundred purses to boot. Menouni, you may proceed.”
Amidst the cries of “Long live Acota, Souffraria’s legitimate king!” Acota was led to the throne by the attendant grandees of the nation, where he received the homage of all present. It was arranged by the grandees and mollahs that the marriage should take place the next day. The assembly broke up, and hastened in every direction to make preparations for the expected ceremony.
But who can describe the jealousy, the envy, and the indignation which swelled in the breasts of Mezrimbi and his father, the chief brahmin? They met, they consulted, they planned, and they schemed. Acota was not yet king, although he was proclaimed as such—he was not king until his marriage with the beautiful Princess Babe-bi-bobu, “the cream tart of delight,” and should he be scarred or blemished before the marriage of the ensuing day, then must the brahmin, by the will of the old king, choose his successor; and who could he choose but his own son?
“Father,” said young Mezrimbi, his beautiful countenance distorted by the vilest passions of Jehanum, “I have planned as follows:– I have mutes ready to obey my wishes, and a corrosive burning acid, which will eat deeply into the flesh of the proud Acota. I know that he will pass the time away in the garden of the royal grove. I know even the bower in which he hath wooed and won the fair princess. Let us call these mutes, explain to them what we wish, and by to-morrow’s sun the throne of Souffraria will fall to the race of Mezrimbi. Are we not of the purest blood of the plains, and is not Acota but a rayah of the mountains?”
And the chief brahmin was pleased with his son’s proposal; the mutes were summoned, the black, tongueless, everythingless, hideous creatures, bowed in their humility, and followed their master, who, with the chief brahmin, ventured by a circuitous rout to invade the precincts of the royal grove. Slowly and cautiously did they proceed towards the bower, where, as Mezrimbi had truly said, Acota was waiting for his beloved princess. Fortunately, as they approached, a disturbed snake, hissing in his anger, caused an exclamation from the old brahmin, which aroused Acota from his delicious reverie. Through the foliage he perceived and recognised Mezrimbi, his father, and the mutes. Convinced that they meditated mischief towards himself, he secreted himself among the rose-bushes, lying prostrate on the ground; but in his haste, he left his cloak and mandolin. Mezrimbi entered the bower, and explained to the mutes by signs what it was which he desired, showed them the cloak and mandolin to make known the object of his wrath, and put into their hands the bottle of corrosive acid. They satisfied him that they comprehended his wishes, and the party then retired, the chief brahmin quitting the grove for his own house, the mutes lying in wait under some bushes for the arrival of Acota, and Mezrimbi walking away into the recesses of the grove, anxious as to the issue of the plot. Acota, perfectly aware of what was intended, laughed in his sleeve, and thanked Allah for this fortunate discovery; he crawled away on his hands and knees, so as not to be perceived, and hid himself, with his cloak and mandolin, watching in turn the motions of the others—and thus did all parties watch until the sun descended behind the blue hills which divided the kingdom of Souffraria from that of the other kingdom, which my treacherous memory has dared to forget in your highness’s sublime presence. Mezrimbi was the only one who was not motionless: he paced up and down in all the anxiety of anticipation and doubt, and at last he stopped, and, tired out with contending feelings, sat down at the foot of a tree, close to where Acota was concealed. The nightingale was pouring forth her sweet melody, and friendly to lovers, she continued it until Mezrimbi, who had listened to it, and whose angry feelings had been soothed with her dulcet strains, fell fast asleep. Acota perceived it, and approaching him softly, laid his cloak over him, and taking up his mandolin, struck a chord which he knew would not be lost upon the quick-eared mutes, although not so loud as to awake Mezrimbi. Acota was right; in a minute he perceived the dark beings crawling through the underwood like the jackals who had scented out their prey, and Acota was again concealed in the thick foliage. They approached like shadows in the dark, and perceived the sleeping Mezrimbi with the cloak of Acota and the mandolin, which Acota, after striking it, had laid by his side. It was sufficient. Mezrimbi’s face was covered with the burning acid before even he was awakened; his screams were smothered in a shawl, and satisfied with having obeyed the injunctions of their master, the mutes hastened back to report their success, taking, however, the precaution of tying the hands and feet of Mezrimbi, that he might not go home to receive any help in his distress. They escaped out of the gardens, and reported to the chief brahmin the success of the operations, and how they had left him, Acota, in the woods. The old Mezrimbi, upon reflection, thought it advisable that the person of Acota should be in his power, that he might be able to produce him when required upon the ensuing day. He therefore desired the mutes to go back and bring Acota to the house, keeping a strict guard that he might not escape.
When the mutes had quitted Mezrimbi, Acota rose from his hiding-place, and went towards the unfortunate wretch, who still groaned with pain, but his face was muffled up in the shawl, so that his features were hidden. At first Acota had intended to have reviled and scoffed at his treacherous enemy, but his good heart forbade it. Another idea then came into his head. He took off the cloak of Mezrimbi, and substituted his own; he exchanged turbans and scymitars, and then left him and went home. Shortly after Acota had quitted the wood, the mutes returned, lifted the miserable Mezrimbi on their shoulders and carried him to the house of the chief brahmin, who having ordered him to be guarded in an out-house, said his prayers, and went to bed.
The sun rose and poured his beaming rays upon the land of Souffraria, and thousands and thousands of the inhabitants had risen before him, to prepare for the day of delight, the day on which they were to be blessed with a king—the day on which the beauteous Princess Babe-bi-bobu, the cream tart of delight, was no longer to remain unmarried. Silks and satins from China, shawls and scarfs from Cashmere, jewels, and gold, and diamonds—horses and camels, and elephants, were to be seen spread over the plains, and the city of Souffra. All was joy, and jubilee, and feasting, and talking, for the beautiful Princess Babe-bi-bobu was that day to be married.
“I wish to Heaven she was,” observed the pacha, impatiently.
“May it please your sublime highness, she soon will be.”
At an early hour the proclamation was made, that the princess was about to take unto herself a husband from the high caste youths of Souffra, and that all whom it might concern should repair to the palace, to be present at the ceremony. As it concerned all Souffra—all Souffra was there. The sun had nearly reached to the zenith, and looked down almost enviously upon the gay scene beneath, broiling the brains of the good people of Souffra, whose heads paved, as it were, the country for ten square miles, when the beauteous Princess Babe-bi-bobu made her appearance in the hall of audience, attended by her maidens and the grandees of Souffra, who were the executors to her father’s will. At the head of them was the chief brahmin, who looked anxiously among the crowd for his son Mezrimbi, who had not made his appearance that morning. At last he espied his rich dress, his mantle, his turban and jewelled scymitar, but his face was muffled up in a shawl, and the chief brahmin smiled at the witty conceit of his son, that of having his own beauteous person unmuffled as well as that of the now scarred Acota. And then silence was commanded by a thousand brazen trumpets, and enforced by the discharge of two thousand pieces of artillery, ten square miles of people repeated the order for silence, in loud and reiterated shouts—and at last silence obeyed the order, and there was silence. The chief brahmin rose, and having delivered an extemporaneous prayer, suitable to the solemnity and importance of the occasion, he proceeded to read the will of the late king—he then descanted upon the Molean controversy, and how it was now an article of the Souffrarian faith, which it was heresy and impalement not to believe, that “moles were not scars, and only blemishes when they were considered so to be.” The choice of the princess, continued the learned brahmin, has however, not been made; she has left to chance that which was to have proceeded from her own free will, and that without consulting with the ministers of our holy religion. My heart told me yesterday that such was not right, and contrary not only to the king’s will, but the will of Heaven; and I communed deeply on the subject after I had prayed nine times—and a dream descended on me in my sleep, and I was told that the conditions of the will would be fulfilled. How to explain this answer from above I know not: perhaps the youth who was fortunate in discovering the flower is also the youth of the princess’s choice.
“Even so,” replied the princess, in a soft melodious voice, “and therefore is my father’s will obeyed.”
“Where, then, is the fortunate youth?” said the chief brahmin; “let him appear.”
Babe-bi-bobu, who, as well as others, had in vain looked round for Acota, was astonished at his not making his appearance, and still more so when he did, as they thought, appear, led in by the four black mutes, with his face enveloped in a shawl.
“This, then,” said the chief brahmin, “is the favoured youth, Acota. Remove the shawl, and lead him to the princess.”
The mutes obeyed, and to the horror of Babe-bi-bobu, there stood Acota, as she thought, with a face so scarred and burnt, that his features were not distinguishable. She started from her throne, uttered one wild shriek, which was said to have been heard by the whole ten square miles of population, and fainted in the arms of her attendants.
“We know his dress, most noble grandees,” continued the chief brahmin, “but how can we recognise in that object, the youth without scar or blemish? It is the will of Heaven,” continued the chief brahmin, piously and reverently bending low. And all the other grandees replied in the same pious manner, “It is the will of Heaven.”
“I say,” continued the chief brahmin, “that this must have been occasioned by the princess not having chosen as ordained by the will of her father, but having impiously left to chance what was to have been decided by free will. Is not the hand, the finger of Providence made manifest?” continued he, appealing to the grandees. And they all bowed low, and declared that the hand and finger of Providence were manifest; while the mutes, who knew that it was their hands and fingers which had done the deed, chuckled as well as they could with the remnants of their tongues. “And now,” continued the chief brahmin, “we must obey the will of the late king, which expressly states, that if any accident should happen after the choice of the princess had been made, that I, the chief of our holy religion, should select her husband. By virtue, then, of my power, I call thee forth, my son, Mezrimbi, to take his place. Bow down to Mezrimbi, the future king of Souffraria.”
Acota, muffled up to the eyes, and dressed in the garments of Mezrimbi, stepped forth, and the chief brahmin, and all present, in pursuance to his order, prostrated themselves before Acota, with their foreheads in the dust. Acota took that opportunity of removing the shawl, and, when they rose up, stood by the throne, resplendent in his beauty and his pride. At the sight of him, the chief brahmin raised a cry, which was heard, not only further than the shriek of the beautiful Princess Babe-bi-bobu, but had the effect of recalling her to life and recollection. All joined in the cry of astonishment when they beheld Acota in the garments of Mezrimbi.
“Who, then, art thou?” exclaimed the chief brahmin, to his son, in Acota’s dress.
“I am,” exclaimed his son, exhausted with pain and mortification, “I am—I was Mezrimbi.”
“Grandees,” cried Acota, “as the chief brahmin has already asserted, and as you have agreed, in that you behold the finger of Heaven, which ever punishes hypocrisy, cruelty, and injustice;” and the chief brahmin fell down in a fit, and was carried out, with his unfortunate son Mezrimbi.
In the meantime the beauteous Princess Babe-bi-bobu had recovered, and was in the arms of Acota, who, resigning her to her attendant maidens, addressed the assembly in a speech of so much eloquence, so much beauty, and so much force, that it was written down in letters of gold, being considered the ne plus ultra of the Souffrarian language; he explained to them the nefarious attempt of Mezrimbi to counteract the will of Heaven, and how he had fallen into the snare which he had laid for others. And when he had finished, the whole assembly hailed him as their king; and the population, whose heads paved, as it were, a space of ten square miles, cried out, “Long life to the king Acota, and his beautiful princess Babe-bi-bobu, the cream tart of delight!”
Who can attempt to describe the magnificent procession which took place that evening, who can describe the proud and splendid bearing of king Acota, or the beaming eyes of the beautiful Princess Babe-bi-bobu. Shall I narrate how the nightingales sang themselves to death—shall I—
“No, pray don’t,” interrupted the pacha, “only let us know one thing—was the beautiful Babe-bi-bobu married at last?”
“She was, that very evening, your sublime highness.”
“Allah be praised!” rejoined the pacha. “Mustapha, let Menouni know what it is to tell a story to a pacha, even though it is rather a long one, and I thought the princess would never have been married.” And the pacha rose and waddled to his harem.
