The Arabian Nights Entertainments by - (carter reed TXT) 📕

Abou Hassan, for I can assure you he is well; but rather bewail the death of your dear slave. It is not many moments since her husband came in the most inexpressible affliction, to tell me of the death of his wife. I gave him a purse of a hundred pieces of gold and a piece of brocade, to comfort him, and bury her; and Mesrour, who was present, can tell you the same.”

The princess took this discourse of the caliph’s to be all a jest, and thought he had a mind to impose upon her. “Commander of the faithful,” replied she, “though you are used to banter, I must tell you, this is not a proper time for pleasantry. What I tell you is very serious; I do not talk of my slave’s death, but of Abou Hassan’s, her husband, whose fate I bewail, and so ought you too.” “Madam,” said the caliph, putting on a grave countenance, “I tell you without raillery that you are deceived; Nouzhatoulaouadat is dead, and Abou Hassan is alive, and in perfect health.”

Zobeide was much piqued at this dry answer of the caliph.

“Commander of the faithful,” replied she smartly, “God preserve you from continuing longer in this mistake, surely you would make me think your mind is not as usual. Give me leave to repeat to you once more, that it is Abou Hassan who is dead, and that my slave Nouzhatoulaouadat, his widow, is living. It is not an hour since she went from hence. She came here in so disconsolate a state, that the sight of her was enough to have drawn tears from my eyes, if she had not told me her affliction. All my women, who wept with me, can bear me witness, and tell you also that I made her a present of a hundred pieces of gold and a piece of brocade; the grief which you found me in, was on account of the death of her husband; and just at the instant you entered, I was going to send you a compliment of condolence.”

At these words of Zobeide, the caliph cried out in a fit of laughter, “This, madam, is a strange piece of obstinacy; but,”

continued he seriously, “you may depend upon Nouzhatoulaouadat’s being dead.” “I tell you no, sir,” replied Zobeide sharply; “it is Abou Hassan that is dead, and you shall never make me believe otherwise.”

Upon this the caliph’s anger rose in his countenance. He seated himself on the sofa at some distance from the princess, and speaking to Mesrour, said, “Go immediately, see which it is, and bring me word; for though I am certain that it is Nouzhatoulaouadat, I would rather take this method than be any longer obstinately positive about the matter, though of its certainty I am perfectly satisfied.” No sooner had the caliph commanded than Mesrour was gone. “You will see,” continued he, addressing himself to Zobeide, “in a moment, which of us is right.” “For my part,” replied Zobeide, “I know very well that I am in the right, and you will find it to be Abou Hassan.” “And for myself,”

returned the caliph, “I am so sure that it is Nouzhatoulaouadat, that I will lay you what wager you please that Abou Hassan is well.”

“Do not think to come off so,” said Zobeide; “I accept your wager, and I am so well persuaded of his death, that I would willingly lay the thing dearest to me in the world against what you will, though it were of less value. You know what I have in my disposal, and what I value most; propose the bet, and I will stand to it.”

“Since it is so,” said the caliph, “I will lay my garden of pleasures against your palace of paintings, though the one is worth much more than the other.” “Is the question at present,”

replied Zobeide, “if your garden is more valuable than my palace?

That is not the point. You have made choice of what you thought fit belonging to me, as an equivalent against what you lay; I accept the wager, and that I will abide by it, I take God to witness.” The caliph took the same oath, and both waited Mesrour’s return.

While the caliph and Zobeide were disputing so earnestly, and with so much warmth, Abou Hassan, who foresaw their difference, was very attentive to whatever might happen. As soon as he perceived Mesrour through a window, at which he sat talking with his wife, and observed that he was coming directly to their apartment, he guessed his commission, and bade his wife make haste to act the dead part once more, as they had agreed, without loss of time; but they were so pressed, that Abou Hassan had much ado to wrap up his wife, and lay the piece of brocade which the caliph had given him upon her, before Mesrour reached the house.

This done, he opened the door of his apartment, and with a melancholy, dejected countenance, and his handkerchief before his eyes, went and sat down at the head of the pretended deceased.

By the time he was seated, Mesrour came into the room. The dismal sight which met his eyes, gave him a secret joy on account of the errand the caliph had sent him on. Abou Hassan rose up to meet him, and kissing his hand out of respect, said, sighing and sobbing, “You see me under the greatest calamity that ever could have befallen me the death of my dear wife, Nouzhatoulaouadat, whom you honoured with your favours.”

Mesrour, affected by this discourse, could not refuse some tears to the memory of the deceased. He lifted up the cloth a little at the head, and peeping under it, let it down again, and said, with a deep sigh, “There is no other God but Allah, we must all submit to his will, and every creature must return to him. Nouzhatoulaouadat, my good sister,” added he, sighing, “thy days have been few: God have mercy on thee.” Then turning to Abou Hassan, who was all the time in tears, “We may well say,” added he, “that women sometimes have whims, and lose their senses in a most unpardonable manner; for Zobeide, good mistress as she is, is in that situation at present; she will maintain to the caliph that you are dead, and not your wife; and whatever the caliph can say to the contrary, he cannot persuade her otherwise. He called me to witness and confirm this truth; for you know I was present when you came and told him the sorrowful news: but all signifies nothing. They are both positive; and the caliph, to convince Zobeide, has sent me to know the truth, but I fear I shall not be believed; for when women once take up a thing, they are not to be beaten out of it.”

“God keep the commander of the faithful in the possession and right use of his senses,” replied Abou Hassan, still sighing and weeping; “you see how it is, and that I have not imposed upon his majesty. And I wish to Heaven,” continued he, to dissemble the better, “that I had no occasion to have told him the melancholy and afflicting news. Alas! I cannot enough express my irreparable loss!” “That is true,” replied Mesrour, “and I can assure you I take a great share in your affliction; but you must be comforted, and not abandon yourself to your grief. I leave you with reluctance, to return to the caliph; but I beg the favour of you not to bury the corpse till I come again; for I will assist at the interment, and accompany it with my prayers.” Mesrour went to give an account of his visit. Abou Hassan attended him to the door, told him he did not deserve the honour he intended him: and for fear Mesrour should return to say something else, followed him with his eyes for some time, and when he saw him at a distance, returned to his wife and released her. “This is already,” said he, “a new scene of mirth, but I fancy it will not be the last; for certainly the princess Zobeide will not believe Mesrour, but will laugh at him, since she has too substantial a reason to the contrary; therefore we must expect some new event.”

While Abou Hassan was talking thus, Nouzhatoulaouadat had time to put on her clothes again, and both went and sat down on a sofa opposite to the window, where they could see all that passed.

In the mean time, Mesrour reached Zobeide’s apartment, and going into her closet laughing, clapped his hands like one who had something very agreeable to tell.

The caliph, naturally impatient, and piqued a little at the princess’s contradiction, as soon as he saw Mesrour, “Vile slave,” said he, “is this a time to laugh? Why do not you tell me which is dead, the husband or the wife?”

“Commander of the faithful,” answered Mesrour, putting on a serious countenance, “it is Nouzhatoulaouadat who is dead, for the loss of whom About Hassan is as much afflicted as when he appeared before your majesty.” The caliph not giving him time to pursue his story, interrupted him, and cried out, laughing heartily, “Good news! Zobeide, your mistress, was a moment ago possessed of the palace of paintings, and now it is mine. She staked it against my garden of pleasures, since you went; therefore you could not have done me greater pleasure. I will take care to reward you: but give me a true account of what you saw.”

“Commander of the faithful,” said Mesrour, “when I came to Abou Hassan’s apartment, I found the door open, and he was bewailing the death of his wife. He sat at the head of the deceased, who was laid out in the middle of the room, with her feet towards Mecca, and was covered with the piece of brocade which your majesty presented to Abou Hassan. After I had expressed the share I took in his grief, I went and lifted up the pall at the head, and knew Nouzhatoulaouadat, though hr face was much swelled and changed. I exhorted Abou Hassan in the best manner I could to be comforted; and when I came away, told him I would attend at his wife’s funeral, and desired him not to remove the corpse till I came. This is all I can tell your majesty.” “I ask no more,” said the caliph, laughing heartily, “and I am well satisfied with your exactness.” Then addressing himself to Zobeide, “Well, madam,”

said he, “have you yet any thing to say against so certain a truth? Will you still believe that Nouzhatoulaouadat is alive, and that Abou Hassan is dead? And will you not own that you have lost your wager?”

“How, sir,” replied Zobeide, who would not believe one word Mesrour said, “do you think that I regard that impertinent fellow of a slave, who knows not what he says? I am not blind or mad.

With these eyes I saw Nouzhatoulaouadat in the greatest affliction; I spoke to her myself, and she told me that her husband was dead.” “Madam,” replied Mesrour, “I swear to you by your own life, and that of the commander of the faithful, which are both dear to me, that Nouzhatoulaouadat is dead, and Abou Hassan is living.”

“Thou liest, base despicable slave,” said Zobeide in a rage, “and I will confound thee immediately.” Clapping her hands together, she called her women, who all approached. “Come hither,” said the princess to them, “and speak the truth. Who was that who came and spoke with me a little before the caliph entered?” The women all answered that it was poor afflicted Nouzhatoulaouadat. “And what,” added she, addressing herself to her treasurer, “did I order you to