Zobeide, amazed to see her slave in such extraordinary affliction, asked what had happened; but, instead of answering, she continued her sobs; and at last feigning to strive to check them, said, with words interrupted with sighs, “Alas! my most honoured lady and mistress, what greater misfortune could have befallen me than this, which obliges me to throw myself at your highness’s feet. God prolong your days, my most respectable princess, in perfect health, and grant you many happy years! Abou Hassan! poor Abou Hassan! whom you honoured with your esteem, and gave me for a husband, is no more!”
At these words Nouzhatoul-aouadat redoubled her tears and sighs, and threw herself again at the princess’s feet. Zobeide was extremely concerned at this news. “Abou Hassan dead!” cried she; “that agreeable, pleasant man! I did not expect his death so soon; he seemed to promise a long life, and well deserved to enjoy it!” She then also burst into tears, as did all her women, who had been often witnesses of Abou Hassan’s pleasantries when the caliph brought him to amuse the princess Zobeide, and all together continued for some time bewailing his loss. At length the princess Zobeide broke silence: “Wicked woman!” cried she, addressing herself to the false widow, “perhaps you may have occasioned his death. Your ill temper has given him so much vexation, that you have at last brought him to his grave.” Nouzhatoul-aouadat seemed much hurt at the reproaches of Zobeide: “Ah, madam,” cried she, “I do not think I ever gave your majesty, while I was your slave, reason to entertain so disadvantageous an opinion of my conduct to a husband who was so dear to me. I should think myself the most wretched of women if you were persuaded of this. I behaved to Abou Hassan as a wife should do to a husband for whom she has a sincere affection; and I may say, without vanity, that I had for him the same regard he had for me. I am persuaded he would, were he alive, justify me fully to your majesty; but, madam,” added she, renewing her tears, “his time was come, and that was the only cause of his death.”
Zobeide, as she had really observed in her slave a uniformly equal temper, mildness, great docility and zeal for her service, which shewed she was rather actuated by inclination than duty, hesitated not to believe her on her word, and ordered her treasurer to fetch a hundred pieces of gold and a piece of rich brocade.
The slave soon returned with the purse and piece of brocade, which, by Zobeide’s order, she delivered to Nouzhatoul-aouadat, who threw herself again at the princess’s feet, and thanked her with great self-satisfaction at finding she had succeeded so well. “Go,” said Zobeide, “use that brocade to cover the corpse of your husband, and with the money bury him handsomely, as he deserves. Moderate the transport of your afflictions: I will take care of you.”
As soon as Nouzhatoul-aouadat got out of the princess’s presence, she dried up her tears, and returned with joy to Abou Hassan, to give him an account of her good success. When she came home she burst out a laughing on seeing her husband still stretched out in the middle of the floor; she ran to him, bade him rise and see the fruits of his stratagem. He arose, and rejoiced with his wife at the sight of the purse and brocade. Unable to contain herself at the success of her artifice, “Come, husband,” said she, laughing, “let me act the dead part, and see if you can manage the caliph as well as I have done Zobeide.”
“That is the temper of all women,” replied Abou Hassan, “who, we may well say, have always the vanity to believe they can do things better than men, though at the same time what good they do is by their advice. It would be odd indeed, if I, who laid this plot myself, could not carry it on as well as you. But let us lose no time in idle discourse; lie down in my place, and witness if I do not come off with as much applause.”
Abou Hassan wrapped up his wife as she had done him, and with his turban unrolled, like a man in the greatest affliction, ran to the caliph, who was holding a private council with Jaaffier and other confidential viziers. He presented himself at the door, and the officer, knowing he had free access, opened it. He entered holding with one hand his handkerchief before his eyes, to hide the feigned tears, which trickled down his cheeks, and striking his breast with the other, with exclamations expressing extraordinary grief.
The caliph, always used to see Abou Hassan with a merry countenance, was very much surprised to behold him in so much distress. He interrupted the business of the council to inquire the cause of his grief. “Commander of the faithful,” answered Abou Hassan, with repeated sighs and sobs, “God preserve your majesty on the throne, which you fill so gloriously! a greater calamity could not have befallen me than what I now lament. Alas! Nouzhatoul-aouadat whom you in your bounty gave me for a wife to gladden my existence, alas!” at this exclamation Abou Hassan pretended to have his heart so full, that he could not utter more, but poured forth a flood of tears.
The caliph, who now understood that Abou Hassan came to tell him of the death of his wife, seemed much concerned, and said to him with an air which shewed how much he regretted her loss, “God be merciful to her: she was a good slave, and we gave her to you with an intention to make you happy: she deserved a longer life.” The tears then ran down his face, so that he was obliged to pull out his handkerchief to wipe them off. The grief of Abou Hassan, and the tears of the caliph, excited those of Jaaffier and the other viziers. They bewailed the death of Nouzhatoul-aouadat, who, on her part, was only impatient to hear how Abou Hassan succeeded.
The caliph had the same suspicion of the husband that Zobeide had of the wife, and imagined that he had occasioned her death. “Wretch!” said he, in a tone of indignation, “have not you been the cause of your wife’s death by your ill treatment of her? You ought at least to have had some regard for the princess my consort, who loved her more than the rest of her slaves, yet consented to give her to you. What a return for her kindness!”
“Commander of the faithful,” replied Abou Hassan, affecting to weep more bitterly than before, “can your majesty for a moment suppose that Abou Hassan, whom you have loaded with your favours and kindness, and on whom you have conferred honours he could never have aspired to, can have been capable of such ingratitude? I loved Nouzhatoul-aouadat my wife as much on these accounts, as for the many good qualities she possessed, and which drew from me all the attachment, tenderness, and love she deserved. But, my lord,” added he, “she was to die, and God would no longer suffer me to enjoy a happiness for which I was indebted to your majesty and your beloved consort.”
Abou Hassan dissembled so well, that the caliph, who had never heard how extravagantly he and his wife had lived, no longer doubting his sincerity, ordered his treasurer, who was present, to give Abou Hassan a purse of a hundred pieces of gold and a piece of brocade. Abou Hassan immediately cast himself at the caliph’s feet, and thanked him for his present. “Follow the treasurer,” said the monarch; “throw the brocade over the corpse, and with the money shew the last testimony of thy love for thy wife.”
Abou Hassan made no reply to these obliging words of the caliph, but retiring with a low prostration, followed the treasurer; and as soon as he had got the purse and piece of brocade, went home, well pleased with having found out so quick and easy a way of supplying the necessity which had given him so much uneasiness.
Nouzhatoul-aouadat, weary with lying so long in one posture, waited not till Abou Hassan bade her rise; but as soon as she heard the door open, sprang up, ran to her husband, and asked him if he had imposed on the caliph as cleverly as she had done on Zobeide. “You see,” said he, shewing her the stuff, and shaking the purse, “that I can act a sorrowful husband for a living wife, as well as you can a weeping widow for a husband not dead.” Abou Hassan, however, was not without his fears that this double plot might be attended with some ill consequences. He thought it would not be amiss to put his wife on her guard as to what might happen, that they might aft in concert. “For,” added he, “the better we succeed in embarrassing the caliph and Zobeide, the more they will be pleased at last, and perhaps may shew their satisfaction by greater liberality.” This last consideration induced them to
carry on their stratagem farther.
The caliph, though he had important affairs to decide, was so impatient to condole with the princess on the death of her slave, that he rose up as soon as Abou Hassan was gone, and put off the council to another day. “Follow me,” said he to Mesrour, who always attended him wherever he went, and was in all his councils, “let us go and share with the princess the grief which the death of her slave Nouzhatoul-aouadat must have occasioned.”
Accordingly they went to Zobeide’s apartment, whom the caliph found sitting on a sofa, much afflicted, and still in tears. “Madam,” said the caliph, going up to her, “it is unnecessary to tell you how much I partake with you in your affliction; since you must be sensible that what gives you pleasure or trouble, has the same effect on me. But we are all mortal, and must surrender up to God that life he has given us, when he requires it. Nouzhatoul-aouadat, your faithful slave, was endued with qualifications that deserved your esteem, and I cannot but approve your expressing it after her death; but consider all your grief will not restore her to life. Therefore, madam, if you love me, and will take my advice, be comforted for this loss, take care of a life which you know is precious to me, and constitutes all the happiness of mine.”
If the princess was charmed with these tender sentiments which the caliph expressed in his compliments, she was amazed to hear of Nouzhatoulaouadat’s death. This news threw her into such astonishment, that she was not able to return an answer for some time. At last recovering, she replied with an air expressive of surprise, “Commander of the faithful, I am very sensible of all your tender sentiments; but give me leave to say, I cannot comprehend the news you tell me of the death of my slave, who is in perfect health. My affliction is for the death of Abou Hassan, her husband, your favourite, whom I esteemed, as much for the regard you had for him, as his having so often diverted me agreeably, and for whom I had as great a value as yourself. But the little concern you shew for his death, and your so soon forgetting a man in whose company you have so often told me you took so much pleasure, surprises me; and this insensibility seems the greater, from the deception you would put upon me in changing his death for that of my slave.”
The caliph, who thought that he was perfectly well informed of the death of the slave, and had just reason to believe so, because he had both seen and heard Abou Hassan, laughed, and shrugged up his shoulders, to hear Zobeide talk in this manner. “Mesrour,” said he, to the eunuch, “what do you think of the princess’s discourse? Do not women sometimes lose their senses; for you have heard and seen all as well as myself?” Then turning to Zobeide, “Madam,” said he, “shed no more tears for 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; Nouzhatoul-aouadat 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 Nouzhatoul-aouadat, 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 Nouzhatoul-aouadat’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 Nouzhatoul-aouadat, 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 Nouzhatoul-aouadat, 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, Nouzhatoul-aouadat, 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. Nouzhatoul-aouadat, 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, Nouzhatoul-aouadat 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.
One Thousand and One Nights Page 92