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土耳其

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There was once upon a time a Padishah who had three daughters. One day
the old father made him ready for a journey, and calling to him his
three daughters straightly charged them to feed and water his favourite
horse, even though they neglected everything else. He loved the horse so
much that he would not suffer any stranger to come near it.

So the Padishah went on his way, but when the eldest daughter brought
the fodder into the stable the horse would not let her come near him.
Then the middling daughter brought the forage, and he treated her
likewise. Last of all the youngest daughter brought the forage, and when
the horse saw her he never budged an inch, but let her feed him and then
return to her sisters. The two elder sisters were content that the
youngest should take care of the horse, so they troubled themselves
about it no more.

The Padishah came home, and the first thing he asked was whether they
had provided the horse with everything. “He wouldn’t let us come near
him,” said the two elder sisters; “it was our youngest sister here who
took care of him.”

No sooner had the Padishah heard this than he gave his youngest daughter
to the horse to wife, but his two other daughters he gave to the sons of
his Chief Mufti and his Grand Vizier, and they celebrated the three
marriages at a great banquet, which lasted forty days. Then the youngest
daughter turned into the stable, but the two eldest dwelt in a splendid
palace. In the daytime the youngest sister had only a horse for a
husband and a stable for a dwelling; but in the night-time the stable
became a garden of roses, the horse-husband a handsome hero, and they
lived in a world of their own. Nobody knew of it but they two. They
passed the day together as best they could, but eventide was the time of
their impatient desires.

One day the Padishah held a tournament in the palace. Many gallant
warriors entered the lists, but none strove so valiantly as the husbands
of the Sultan’s elder daughters.

“Only look now!” said the two elder daughters to their sister who dwelt
in the stable, “only look now! how our husbands overthrow all the other
warriors with their lances; our two lords are not so much lords as
lions! Where is this horse-husband of thine, prythee?”

On hearing this from his wife, the horse-husband shivered all over,
turned into a man, threw himself on horseback, told his wife not to
betray him on any account, and in an instant appeared within the lists.
He overthrew every one with his lance, unhorsed his two brothers-in-law,
and re-appeared in the stable again as if he had never left it.

The next day, when the sports began again, the two elder sisters mocked
as before, but then the unknown hero appeared again, conquered and
vanished. On the third day the horse-husband said to his wife: “If ever
I should come to grief or thou shouldst need my help, take these three
wisps of hair, burn them, and it will help thee wherever thou art.” With
that he hastened to the games again and triumphed over his
brothers-in-law. Every one was amazed at his skill, the two elder
sisters likewise, and again they said to their younger sister: “Look how
these heroes excel in prowess! They are very different to thy dirty
horse-husband!”

The girl could not endure standing there with nothing to say for
herself, so she told her sisters that the handsome hero was no other
than her horse-husband--and no sooner had she pointed at him than he
vanished from before them as if he had never been. Then only did she
call to mind her lord’s command to her not to betray her secret, and
away she hurried off to the stable. But ’twas all in vain, neither horse
nor man came to her, and at midnight there was neither rose nor
rose-garden.

“Alas!” wept the girl, “I have betrayed my lord, I have broken my word,
what a crime is mine!” She never closed an eye all that night, but wept
till morning. When the red dawn appeared she went to her father the
Padishah, complained to him that she had lost her horse-husband, and
begged that she might go to the ends of the earth to seek him. In vain
her father tried to keep her back, in vain he pointed out to her that
her husband was now most probably among devils, and she would never be
able to find him--turn her from her resolution he could not. What could
he do but let her go on her way?

With a great desire the damsel set out on her quest, she went on and on
till her tender body was all aweary, and at last she sank down exhausted
at the foot of a great mountain. Then she called to mind the three
hairs, and she took out one and set fire to it--and lo! her lord and
master was in her arms again, and they could not speak for joy.

“Did I not bid thee tell none of my secret?” cried the youth
sorrowfully; “and now if my hag of a mother see thee she will instantly
tear thee to pieces. This mountain is our dwelling-place. She will be
here immediately, and woe to thee if she see thee!”

The poor Sultan’s daughter was terribly frightened, and wept worse than
ever at the thought of losing her lord again, after all her trouble in
finding him. The heart of the devil’s son was touched at her sorrow: he
struck her once, changed her into an apple, and put her on the shelf.
The hag flew down from the mountain with a terrible racket, and
screeched out that she smelt the smell of a man, and her mouth watered
for the taste of human flesh. In vain her son denied that there was any
human flesh there, she would not believe him one bit.

“If thou wilt swear by the egg not to be offended, I’ll show thee what
I’ve hidden,” said her son. The hag swore, and her son gave the apple a
tap, and there before them stood the beautiful damsel. “Behold my wife!”
said he to his mother. The old mother said never a word, what was done
could not be undone. “I’ll give the bride something to do all the same,”
thought she.

They lived a couple of days together in peace and quiet, but the hag was
only waiting for her son to leave the house. At last one day the youth
had work to do elsewhere, and scarcely had he put his foot out of doors
when the hag said to the damsel: “Come, sweep and sweep not!” and with
that she went out and said she should not be back till evening. The
girl thought to herself again and again: “What am I to do now? What did
she mean by ‘sweep and sweep not’?” Then she thought of the hairs, and
she took out and burned the second hair also. Immediately her lord stood
before her and asked her what was the matter, and the girl told him of
his mother’s command: “Sweep and sweep not!” Then her lord explained to
her that she was to sweep out the chamber, but not to sweep the
ante-chamber.

The girl did as she was told, and when the hag came home in the evening
she asked the girl whether she had accomplished her task. “Yes, little
mother,” replied the bride, “I have swept and I have not swept.”--“Thou
daughter of a dog,” cried the old witch, “not thine own wit but my son’s
mouth hath told thee this thing.”

The next morning when the hag got up she gave the damsel vases, and told
her to fill them with tears. The moment the hag had gone the damsel
placed the three vases before her, and wept and wept, but what could her
few teardrops do to fill them? Then she took out and burned the third
hair.

Again her lord appeared before her, and explained to her that she must
fill the three vases with water, and then put a pinch of salt in each
vase. The girl did so, and when the hag came home in the evening and
demanded an account of her work, the girl showed her the three vases
full of tears. “Thou daughter of a dog!” chided the old woman again,
“that is not thy work; but I’ll do for thee yet, and for my son too.”

The next day she devised some other task for her to do; but her son
guessed that his mother would vex the wench, so he hastened home to his
bride. There the poor thing was worrying herself about it all alone, for
the third hair was now burnt, and she did not know how to set about
doing the task laid upon her. “Well, there is now nothing for it but to
run away,” said her lord, “for she won’t rest now till she hath done
thee a mischief.” And with that he took his wife, and out into the wide
world they went.

In the evening the hag came home, and saw neither her son nor his bride.
“They have flown, the dogs!” cried the hag, with a threatening voice,
and she called to her sister, who was also a witch, to make ready and go
in pursuit of her son and his bride. So the witch jumped into a pitcher,
snatched up a serpent for a whip, and went after them.

The demon-lover saw his aunt coming, and in an instant changed the girl
into a bathing-house, and himself into a bath-man sitting down at the
gate. The witch leaped from the pitcher, went to the bath-keeper, and
asked him if he had not seen a young boy and girl pass by that way.

“I have only just warmed up my bath,” said the youth, “there’s nobody
inside it; if thou dost not believe me, thou canst go and look for
thyself.” The witch thought: “‘Tis impossible to get a sensible word out
of a fellow of this sort,” so she jumped into her pitcher, flew back,
and told her sister that she couldn’t find them. The other hag asked her
whether she had exchanged words with any one on the road. “Yes,” replied
the younger sister, “there was a bath-house by the roadside, and I asked
the owner of it about them; but he was either a fool or deaf, so I took
no notice of him.”

“‘Tis thou who wert the fool,” snarled her elder sister. “Didst thou not
recognize in him my son, and in the bath-house my daughter-in-law?” Then
she called her second sister, and sent her after the fugitives.

The devil’s son saw his second aunt flying along in her pitcher. Then he
gave his wife a tap and turned her into a spring, but he himself sat
down beside it, and began to draw water out of it with a pitcher. The
witch went up to him, and asked him whether he had seen a girl and a boy
pass by that way.

“There’s drinkable water in this spring,” replied he, with a vacant
stare, “I am always drawing it.” The witch thought she had to do with a
fool, turned back, and told her sister that she had not met with them.
Her sister asked her if she had not come across any one by the way.
“Yes, indeed,” replied she, “a half-witted fellow was drawing water from
a spring, but I couldn’t get a single sensible word out of him.”

“That half-witted fellow was my son, the spring was his wife, and a
pretty wiseacre thou art,” screeched her sister. “I shall have to go
myself, I see,” and with that she jumped into her pitcher, snatched up a
serpent to serve her as a whip, and off she went.

Meanwhile the youth looked back again, and saw his mother coming after
them. He gave the girl a tap and changed her into a tree, but he himself
turned into a serpent, and coiled himself round the tree. The witch
recognized them, and drew near to the tree to break it to pieces; but
when she saw the serpent coiled round it, she was afraid to kill her own
son along with it, so she said to her son: “Son, son! show me, at least,
the girl’s little finger, and then I’ll leave you both in peace.” The
son saw that he could not free himself from her any other way, and that
she must have at least a little morsel of the damsel to nibble at. So he
showed her one of the girl’s little fingers, and the old hag wrenched
it off, and returned to her domains with it. Then the youth gave the
girl a tap and himself another tap, put on human shape again, and away
they went to the girl’s father, the Padishah. The youth, since his
talisman had been destroyed, remained a mortal man, but the diabolical
part of him stayed at home with his witch-mother and her kindred. The
Padishah rejoiced greatly in his children, gave them a wedding-banquet
with a wave of his finger, and they inherited the realm after his
death.