Gypsy folk-tales

A king had three sons. He gave the youngest a hundred thousand piastres; he gave the same to the eldest son and to the middle one. The youngest arose, he took the road; wherever he found poor folk he gave money; here, there, he gave it away; he spent the money. His eldest brother went, had ships built to make money. And the middle one went, had shops built. They came to their father.

‘What have you done, my son?’

‘I have built ships.’

To the youngest, ‘You, what have you done?’

‘I? every poor man I found, I gave him money; and for poor girls I paid the cost of their marriage.’

The king said, ‘My youngest son will care well for the poor. Take another hundred thousand piastres.’

The lad departed. Here, there, he spent his money; twelve piastres remained to him. Some Jews dug up a corpse and beat it.

‘What do you want of him, that you are beating him?’

‘Twelve piastres we want of him.’

‘I’ll give you them if you will let him be.’

He gave the money, they let the dead man be. He arose and departed. As the lad goes the dead man followed him. ‘Where go you?’ the dead man asked.

‘I am going for a walk.’

‘I’ll come too; we’ll go together; we will be partners.’ [2]

‘So be it.’

‘Come, I will bring you to a certain place.’

He took and brought him to a village. There was a girl, takes a husband, lies with him; by dawn next day the husbands are dead.

‘I will hide you somewhere; I will get you a girl; but we shall always be partners.’

He found the girl (a dragon came out of her mouth).

‘And this night when you go to bed, I too will lie there.’

He took his sword, he went near them. The lad said, ‘That will never do. If you want her, do you take the girl.’

‘Are we not partners? You, do you sleep with her; I also, I will sleep here.’

At midnight he sees the girl open her mouth; the dragon came forth; he drew his sword; he cut off its three heads; he put the heads in his bosom; he lay down; he fell asleep. Next morning the girl arose, and sees the man her husband living by her side. They told the girl’s father. ‘To-day your daughter has seen dawn break with her husband.’

‘That will be the son-in-law,’ said the father.

The lad took the girl; he is going to his father.

‘Come,’ said the dead man, ‘let’s divide the money.’

They fell to dividing it.

‘We have divided the money; let us also divide your wife.’

The lad said, ‘How divide her? If you want her, take her.’

‘I won’t take her; we’ll divide.’

‘How divide?’ said the lad.

The dead man said, ‘I, I will divide.’

The dead man seized her; he bound her knees. ‘Do you catch hold of one foot, I’ll take the other.’

He raised his sword to strike the girl. In her fright the girl opened her mouth, and cried, and out of her mouth fell a dragon. The dead man said to the lad, ‘I am not for a wife, I am not for any money. These dragon’s heads are what devoured the men. Take her; the girl shall be yours, the money shall be yours. You did me a kindness; I also have done you one.’

‘What kindness did I do you?’ asked the lad.

‘You took me from the hands of the Jews.’ [3]

The dead man departed to his place, and the lad took his wife, went to his father.

In his introduction to the Pantschatantra (Leip. 1859), i. 219–221, Benfey cites an Armenian version of this story that is practically identical. Compare also the English ‘Sir Amadas’ (c. 1420), first printed in Weber’s Metrical Romances (Edinb. 1810, iii. 243–275); Straparola (1550) XI. 2 (‘The Simpleton,’ summarised in Grimm, ii. 480); ‘The Follower’ or ‘The Companion’ of Asbjörnsen (Dasent’s Tales from the Fjeld, p. 68), on which Andersen founded his ‘Travelling Companion’; ‘The Barra Widow’s Son’ (Campbell’s Tales of the West Highlands, No. 32, ii. 110); Hahn, ii. 320; Cosquin, i. 208, 214; Hinton Knowles’ Folk-tales of Kashmir, pp. 39–40; Wratislaw’s Sixty Slavonic Folk-tales, No. 18 (Polish); and especially Reinhold Köhler in Orient und Occident (1864, ii. 322–9, and iii. 93–103). What should be of special interest to English folklorists, is that Asbjörnsen’s ‘Follower’ forms an episode in our earliest version (Newcastle-on-Tyne, 1711) of ‘Jack the Giant-killer.’ Cf. pp. 67–71 of J. O. Halliwell’s Popular Rhymes and Nursery Tales (1849), where we get the redemption of a dead debtor (who is not grateful), a witch-lady who visits an evil spirit, and the cutting off of that evil spirit’s head by a comrade clad in a coat of darkness. The resemblance has never been noticed between the folk-tale and the Book of Tobit, where Tobit shows his charity by burying the dead; the archangel Raphael plays the part of the ‘Follower’ (in both ‘Sir Amadas’ and the Russian version the Grateful Dead returns as an angel); Sara, Tobias’s bride, has had seven husbands slain by Asmodeus, the evil spirit, before they had lain with her; Raguel, Sara’s father, learns of Tobias’s safety on the morning after their marriage; Tobias offers half his goods to Raphael; and Raphael then disappears. The story of Tobit has certainly passed into Sicilian folklore, borrowed straight, it would seem, from the Apocrypha, as ‘The History of Tobià and Tobiòla’ (Laura Gonzenbach’s Sicil. Märchen, No. 89, ii. 177); but the Apocryphal book itself is plainly a corrupt version of the original folk-tale.

Madame Darmesteter’s Life of Renan (1897), contains at p. 251 the following passage:—‘That night he told us the story of the Babylonian Tobias. Rash and young, this Chaldæan brother of our Tobit, discouraged by the difficult approaches of prosperity, had entered into partnership with a demi-god or Demon, who made all his schemes succeed and pocketed fifty per cent. upon the profits. The remaining fifty sufficed to make Tobias as rich as Oriental fancy can imagine. The young man fell in love, married his bride, and brought her home. On the threshold stood the Demon: “How about my fifty per cent?” The Venus d’Ille, you see, was not born yesterday. From the dimmest dawn of time sages have taught us not to trust the gods too far.’

Unluckily there seems to be no authority whatever for this alleged Chaldæan version, which should obviously come closer to the folk-tale than to the Book of Tobit. At least, Professor Sayce writes word:—‘The passage in Madame Darmesteter’s Life of Renan must be based [4]on an error, for no such story—so far as I know—has ever been found on a cuneiform tablet. It may have originated in a mistranslation of one of the contract-tablets; but if so, the mistranslation must have appeared in some obscure French publication, perhaps a newspaper, which I have not seen.’ Alack! and yet our folk-tale remains perhaps the oldest current folk-tale in the world.

In those days there was a man built a galleon; he manned her; he would go from the White Sea to the Black Sea. He landed at a village to take in water; there he saw four or five boys playing. One of them was bald. He called him. ‘Where’s the water?’ he asked. Baldpate showed him; he took in water.

‘Wilt come with me?’

‘I will, but I’ve a mother.’

‘Let’s go to your mother.’ They went to her.

‘Will you give me this boy?’

‘I will.’

The captain paid a month’s wages; he took the lad. They weighed anchor; they came to a large village; they landed to take in water.

The king’s son went out for a walk, and he sees a dervish with a girl’s portrait for sale. The king’s son bought it; it was very lovely. The girl’s father had been working at it for seven years. The king’s son set it on the fountain, thinking, Some one of those who come to drink the water will say, ‘I’ve seen that girl.’ The captain came ashore; he took in water; he lifted up his eyes, and saw the portrait. ‘What a beauty!’ He went aboard, and said to his crew, ‘There’s a beauty yonder, I’ve never seen her like.’

Baldpate said, ‘I’m going to see.’

Baldpate went. The moment he saw the portrait, he burst out laughing. ‘It’s the dervish’s daughter. How do they come by her?’

Hardly had he said it when they seized him and brought him to the palace. Baldpate lost his head the moment they seized him. But two days later they came to him: ‘This girl, do you know her?’

‘Know her? why, we were brought up together. Her mother is dead; she suckled both her and me.’ [5]

‘If they bring you before the king, fear not.’

He came before the king.

‘This girl, do you know her, my lad?’

‘I do, we grew up together.’

‘Will you bring her here?’

‘I will. Build me a gilded galleon; give me twenty musicians; let me take your son with me; and let no one gainsay whatever I do. Then I will go. I shall take seven years to go and come.’

They took their bread, their water for seven years; they set out. They went to the maiden’s country. At break of day Baldpate brought the galleon near the maiden’s house; the maiden’s house was close to the sea. Baldpate said, ‘I’ll go upon deck for a turn; don’t any of you show yourselves.’ He went up; he paced the deck.

The dervish’s daughter arose from her sleep. The sun struck on the galleon; it struck, too, on the house. The girl went out, rubs her eyes. A man pacing up and down. She bowed forward and saw our Baldpate. She knew him: ‘What wants he here?’

‘What seek you here?’

‘I’ve come for you, come to see you; it is so many years since I’ve seen you. Come aboard. Your father, where’s he gone to?’

‘Don’t you know that my father has been painting my portrait? He’s gone to sell it; I’m expecting him these last few days.’

‘Come here, and let’s have a little talk.’

The girl went to dress. Baldpate went to his crew. ‘Hide yourselves; don’t let a soul be seen; but the moment I get her into the cabin, do you cut the ropes; I shall be talking with her.’

She came into the cabin; they seated themselves; they talk; the galleon gets under weigh. He privily brought in the king’s son.

‘Who is this?’ said the girl. ‘I am off.’

‘Are you daft, my sister? Let’s have some sweetmeats.’

He gave her some; they intoxicated the girl.

‘A little music to play to you,’ said Baldpate.

He went, brought the musicians; they began to play. The girl said, ‘I’m up, I’m off; my father’s coming.’ [6]

‘Sit down a bit, and let them play to you.’ They play their music; she hears not the departure of the galleon.

‘I’m off,’ said the girl to Baldpate.

She went on deck and saw where her home was. ‘Ah! my brother, what have you done to me?’

‘Done to you! he who sits by you is the son of the king, and I’m come to fetch you for him.’

She wept and said, ‘What shall I do? shall I fling myself into the sea?’ No, she went and sat down by the king’s son. Plenty of music and victuals and drink. Baldpate is sitting up aloft by himself; he is captain. They eat, they drink; he stirred not from his post.

Two or three days remained ere they landed. At break of dawn three birds perched on the galleon; no one was near him. The birds began talking: ‘O bird, O bird, what is it, O bird? The dervish’s daughter eats, drinks with the son of the king; she knows not what will befall them.’

‘What will?’ the other birds asked.

‘As soon as he arrives, a little boat will come to take them off. The boat will upset, and the dervish’s daughter and the king’s son will be drowned; and whoever hears it and tells will be turned into stone to his knees.’

Baldpate listens; he is alone.

Early next morning the birds came back again. They began talking together: ‘O bird, O bird, what is it, O bird? The dervish’s daughter and the king’s son eat, drink; they know not what will befall them. As soon as they land, as soon as they enter the gate, the gate will tumble down, it will crush them and kill them; and whoever hears it and tells will be turned into stone to the back.’

Day broke; the birds came back. ‘O bird, O bird, what is it, O bird? The dervish’s daughter eats, drinks; she knows not what will befall her.’

‘What will?’ the other birds asked.

‘The marriage night a seven-headed dragon will come forth, and he will devour the king’s son and the dervish’s daughter; and whoever hears it and tells them will be turned into stone to the head.’

Baldpate says, all to himself, ‘I shan’t let any boats come.’ He arose; he came opposite the palace; some boats came to take off the maiden. [7]

‘I want no boats.’ Instead he spread his sails. The galleon backed, the galleon went ahead. One and all looked: ‘Why, he will strand the galleon!’

‘Let him be,’ said the king, ‘let him strand her.’

He stranded the galleon.

Baldpate said to the king, ‘When I started to fetch this girl, did I not tell you you must let me do as I would? No one must interfere.’

He took the girl and the prince; he came to the gate. ‘Pull it down.’

‘Pull it down, why?’ they asked.

‘Did I not tell you no one must interfere?’

They set to and pulled it down. They went up, sat down, ate, drank, laugh, and talk.

The worm gnaws Baldpate within.

Night fell; they will bed the pair. Baldpate said, ‘Where you sleep I also will sleep there.’

‘The bridegroom and bride will sleep there; you can’t.’

‘What’s our bargain?’

‘Thou knowest.’

They went, they lay down; Baldpate took his sword, he lay down, he covered his head. At midnight he hears a dragon coming. He draws his sword; he cuts off its heads; he puts them beneath his pillow. The king’s son awoke, and sees his sword in his hands. He cried, ‘Baldpate will kill us.’

The father came and asked, ‘What made you call out, my son?’

‘Baldpate will kill us,’ he answered.

They took and bound Baldpate’s arms.

Day broke; the king summoned him. ‘Why have you acted thus? Seven years you have gone, you have journeyed, and brought the maiden; and now you have risen to slay them.’

‘What could I do?’

‘You would kill my son, then will I kill you.’

‘Thou knowest.’

They bind his arms, they lead him to cut off his head. As he went, Baldpate said to himself, ‘They will cut off my head. If I tell, I shall be turned into stone. Come, bring me to the king; I have a couple of words to say to him.’ [8]

They brought him to the king.

‘Why have you brought him here?’

‘He has a couple of words to say to you.’

‘Say them, my lad.’

‘I, when I went to fetch the dervish’s daughter, I was sitting alone on the galleon; your son was eating, drinking with the maiden. One morning three birds came; they began talking: “O bird, O bird, what is it, O bird? The dervish’s daughter eats, drinks with the son of the king; she knows not what will befall her. And whoever hears it and tells will be turned into stone to his knees.” No one but I was there; I heard it.’

As soon as Baldpate had said it, he was turned into stone to his knees. The king, seeing he was turned into stone, said, ‘Prithee, my lad, say no more.’

‘But I will,’ Baldpate answered, and went on to tell of the gate; he was turned into stone to his back.

‘The third time the birds came and talked together again, and I heard (that was why I wished to sleep with them): “A seven-headed dragon will come forth; he will devour them.” And if you believe it not, look under the pillow.’

They went there; they saw the heads.

‘It was I who killed him. Your son saw the sword in my hands, and he thought I would kill them. I could not tell him the truth.’

He was turned into stone to his head. They made a tomb for him.

The king’s son arose; he took the road; he departed. ‘Seven years has he wandered for me, I am going to wander seven years for him.’

The king’s son went walking, walking. In a certain place there was water; he drank of it; he lay down. Baldpate came to him in a dream: ‘Take a little earth from here, and go and sprinkle it on the tomb. He will rise from the stone.’

The king’s son slept and slept. He arose; he takes some of the earth; he went to the tomb; he sprinkled the earth on it. Baldpate arose. ‘How sound I’ve been sleeping!’ he said.

‘Seven years hast thou wandered for me, and seven years I have wandered for thee.’ [9]

He takes him, he brings him to the palace, he makes him a great one.

Miklosich’s Bukowina-Gypsy story, ‘The Prince, his Comrade, and Nastasa the Fair’ (No. 24) presents analogies; but ‘Baldpate’ is identical with Grimm’s No. 6, ‘Faithful John,’ i. pp. 23 and 348, where in the variant the third peril is a seven-headed dragon. Cf. also Wolf’s Hausmärchen (Gött. 1851), p. 383; Basile’s Pentamerone (1637), iv. 9; Hahn, i. 201–208, and ii. 267–277; and especially the Rev. Lal Behari Day’s Folk-tales of Bengal (London, 1883), pp. 39–52, the latter half of ‘Phakir Chand.’ Here two immortal birds warn the minister’s son of four perils threatening the king’s son:—(1) riding an elephant; (2) from fall of gate; (3) choking by fish-head; (4) cobra. Penalty of telling, to be turned into statue. Another Indian version is ‘Rama and Luxman; or, the Learned Owl,’ in Mary Frere’s Old Deccan Days, No. 5, pp. 66–78, whose ending is very feeble. See also Reinhold Köhler’s Aufsätze über Märchen und Volkslieder (Berlin, 1894), pp. 24–35.

In those days there was a rich man. He had an only son, and the mother and the father loved him dearly. He went to school; all that there is in the world, he learned it. One day he arose; took four, five purses of money. Here, there he squandered it. Early next morning he arose again and went to his father. ‘Give me more money.’ He got more money, arose, went; by night he had spent it. Little by little he spent all the money.

And early once more he arose, and says to his father and mother, ‘I want some money.’

‘My child, there is no money left. Would you like the stew-pans? take them, go, sell them, and eat.’

He took and sold them: in a day or two he had spent it.

‘I want some money.’

‘My son, we have no money. Take the clothes, go, sell them.’

In a day or two he had spent that money. He arose, and went to his father, ‘I want some money.’

‘My son, there is no money left us. If you like, sell the house.’

The lad took and sold the house. In a month he had spent the money; no money remained. ‘Father I want some money.’ [10]

‘My son, no riches remain to us, no house remains to us. If you like, take us to the slave-market, sell us.’

The lad took and sold them. His mother and his father said, ‘Come this way, that we may see you.’ The king bought the mother and father.

With the money for his mother the lad bought himself clothes, and with the money for his father got a horse.

One day, two days the father, the mother looked for the son that comes not; they fell a-weeping. The king’s servants saw them weeping; they went, told it to the king. ‘Those whom you bought weep loudly.’

‘Call them to me.’ The king called them. ‘Why are you weeping.’

‘We had a son; for him it is we weep.’

‘Who are you, then?’ asked the king.

‘We were not thus, my king; we had a son. He sold us, and we were weeping at his not coming to see us.’

Just as they were talking with the king, the lad arrived. The king set-to, wrote a letter, gave it him into his hand. ‘Carry this letter to such and such a place.’ In it the king wrote, ‘The lad bearing this letter, cut his throat the minute you get it.’

The lad put on his new clothes, mounted his horse, put the letter in his bosom, took the road. He rode a long way; he was dying of thirst; and he sees a well. ‘How am I to get water to drink? I will fasten this letter, and lower it into the well, and moisten my mouth a bit.’ He lowered it, drew it up, squeezed it into his mouth.

‘Let’s see what this letter contains.’

See what it contains—‘The minute he delivers the letter, cut his throat.’ The lad stood there fair mesmerised.2

In a certain place there was a king’s daughter. They go to propound a riddle to her. If she guesses it, she will cut off his head; and if she cannot, he will marry the maiden.

The lad arose, went to the king’s palace.

‘What are you come for, my lad?’

‘I would speak with the king’s daughter.’

‘Speak with her you shall. If she guesses your riddle, [11]she will cut off your head; and if she cannot, you will get the maiden.’

‘That’s what I’m come for.’

He sat down in front of the maiden. The maiden said, ‘Tell your riddle.’

The lad said, ‘My mother I wore her, my father I rode him, from my death I drank water.’

The maiden looked in her book, could not find it. ‘Grant me a three days’ respite.’

‘I grant it you,’ said the lad. The lad arose, went to an inn, goes to sleep there.

The maiden saw she cannot find it out. The maiden set-to, had an underground passage made to the place where the lad lies sleeping. At midnight the maid arose, went to him, took the lad in her arms.

‘I am thine, thou art mine, only tell me the riddle.’

‘Not likely I should tell you. Strip yourself,’ said the lad to the maiden. The maiden stripped herself.

‘Tell me it.’ Then he told her.

The maiden clapped her hands; her servants came, took the maiden, and let her go. The maiden was wearing the lad’s sark, and the lad was wearing the maiden’s.

Day broke. They summoned the lad. The lad mounted his horse, and rides to the palace. The people see the lad. ‘’Tis a pity; they’ll kill him.’

He went up, and stood face to face with the king.

‘My daughter has guessed your riddle,’ said the king.

‘How did she guess it, my king? At night when I was asleep, there came a bird to my breast. I caught it, I killed it, I cooked it. Just as I was going to eat it, it flew away.’

The king says, ‘Kill him; he’s wandering.’

‘I am not wandering, my king. I told your daughter the riddle. Your daughter had an underground passage made, and she came to where I was sleeping, came to my arms. I caught her, I stripped her, I took her to my bosom, I told her the riddle. She clapped her hands; her servants came and took her. And if you don’t believe, I am wearing her sark, and she is wearing mine.’

The king saw it was true.

Forty days, forty nights they made a marriage. He took the maiden, went, bought back his father, his mother. [12]

When I translated this story, I deemed it unique, though the Bellerophon letter is a familiar feature in Indian and European folk-tales, and so too is the princess who guesses or propounds riddles for the wager of her hand to the suitors’ heads. She occurs in ‘The Companion’ of Asbjörnsen (Dasent’s Tales from the Fjeld, p. 68, and so in our ‘Jack the Giant-killer,’ cf. p. 3), and in Ralston’s ‘The Blind Man and the Cripple’ (p. 241), of both of which there are Gypsy versions, our Nos. 1 and 24. In Ralston’s story, as here, the princess takes her magic book, her grimoire, and turns over the leaves to find out the answer (cf. also the Welsh-Gypsy tale of ‘The Green Man of Noman’s Land,’ No. 62). Maive Stokes’s Indian Fairy Tales has a story, ‘Rájá Harichand’s Punishment,’ No. 29, p. 225, where a ráni is ‘very wise and clever, for she had a book, which she read continually, called the Kop shástra; and this book told her everything.’ I know myself of a Gypsy woman who told fortunes splendidly out of her ‘magic book’—it was really a Treatise on Navigation, with diagrams. Fortune-tellers with ‘sacred book’ occur in Mary Frere’s Old Deccan Days, p. 261. Now, since translating this story, I find it is largely identical with Campbell’s West Highland tale, ‘The Knight of Riddles,’ No. 22 (ii. p. 36), with which cf. Grimm’s ‘The Riddle,’ No. 22 (i. 100, 368). See also Reinhold Köhler in Orient und Occident (ii. 1864), p. 320.