Story of the Three Young Brahmans who Restored a Dead Lady to Life.

Bráhman Agnisvámin has a beautiful daughter, Mandáravatí. Three young Bráhmans, equally matched in accomplishments, come to Agnisvámin, and demand the daughter, each for himself. Her father refuses, fearing to cause the death of any one of them. Mandáravatí remains unmarried. The three suitors stay at her house day and night, living on the sight of her. Then Mandáravatí suddenly dies of a fever. The three Bráhmans take her body to the cemetery and burn it. One builds a hut there, and makes her ashes his bed; the second takes her bones, and goes with them to the sacred river Ganges; the third becomes an ascetic, and sets out travelling.

While roaming about, the third suitor reaches a village, where he is entertained by a Bráhman. From him the ascetic steals a magic book that will restore life to dead ashes. (He has seen its power proved after his hostess, in a fit of anger, throws her crying child into the fire.) With his magic book he returns to the cemetery before the second suitor has thrown the maiden’s bones into the river. After having the first Bráhman remove the hut he had erected, the ascetic, reading the charm and throwing some dust on the ashes of Mandáravatí, causes the maiden to rise up alive, more beautiful than ever. Then the three quarrel about her, each claiming her as his own. The first says, “She is mine, for I preserved her ashes and resuscitated her by asceticism.” The second says, “She belongs to me, for she was produced by the efficacy of sacred bathing-places.” The third says, “She is my wife, for she was won by the power of my charm.”

The vetâla, who has been telling the story, now puts the question to King Vikramasena. The king rules as follows: “The third Bráhman must be considered as her father; the second, as her son; and the first, as her husband, for he lay in the cemetery embracing her ashes, which was an act of deep affection.”

A modern link is the Georgian folk-tale of “The King and the Apple” (Wardrop, No. XVI), in which the king’s magic apple tells three riddle-stories to the wonderful boy:—

(1) A woman is travelling with her husband and brother. The party meets brigands, and the two men are decapitated. Their heads are restored to them by the woman through the help of a magic herb revealed to her by a mouse. However, she gets her husband’s head on her brother’s body. Q.—Which man is the right husband? A.—The one with the husband’s head.

(2) A joiner, a tailor, and a priest are travelling. When night comes, they appoint three watches. The joiner, for amusement, cuts down a tree and carves out a man. The tailor, in his turn, takes off his clothes and dresses the figure. The priest, when his turn comes, prays for a soul for the image, and the figure becomes alive. Q.–Who made the man? A.—He who gave him the soul.

(3) A diviner, a physician, and a swift runner are met together. The diviner says, “There is a certain prince ill with such and such a disease.” The physician says, “I know a cure.” The swift runner says, “I will run with it.” The physician prepares the medicine, the runner runs with it, and the prince is cured. Q.—Who cured the king’s son? A.—He who made the medicine.

These three stories, with their framework, appear to be descended in part from the Ardschi-Bordschi saga. A connection between the third and our type II is obvious.

A Bohemian form of this type is No. 4 of Wratislaw’s collection.

(II) Type II, according to Benfey, also originated in India. The oldest known form of the story is the “Vetâlapancaviṇçati,” No. 5. A brief summary of Somadeva’s version, “The Story of Somaprabhá and her Three Suitors” (Tawney, 2 : 258–260), may be given here:—

In Ujjayiní there lived a Bráhman who had an excellent son and a beautiful proud daughter. When the time for her to be married came, she told her mother to give the following message to her father and her brother: “I am to be given in marriage only to a person possessed of heroism, knowledge, or magic power.”

A noble Brahman (No. 1) in time came to the father and asked for his daughter’s hand. When told of the conditions, he said, “I am possessed of magic power,” and to demonstrate, he made a chariot and took the father for a ride in the clouds. Then Harisvámin, the father, promised his daughter to the Bráhman possessed of magic power, and set the marriage day seven days hence.

Another Bráhman (No. 2) came and asked the son for his sister’s hand. When told the conditions, he said that he was a hero, and he displayed his skill in the use of weapons. The brother, ignorant of what his father had done, promised his sister’s hand to this man, and by the advice of an astrologer he selected the same day for the wedding as his father had selected.

A third Bráhman (No. 3) on that same day asked the mother for her daughter’s hand, saying that he was possessed of wisdom. Ignorant of what her husband and her son had done, she questioned this Bráhman about the past and the future, and at length promised him her daughter’s hand on the same seventh day.

On the same day, then, three bridegrooms appeared, and, strange to say, on that very day the bride disappeared. No. 3, with his knowledge, discovered that she had been carried off by a Rákshasa. No. 1 made a chariot equipped with weapons, and the three suitors and Harisvámin were carried to the Rákshasa’s abode. There No. 2 fought and killed the demon, and all returned with the maiden. A dispute then arose among the Bráhmans as to which was entitled to the maiden’s hand. Each set forth his claim.

The vetâla, who has been telling the story, now makes King Vikramasena decide which deserves the girl. The king says that the girl ought to be given to No. 2, who risked his life in battle to save her. Nos. 1 and 3 were only instruments; calculators and artificers are always subordinate to others.

The story next passed over into Mongolia, growing by the way. The version in the “Siddhi-Kür,” No. 13, is interesting, because it shows our story already linked up with another cycle, the “True Brothers.” Only the last part, which begins approximately where the companions miss the rich youth, corresponds to the Sanscrit above. (This Mongolian version may be found in English in Busk, 105–114.) The story then moved westward, and we next meet it in the Persian and the Turkish “Tûtî-nâmah,” “The Story of the Beautiful Zehra.” (For an English rendering from the Persian, see “The Tootinameh; or, Tales of a Parrot,” Persian text with English translation [Calcutta, 1792], pp. 111–114.)

W. A. Clouston (Clouston 3, 2 : 277–288) has discussed this group of stories, and gives abstracts of a number of variants that Benfey does not mention: Dozon, “Albanian Tales,” No. 4; a Persian manuscript text of the “Sindibád Náma;” a Japanese legend known as early as the tenth century; the “1001 Nights” story of “Prince Ahmed and the Peri Bánú;” Powell and Magnussen’s “Icelandic Legends,” pp. 348–354, “The Story of the Three Princes;” Von Hahn, “Contes Populaires Grecs” (Athens and Copenhagen, 1879), No. II, p. 98. Of these he says (p. 285), “We have probably the original of all these different versions in the fifth of the ‘Vetálapanchaviṇsati,’ ”—but hardly from No. 5 alone, probably in combination with Nos. 2 and 22 (cf. above). At least, the Arabian, Icelandic, and Greek forms cited by Clouston include the search for trades or magic objects by rival brothers, a detail not found in No. 5, but occurring in Nos. 22 and 2. Clouston calls attention to the fact that in No. 5 and in the “Tûtî-nâmah” version the damsel is not represented as being ill, while in the “Sindibád-Námá” and in the Arabian version she is so represented.

(III) The third type seems to be of European origin. It is perhaps best represented by Grimm, No. 124, “The Three Brothers.” In his notes, Grimm calls this story an old lying and jesting tale, and says that it is apparently very widespread. He cites few analogues of it, however. He does mention an old one (sixteenth century) which seems to be the parent of the German story. It is Philippe d’Alcripe’s “Trois frères, excellens ouvriers de leurs mestiers” (No. 1 in the 1853 Paris edition, Biblioth. Elzevirien). As in Grimm, the three skilled brothers in the French tale are a barber, a horse-shoer, and a swordsman; and the performances of skill are identical in the two stories. The French version, however, ends with the display of skill: no decision is made as to which is entitled to receive the “petite maison,” the property that the father wishes to leave to the son who proves himself to be the best craftsman. Our fifth story, the Bicol variant, clearly belongs to this type, although it has undergone some modifications, and has been influenced by contact with other cycles.

(IV) The fourth type represents the form to which our four printed stories most closely approximate. As remarked above, it is a combination of the third and the second types. This combination appears to have been developed in Europe, although, as may be seen from the analysis of “Vetâlapancaviṇcati,” No. 2, it might easily have been suggested by the Sanscrit. Compare also the “Siddhi-Kür” form of type II, where, although not brothers, and six in number instead of three, the six comrades set out to seek their fortunes. But here there is no suggestion of the six acquiring skill: they have that before they separate.

The earliest known European version of this type is Morlini’s, Nov. 30 (about 1520). His Latin was translated by Straparola (about 1553) in the “Tredici piacevoli Notti,” VII, 5. In outline his version runs about as follows:—

Three brothers, sons of a poor man, voluntarily leave home to seek their fortunes, promising to return in ten years. After determining on a meeting-place, they separate. The first takes service with soldiers, and becomes expert in the art of war: he can scale walls, dagger in hand. The second becomes a master shipwright. The third spends his time in the woods, and becomes skilled in the tongues of birds. After ten years they meet again, as appointed. While they are sitting in an inn, the youngest hears a bird say that there is a great treasure hidden by the corner-stone of the inn. This they dig up, and return as wealthy men to their father’s house.

Another bird announces the imprisonment of the beautiful Aglea in a tower on an island in the Ægean Sea. She is guarded by a serpent. The second brother builds a swift ship, in which all three sail to the island. There the first brother climbs the tower, rescues Aglea, and plunders all the serpent’s treasure. With the wealth and the lady the three return. A dispute now arises as to which brother has the best claim over her. The matter is left undecided by the story-teller.

At the beginning of the seventeenth century, Basile, working very likely on oral tradition, and independent of Straparola (with whose work he does not appear to have been acquainted), gives another version, “Pentamerone,” v, 7:—

Pacione, a poor father, sends his five good-for-nothing sons out into the world for one year to learn a craft. They return at the appointed time. During the year the eldest son has learned thieving; the second has learned boat-building; the third, how to shoot with the cross-bow; the fourth has learned of an herb that will cause the dead to rise; the fifth has learned the language of birds. While the five sons are eating with their father, the youngest son hears sparrows saying that a ghoul has stolen the princess, daughter of the King of Autogolfo. The father suggests that his five sons go to her rescue. So a boat is built, the princess is stolen from the ghoul, the ghoul pursues and is blinded by a shot from the bow, the princess falls in a dead faint and is restored by the life-giving herb. After the five brothers have returned the princess to her father, they dispute as to who did the greatest deed of prowess, so as to be worthy of being her husband. Her father the king decides the dispute by giving his daughter to Pacione, because he is the parent-stem of all these branches.

Benfey thinks that the brother who knows of the life-restoring herb is an original addition of Basile’s or of his immediate source; but this character is to be found in the cycle from earliest times (see “Vetâlapancaviṇçati,” No. 2; and “Siddhi-Kür,” No. 13).

The story is next found as a Märchen pretty well scattered throughout Europe. German, Russian, Bohemian, Italian, Greek, and Serbian forms are known (see Benfey’s article, and Grimm’s notes to No. 129). We may examine briefly six interesting versions not mentioned by Benfey or Grimm:—

Greek (Von Hahn, No. 47).—A king with three sons wishes to marry off the eldest. He seeks a suitable wife for the prince; but when she is found and brought to the court, she is so beautiful, that all three brothers want her. To decide their dispute, the king, on advice, sends them abroad, promising the hand of the princess to the one who shall bring back the most valuable article. The three brothers set out; they separate at Adrianople, agreeing to meet there again at an appointed time. On his travels, the eldest buys a telescope through which he can see anything he wishes to see. The second buys an orange that will restore to life the dying if the sick person but smells of the fruit. The third buys a magic transportation-carpet. They all meet as agreed. By means of the telescope one of the brothers learns that the princess is dying. The magic carpet carries them all home instantaneously, and the orange cures the maiden. A quarrel arises as to which brother deserves her hand. The king, unable to decide, marries her himself.

Bohemian (Waldau [Prag, 1860], “Das Weise Urteil”).—In this there are three rival brothers. One has a magic mirror; another, a magic chariot; and the third, three magic apples. The first finds out that the lady is desperately ill; the second takes himself and his rivals to her; and the third restores her to health. A dispute arising, an old man decides that the third brother should have her, as his apples were consumed as medicine, while the other two still have their chariot and mirror respectively. (Compare the decision in the Georgian folk-tale under type II.)

Serbian (Mme. Mijatovies, 230 ff., “The Three Suitors”).—Three noblemen seek the hand of a princess. As the king cannot make a choice, he says to the three, “Go travel about the world. The one who brings home the most remarkable thing shall be my son-in-law.” As in the Greek story, one gets a transportation-carpet; another, a magic telescope; and the third, a wonder-working ointment that will cure all diseases and even bring the dead to life. The three noblemen meet, learn through the telescope of the princess’s mortal illness, and, hastening to her side with the help of the magic carpet, cure her with the ointment. A dispute arises as to which suitor shall have her. The king decides that each has as good a claim as the others, and persuades all to give up the idea of marrying the princess. They do so, go to a far-off desert, and become hermits, while the king marries his daughter to another noble. The story does not end here, but thus much is all we are interested in.

Italian Tyrolese (Schneller, No. 14, “Die Drei Liebhaber”).—This story is like Von Hahn, No. 47. The magic objects are an apple, a chair, and a mirror. In the magic mirror the three suitors see the bride on the point of death. They are carried to her in the magic chair, and she is saved by means of the apple. The story ends as a riddle: Who married the maiden?

Icelandic (Rittershaus, No. XLIII, “Die drei Freier um eine Braut”).—This story, which closely follows the “1001 Nights” version and is probably derived from it, agrees in the first part with Von Hahn, No. 47. When a folk-tribunal is called to decide which brother most deserves the princess and is unable to agree, the king proposes another test,—a shooting-match. The princess is to be given to the one who can shoot his arrow the farthest. The youngest really wins; but, as his arrow goes out of sight and cannot be found, the princess is given to the second brother. From this point on, the adventures of the hero are derived from another cycle that does not belong with our group.

Icelandic (Rittershaus, No. XLII, “Die Kunstreichen Brüder”).—Although this story is very different from any of ours, I call attention to it here because Dr. Rittershaus says (p. 181) that in it we have, “in allerdings verwischter Form, das Märchen von ‘der Menschen mit den wunderbaren Eigenschaften,’ ” and she refers to Benfey’s “Ausland” article. The collector states, however, that the story is so different from the other Märchen belonging to this family, that no further parallels can be adduced. As a matter of fact, this Icelandic story is a combination of the “Skilful Companions” cycle with the “Child and the Hand” cycle. For this combined Märchen, see Kittredge, “Arthur and Gorlagon,” 222–227.

It might be noted, in passing, that a connection between this type of the “Rival Brothers” and the “Skilful Companions” cycle is established through Gonzenbach’s Sicilian story of “The Seven Brothers who had Magic Articles,” No. 45. (See Köhler’s notes to this tale and also to No. 74; to Widter-Wolf, No. 6 [Jahrb. f. rom. und eng. lit., VII]; and to V. Tagić, No. 46 [Köhler-Bolte, 438–440].)

I have not attempted to give an exhaustive bibliographical account of this cycle of the “Rival Brothers,” but have merely suggested points that seem to me particularly significant in its history and development. So far as our four Filipino examples are concerned, I think that it is perfectly clear that in their present form, at least, they have been derived from Europe. There is so much divergence among them, however, and they are so widely separated from one another geographically, that it would be fruitless to search for a common ancestor of the four.

The Ilocano story is the best in outline, and is fairly close to Grimm, No. 129, though there are only three brothers in the Filipino tale, and there is no skill contest held by the mother before the youths set out to rescue the princess. The all-seeing telescope and the clever thief, however, are found in both. The solution at the end is the same: the king keeps his daughter, and divides half a kingdom among her rescuers.

In the first Tagalog story (c) the three men are not brothers. They are given the magic objects as a reward for kindness. The sentimental dénouement reads somewhat smug and strained after all three men have been represented as equally kind-hearted. The shooting-contest with arrows to decide the question, however, may be reminiscent of the “1001 Nights” version. For the resuscitating flute in droll stories, see Bolte-Polívka’s notes to Grimm, No. 61 (episode G¹). The book of knowledge suggests the magic book in the Pangasinan version.

The Rich and the Poor.

Narrated by José L. Gomez, a Tagalog from Rizal province.

One pleasant afternoon these two men made up their minds to take a long walk into the neighboring woods. Here, while they were talking happily about their respective fortunes, they saw in the distance a poor wood-cutter, who was very busy cutting and collecting fagots for sale. This wood-cutter lived in a mean cottage on the outskirts of a little town on the opposite shore of the lake, and he maintained his family by selling pieces of wood gathered from this forest.

When they saw the poor man, Mayaman said to his friend, “Now, which one of us can make that wood-cutter rich?”

“Well, even though I am much poorer than you,” said Mahirap, “I can make him rich with just the few cents I have in my pocket.”

They agreed, however, that Mayaman should be the first to try to make the poor man rich. So Mayaman called out to the wood-cutter, and said, “Do you want to be rich, my good man?”

“Certainly, master, I should like to be rich, so that my family might not want anything,” said the wood-cutter.

Pointing to his large house in the distance, Mayaman said, “All right. Come to my house this evening on your way home, and I will give you four bags of my money. If you don’t become rich on them, come back, and I will give you some more.”

Then the wood-cutter, remembering the rich man’s promise, hastily prepared his banca and sailed across to Pasig. When Mayaman saw the wood-cutter, he said, “Are you rich now, my good man?”

“O kind master!” said the wood-cutter, “I am not yet rich, for some one stole my bags of money.”

“Well, here are four more bags. See that you take better care of them.”

The wood-cutter reached home safely with this new wealth; but unfortunately it was stolen, too, during the night.

Three more times he went to Mayaman, and every time received four bags of money; but every time was it stolen from him by his neighbors.

Finally, on his sixth application, Mayaman did not give the wood-cutter money, but presented him with a beautiful ring. “This ring will preserve you from harm,” he said, “and will give you everything you ask for. With it you can become the richest man in town; but be careful not to lose it!”

While the wood-cutter was sailing home that evening, he thought he would try the ring by asking it for some food. So he said, “Beautiful ring, give me food! for I am hungry.” In an instant twelve different kinds of food appeared in his banca, and he ate heartily. But after he had eaten, the wind calmed down: so he said to the ring, “O beautiful ring! blow my banca very hard, so that I may reach home quickly.” He had no sooner spoken than the wind rose suddenly. The sail and mast of his little boat were blown away, and the banca itself sank. Forgetting all about his ring, the unfortunate man had to swim for his life. He reached the shore safely, but was greatly distressed to find that he had lost his valuable ring. So he decided to go back to Mayaman and tell him all about his loss.

The next day he borrowed a banca and sailed to Pasig; but when Mayaman had heard his story, he said, “My good man, I have nothing more to give you.” Then Mayaman turned to his friend Mahirap, and said, “It is your turn now, Mahirap. See what you can do for this poor man to enrich him.” Mahirap gave the poor wood-cutter five centavos,—all he had in his pocket,—and told him to go to the market and buy a fish with it for his supper.

“Well, five centavos is all I’ll ask you for it,” said she.

“Oh, I have only five centavos; and if I give them all to you, I shall have no money to buy rice with. So please let me have the fish for three!” said the wood-cutter. But the tendera refused to sell the fish for three centavos; and the wood-cutter was obliged to give all his money for it, for the fish was so fine and fat that he could not leave it.

When he went home and opened the fish to clean it, what do you suppose he found inside? Why, no other thing than the precious ring he had lost in the lake! He was so rejoiced at getting back his treasure, that he walked up and down the streets, talking out loud to his ring:—

When his neighbors who had stolen his bags of money from him heard these words, they thought that the wood-cutter had found out that they were the thieves, and was addressing these words to them. They ran up to him with all the bags of money, and said, “O wood-cutter! pardon us for our misdoings! Here are all the bags of money that we stole from you.”

With his money and the ring, the wood-cutter soon became the richest man in his town. He lived happily with his wife the rest of his days, and left a large heritage to his children.

So Mahirap, with five centavos only, succeeded in making the wood-cutter rich.

Lucas the Rope-maker.

Narrated by Elisa Cordero, a Tagalog from Pagsanjan, Laguna. Miss Cordero says that the story is well known and is old.

Luis and Isco were intimate friends. They lived in a country called Bagdad. Though these two friends had been brought up together in the same school, their ideas were different. Luis believed that gentleness and kindness were the second heaven, while Isco’s belief was that wealth was the source of happiness and peace in life.

One day, while they were eating, Isco said, “Don’t you believe, my friend, that a rich man, however cruel he may be, is known everywhere and has great power over all his people? A poor man may be gentle and kind, but then he is disdainfully looked upon by his neighbors.”

“Oh,” answered Luis, “I know it, but to me everybody is the same. I love them all, and I am not enchanted by anything that glisters.”

“My friend,” said Isco, “our conversation is becoming serious. Let us take a walk this afternoon and see how these theories work out in the lives of men.”

That afternoon Luis and Isco went to a town called Cohija. On their way they saw a rope-maker, Lucas by name, who by his condition showed his great suffering from poverty. He approached Lucas and gave him a roll of paper money, saying, “Now, Lucas, take this money and spend it judiciously.”

Lucas went home very sad. When his wife learned the cause of his sorrow, she became very angry. She scolded her husband roundly. As soon as the family had eaten the meat Lucas bought, they were as poor as before. They were even pale because of hunger.

One day Luis and Isco decided to visit Lucas and see how he was getting along. It happened that while they were passing in the same street as before, they saw Lucas weeping under a mango-tree near his small house. “What is the matter?” said Luis. “Why are you crying?”

Poor Lucas told them all that had happened to him,—how the money was lost, and how his wife had scolded him. At first Luis did not believe the rope-maker’s story, and became angry at him. At last, however, when he perceived that Lucas was telling the truth, he pardoned him and gave him a thousand pesos.

Lucas returned home with delight, but his wife and children were not in the house. They were out asking alms from their neighbors. Lucas then hid the bulk of the money in an empty jar in the corner of the room, and then went out to buy food for his wife and children. While he was gone, his wife and children returned. They had not yet eaten anything.

“Oh, yes!” said the man, “I’ll give you some rice, but you do not need to give me anything.”

Zelima took the rice gladly; and as she was looking for something with which to repay the man, she happened to see the empty jar in which her husband had secretly put his money. She filled the jar with darak and gave it to the rice-seller.

When Lucas came home, he was very happy. He told his wife about the money he had hidden. But when he found out that the money was gone, he was in despair: he did not know what to do. He scolded his wife for her carelessness. As he could not endure to see the suffering of his children, he tried to kill himself, but his children prevented him. At last he concluded to be quiet; for he thought, “If I hurt my wife, and she becomes sick, I can’t stand it. I must take care of her.”

Two months passed by, and Luis and Isco again visited their friend Lucas. While they were walking in the street, Luis found a big piece of lead. He picked it up and put it in his pocket. When they reached Lucas’s house, they were astonished to see him in a more wretched condition than before. Luis asked what was the matter. Lucas related to him all that had occurred; but Luis just said, “Oh, no! you are fooling us. We will not believe you.” Lucas was very sad. He asked pardon of Luis for his carelessness, and said, “Don’t increase the burden of my suffering by your scolding!”

Now, Luis was by nature gentle and pitiful. He could not endure to see his friend suffering. So he gave him the lead he had found in the street, saying, “Now, take care of that! Maybe your wealth will come from it.” Luis accepted the lead unwillingly, for he thought that Luis was mocking him.

When Lucas went into the house, he threw the lead away in the corner, and went to sleep. During the night a neighbor knocked at their door, asking for a piece of lead for her husband. The neighbor said, “My husband is going fishing early in the morning, and he asked me to buy him some lead for his line, but I forgot it. I know he will scold me if I don’t have some ready for him.” Lucas, who was wakened by the talk, told his wife to get the lead he had thrown in the corner. When Zelima found it, she gave it to their neighbor, who went away happy, promising that she would bring them the first fish her husband should catch.

The next morning Lucas woke very late. The neighbor was already there with a big fish, and Zelima was happy at having so much to eat. While she was cleaning the fish, she found a bright stone inside it. As she did not know of the value of the stone, she gave it to her youngest son to play with; but when the other children saw it, they quarrelled with their brother, and tried to take it away from him. Lucas, too, was ignorant of the fact that the stone was worth anything.

In front of their house lived a rich man named Don Juan. When he heard the noise of his neighbor’s children quarrelling, he sent his wife to see what was the matter. Don Juan’s wife saw the stone, and wanted to have it very much. She asked Zelima to sell it to her, but Zelima said that she would wait and ask her husband. The rich man’s wife went home and told her husband about the jewel. He went to Lucas’s house, and offered the rope-maker a thousand pesos for the stone; but Lucas refused, for now he suspected that it was worth more than that. At last he sold it for twenty thousand pesos.

Lucas was now a rich man. He bought clothes for his wife and children, renewed his house, which was falling to pieces, and bought a machine for making rope. As his business increased, he bought another machine. But although Lucas was the richest man in town, he was very kind. His house was open to every comer. He supported crippled persons, and gave alms to the poor.

When Luis and Isco visited Lucas the last time, they were surprised and at the same time delighted to see him so rich. Lucas did not know how to thank them. He gave a banquet in honor of these two men. After the feast was over, Lucas told his friends every detail of all that had happened to him, how he had lent the lead, how his wife had found the stone in the fish, and how a rich man had bought it for twenty thousand pesos.

Luis was now convinced that Lucas was honest, and had told the truth on former occasions. Lucas lived in his big house happily and in peace with his wife and children.

Notes.

These two Tagalog stories are probably derived from the same ultimate source; the second, “Lucas the Rope-Maker,” being very much closer to the original. That source is the “History of Khevajah Hasan al-Habbal” in the “Arabian Nights Entertainments” (see Burton’s translation, Supplemental Nights, III : 341–366). There is also a Tagalog literary version of this story,—“Life of a Rope-maker in the Kingdom of Bagdad,” by Franz Molteni. I have at present no copy of this chap-book; but the work may safely be dated 1902–05, as those were the years in which Molteni published. This story follows faithfully the “Arabian Nights” tale. The two rich friends are Saadi and Saad, and the name of the rope-maker is Cojia Hasan.

Our second folk-tale (b) seems to stand half way between this literary version and “The Rich and the Poor,”—not chronologically, to be sure, but so far as fidelity to the Arabian story is concerned. Although the events are practically the same in (b) and in Molteni, the proper names differ throughout. It is possible that (b) derives from an earlier Tagalog literary version that is no longer extant. (a) is definitely localized on Laguna de Bay, and the story as a whole seems thoroughly native. It is likely much older than either of the other two forms.

A Bengal tale somewhat similar to these is to be found in McCulloch’s “Bengali Household Tales,” No. III; it is also connected with the Dr. Knowall cycle (our No. 1). Caballero has a Spanish story (see Ingram, “Dame Fortune and Don Money”). For a discussion of the continuously unlucky hero, see Clouston 2, 489–493. In Ralston 1, I95 f., may be found a group of stories dealing with luck. Compare also Thorpe’s “Yule-tide Stories,” 460 f., for the North German story of “The Three Gifts.”

For the “ejaculation guess” in No. 13(a), see notes to No. 1 (pp. 7–8).

The King and the Dervish.

Narrated by José M. Hilario of Batangas, Batangas, who heard the story from his father, a Tagalog.

Once there lived a young and brave king with his gentle and loving wife. Both had enjoyed an easy, comfortable, and, best of all, happy life. The king ruled his people well. The queen was a good wife as well as a good sovereign: she always cheered her husband when he was sad.

One day a dervish came to the palace. He told the king that he possessed magical power, and straightway they became friends. This dervish had the power to leave his body and enter that of a dead animal or person. Now, the king was fond of hunting, and once he took his new friend with him to shoot deer. After a few hours of hard chasing, they succeeded in killing a buck. To show his power, the dervish left his body and entered that of the dead deer. Then he resumed his former shape. The king was very anxious to be able to do the same thing; whereupon the dervish gave him minute instructions, and taught him the necessary charms. Then the king left his body, and took possession of that of the deer. In an instant the dervish entered the king’s body and went home as the monarch. He gave orders that a deer with certain marks should be hunted out and killed. The true king was very unhappy, especially when he saw his own men chasing him to take his life.

In his wanderings through the forest, he saw a dead nightingale. He left the deer’s body and entered the bird’s. Now he was safe, so he flew to his palace. He sang so sweetly, that the queen ordered her attendants to catch him. He gladly allowed himself to be caught, and to be cared for by the queen. Whenever the dervish took the bird in his hands, the bird pecked him; but the beautiful singer always showed signs of satisfaction when the queen smoothed his plumage.

Not long after the bird’s capture, a dog died in the palace. The king underwent another change: he left the bird’s body and entered that of the dog. On waking up in the morning, the queen found that her pet was dead. She began to weep. Unable to see her so sad, the dervish comforted her, and told her that he would give the bird life again. Consequently he left the king’s body and entered the bird’s. Seeing his chance, the real king left the dog’s body and resumed his original form. He then went at once to the cage and killed the ungrateful bird, the dervish.

The tender queen protested against the king’s act of cruelty; but when she heard that she had been deceived by the dervish, she died of grief.

The Mysterious Book.

Narrated by Leopoldo Uichanco, a Tagalog from Calamba, La Laguna.

Once upon a time there lived a poor father and a poor son. The father was very old, and was named Pedro. The son’s name was Juan. Although they were very poor, Juan was afraid of work.

One day the two did not have a single grain of rice in the house to eat. Juan now realized that he would have to find some work, or he and his father would starve. So he went to a neighboring town to seek a master. He at last found one in the person of Don Luzano, a fine gentleman of fortune.

Don Luzano treated Juan like a son. As time went on, Don Luzano became so confident in Juan’s honesty, that he began to intrust him with the most precious valuables in the house. One morning Don Luzano went out hunting. He left Juan alone in the house, as usual. While Juan was sweeping and cleaning his master’s room, he caught sight of a highly polished box lying behind the post in the corner. Curious to find out what was inside, he opened the box. There appeared another box. He opened this box, and another box still was disclosed. One box appeared after another until Juan came to the seventh. This last one contained a small triangular-shaped book bound in gold and decorated with diamonds and other precious gems. Disregarding the consequences that might follow, Juan picked up the book and opened it. Lo! at once Juan was carried by the book up into the air. And when he looked back, whom did he see? No other than Don Luzano pursuing him, with eyes full of rage. He had an enormous deadly-looking bolo in his hand.

As Don Luzano was a big man, he could fly faster than little Juan. Soon the boy was but a few yards in front of his antagonist. It should also be known that the book had the wonderful power of changing anybody who had laid his hands on it, or who had learned by heart one of its chapters, into whatever form that person wished to assume. Juan soon found this fact out. In an instant Juan had disappeared, and in his place was a little steed galloping as fast as he could down the street. Again, there was Don Luzano after him in the form of a big fast mule, with bubbling and foaming mouth, and eyes flashing with hate. The mule ran so fast, that every minute seemed to be bringing Juan nearer his grave.

Seeing his danger, Juan changed himself into a bird,—a pretty little bird. No sooner had he done so than he saw Don Luzano in the form of a big hawk about to swoop down on him. Then Juan suddenly leaped into a well he was flying over, and there became a little fish. Don Luzano assumed the form of a big fish, and kept up the chase; but the little fish entered a small crack in the wall of the well, where the big fish could not pursue him farther. So Don Luzano had to give up and go home in great disappointment.

The well in which Juan found himself belonged to three beautiful princesses. One morning, while they were looking into the water, they saw the little fish with its seven-colored scales, moving gracefully through the water. The eldest of the maidens lowered her bait, but the fish would not see it. The second sister tried her skill. The fish bit the bait; but, just as it was being drawn out of the water, it suddenly released its hold. Now the youngest sister’s turn came. The fish allowed itself to be caught and held in the tender hands of this beautiful girl. She placed the little fish in a golden basin of water and took it to her room, where she cared for it very tenderly.

Several months later the king issued a proclamation throughout his realm and other neighboring kingdoms, saying that the youngest princess was sick. “To any one who can cure her,” he said, “I promise to give one-half of my kingdom.” The most skilful doctors had already done the best they could, but all their efforts were in vain. The princess seemed to grow worse and worse every day. “Ay, what foolishness!” exclaimed Don Luzano when he heard the news of the sick princess. “The sickness! Pshaw! That’s no sickness, never in the wide world!”

The following morning there was Don Luzano speaking with the king. “I promise to cure her,” said Don Luzano. “I have already cured many similar cases.”

“And your remedy will do her no harm?” asked the king after some hesitation.

“No harm, sir, no harm. Rely on my honor.”

“Very well. And you shall have half of my kingdom if you are successful.”

“No, I thank you, your Majesty. I, being a faithful subject, need no payment whatever for any of my poor services. As a token from you, however, I should like to have the fish that the princess keeps in her room.”

“O my faithful subject!” exclaimed the king in joy. “How good you are! Will you have nothing except a poor worthless fish?”

“No more” that’s enough.”

“Well, then,” returned the king, “prepare your remedy, and on the third day we shall apply it to the princess. You can go home now, and you may be sure that you shall have the fish.”

“This is my beloved,” confessed the princess to her father as she pointed to Juan. The king forgave his daughter for concealing from him the real condition of her life, and he gladly welcomed his new son-in-law. Prince Juan, as we shall now call our friend, was destined to a life of peace and joy. He was rid of his formidable antagonist; he had a beautiful princess (who was no longer sick) for a wife; and he had an excellent chance of inheriting the throne. There is no more.

Notes.

A third form (c) I have only in abstract; it is entitled “The Priest and his Pupil:”—

A boy learns a number of magic tricks from the priest, his master. He changes himself into a hog, and is sold to the priest; then he runs away, transforms himself into a horse, and is again sold to his master for much money. The horse breaks loose and runs off. The priest now realizes the truth, and, transforming himself into a horse, pursues the first horse. When they come to a river, the first horse becomes a small fish, and the second a large fish, and the chase continues. Then the two fish become birds wheeling aloft, the larger chasing the smaller. As he flies over the palace of the King of Persia, the boy becomes a small cocoanut-ring, and drops on to the finger of the princess. The defeated priest returns home, and threatens the King of Persia with war if he will not give up the ring. When the priest calls at the court, the boy has changed himself from a ring into a dog. The priest is told that he shall have the ring provided he becomes a duck. Immediately when he has complied, the dog seizes him and kills him. The hero later weds the princess.

A fourth form (d) is the Tagalog story “The Battle of the Enchanters,” printed in JAFL 20 : 309–310.

Both of these variants (c and d) bear a close resemblance to our second story of “The Mysterious Book,” and all three probably go back to a common source; but that source is not the “Arabian Nights” (as Gardner hints, JAFL 20 : 309, note), although the second calendar’s tale in that collection represents one form of the “Transformation Combat” cycle. These three Filipino variants are members of the large family of Oriental and European folk-tales of which the Norse “Farmer Weathersky” (Dasent, No. XLI) or the German “The Thief and his Master” (Grimm, No. 68) may be taken as representatives. The essential elements of this form of the “Transformation Combat” cycle have been noted by Bolte-Polívka (2 : 61) as follows:—

A A father gives his son up to a magician to be taught, the condition being that the father at the end of a year must be able to recognize his son in animal form.

B The son secretly learns magic and thieving.

C In the form of a dog, ox, horse, he allows his father to sell him, finally to the magician himself, to whom the father, contrary to directions, also hands over the bridle.

D¹ The son, however, succeeds in slipping off the bridle, and (D²) overcomes the magician in a transformation combat (hare, fish, bird, etc.). D³ Usually, after the hero has flown in the guise of a bird to a princess and is concealed by her in the form of a ring, the magician appears to the king her father, who has become sick, and demands the ring as payment for a cure. The princess drops the ring, and there lies in its place a pile of millet-seed, which the magician as a hen starts to pick up; but the hero quickly turns himself into a fox, and bites off the hen’s head.

With slight variations from the formula as given above, these elements are distributed thus in our stories:—

(b) BD²D³

(c) BCD²D³

(d) BCD¹D³

Bolte and Polívka (2 : 66) cite a number of Oriental versions of the story (Hindoo and Arabian) which in their main outlines are practically identical with our variants. In the absence of the story in any Spanish version, it seems most reasonable to look to India as the source of our tales; unless, as is possible, they were introduced into the Islands from Straparola (viii, 5), whose collection of stories might have found their way there through the Spaniards. For further discussions of this cycle, see Macculloch, 164–166; Clouston 3, 1 : 413 ff.; Köhler-Bolte, 1 : 138 ff., 556 f.; Benfey, 1 : 410–413.

Our first story, “The King who became a Deer, a Nightingale, and a Dog,” while containing the “transformation combat” between magician and pupil, differs from the other members of this group in one important respect: the transformation cannot take place unless there is a dead body for the transformer’s spirit to enter. It is also to be noted that, as soon as a spirit leaves a body, that body becomes dead. There can be no doubt that this story of ours is derived from the 57th to the 60th “Days” in the “1001 Days” (Persian Tales, 1 : 212 ff.; Cabinet des Fées, XIV, p. 326 f.), the story of Prince Fadlallah. For other variants of this cycle, see Benfey, 1 : 122 f., especially 126. The Persian story might have reached the Philippines through the medium of the French translation, of which our tale appears to be little more than the baldest abstract.

Benfey explains the “transformation combat” as originating in the disputes between Buddhists and Brahmans. Doubtless the story first grew up in India. A very ancient Oriental analogue, which has not hitherto been pointed out, I believe, is the Hebrew account of Aaron’s magical contest with the Egyptian sorcerers (see Exodus, vii, 9–12). Compare also the betting-contest between the two kings in No. 1 of this collection, and see the notes.

The Miraculous Cow.

Narrated by Adela Hidalgo, a Tagalog from Manila, who heard the story from another Tagalog student.

Ambrosio approached the carreton slowly, and untied the cow. He handed the rope to Felipe, and then tied himself in the place of the animal.

“Come on, Ambrosio! Don’t be foolish! Come on with me!” whispered Felipe impatiently.

“No, leave me alone! Go home, and I will soon be there!” answered the cunning Ambrosio.

After a while the farmer happened to look back. What a surprise for him! He was frightened to find a boy instead of his cow tied to the carreton. “Why are you there? Where is my cow?” he shouted furiously. “Rascal, give me my cow!”

“Oh, don’t be angry with me!” said Ambrosio. “Wait a minute, and I will tell you my story. Once, when I was a small boy, my mother became very angry with me. She cursed me, and suddenly I was transformed into a cow; and now I am changed back into my own shape. It is not my fault that you bought me: I could not tell you not to do so, for I could not speak at the time. Now, generous farmer, please give me my freedom! for I am very anxious to see my old home again.”

The farmer did not know what to do, for he was very sorry to lose his cow. When he reached home, he told his wife the story. Now, his wife was a kind-hearted woman; so, after thinking a few minutes, she said, “Husband, what can we do? We ought to set him free. It is by the great mercy of God that he has been restored to his former self.”

So the wily boy got off. He rejoined his friend, and they had a good laugh over the two simple folks.

Notes.

Like the preceding, this story is of Oriental origin. It must have grown up among a people to whom the idea of metempsychosis was well known, but who at the same time held a skeptical view of that doctrine. Whether or not this droll reached the Philippines by way of the Iberian Peninsula, is hard to say definitely. A Spanish folk-tale narrating practically the same incident is to be found in C. Sellers, pp. 1 ff.: “The Ingenious Student.” There the shrewd but poverty-stricken Juan Rivas steals a mule from the pack-train of a simple-minded muleteer; and while the companions escape with the animal and sell it, Juan puts on the saddle and bridle, and takes the place of the stolen beast. His explanation that he has just fulfilled a long period of punishment imposed on him by Mother Church satisfies the astonished mule-owner, and Juan escapes with only the admonition never again to incur the wrath of his spiritual Mother.

The oldest version with which I am familiar is the “Arabian Nights” anecdote of “The Simpleton and the Sharper” (Burton’s translation, v : 83). This story is practically identical with ours, except that the Filipino version lacks the additional final comical touch of the Arabian. The owner of the ass, after the adventure with the sharper, went to the market to buy another beast, “and, lo! he beheld his own ass for sale. And when he recognized it, he advanced to it, and, putting his mouth to its ear, said, ‘Wo to thee, O unlucky! Doubtless thou hast returned to intoxication and beaten thy mother again. By Allah, I will never again buy thee!’ ” The sharper had previously given as the reason of his transformation the fact that his mother had cursed him when he, in a fit of drunkenness, had beaten her. Clouston tells this story in his “Book of Noodles” (81–83).

Stories of the transformation of a child into an animal because of a parent’s curse are found all over Europe. This motif is also widespread in the Philippines among both the Christian and the Pagan tribes. It is usually incorporated in an origin story, such as “The Origin of Monkeys.” For this belief among a non-Christian people in northern Luzon, see Cole, Nos. 65–67. None of these tales, however, assume the droll form: they are told as serious etiological myths.

The Clever Husband and Wife.

Narrated by Elisa Cordero, a Tagalog from Pagsanjan, La Laguna. She heard the story from her servant.

Pedro had been living as a servant in a doctor’s house for more than nine years. He wanted very much to have a wife, but he had no business of any kind on which to support one.

One day he felt very sad. His look of dejection did not escape the notice of his master, who said, “What is the matter, my boy? Why do you look so sad? Is there anything I can do to comfort you?”

“Oh, yes!” said Pedro.

“What do you want me to do?” asked the doctor.

“Master,” the man replied, “I want a wife, but I have no money to support one.”

“Oh, don’t worry about money!” replied his master. “Be ready to-morrow, and I will let you marry the woman you love.”

Years passed by, and one day the couple had not even a cent with which to buy food. So Pedro went to the doctor and asked him for some money. The doctor, who had always been kind to them, gave him twenty pieces of gold; but these did not last very long, and it was not many days before the money was all spent. The husband and wife now thought of another way by which they could get money from the doctor.

Early one day Pedro went to the doctor’s house weeping. He said that his wife had died, and that he had nothing with which to pay for her burial. (He had rubbed onion-juice on his eyes, so that he looked as if he were really crying.) When the doctor heard Pedro’s story, he pitied the man, and said to him, “What was the matter with your wife? How long was she sick?” “For two days,” answered Pedro.

“Two days!” exclaimed the doctor, “why did you not call me, then? We should have been able to save her. Well, take this money and see that she gets a decent burial.”

Pedro returned home in good spirits. He found his wife Marta waiting for him at the door, and they were happy once more; but in a month the money was all used up, and they were on the point of starving again.

Now, the doctor had a married sister whom Pedro and his wife had worked for off and on after their marriage. Pedro told his wife to go to the doctor’s sister, and tell her that he was dead and that she had no money to pay for the burial. Marta set out, as she was told; and when she arrived at the sister’s house, the woman said to her, “Marta, why are you crying?”

“My husband is dead, and I have no money to pay for his burial,” said Marta, weeping.

“You have served us well, so take this money and see that masses are said for your husband’s soul,” said the kind-hearted mistress.

That evening the doctor visited his sister to see her son who was sick. The sister told him that Marta’s husband had died. “No,” answered the doctor, “it was Marta who died.” They argued and argued, but could not agree; so they finally decided to send one of the doctor’s servants to see which one was dead. When Pedro saw the servant coming, he told his wife to lie flat and stiff in the bed as if she were dead; and when the servant entered, Pedro showed him his dead wife.

The servant returned, and told the doctor and his sister that it was Marta who was dead; but the sister would not believe him, for she said that perhaps he was joking. So they sent another servant. This time Marta made Pedro lie down stiff and flat in the bed; and when the servant entered the house, he saw the man lying as if dead. So he hurried back and told the doctor and his sister what he had seen. Now neither knew what to believe. The next morning, therefore, the doctor and his sister together visited the cottage of Pedro. They found the couple both lying as if dead. After examining them, however, the doctor realized that they were merely feigning death. He was so pleased by the joke, and so glad to find his old servants alive, that he took them home with him and made them stay at his house.

Notes.

This droll seems to be derived from the “1001 Nights” (271st to 290th nights of the Breslau edition, “The Story of Abu-l-hasan the Wag, or the Sleeper Awakened”). The Arabian story is not only more detailed, but contains much preliminary matter that is altogether lacking in our story. In fact, the two are so dissimilar, except for the trick the husband and wife play on their benefactor to get more money, that it is hard to demonstrate a historical connection between the two.

I have in text and translation (the latter unpublished) a Tagalog metrical version of the Arabian story. This metrical version, which is told in 1240 lines, is entitled (in translation) “The Story of Abu-Hasan, Who dreamed when he was Awake. Poem by Franz Molteni. First edition, Manila.” Although this work is not dated, it probably appeared after 1900. In general, the Tagalog poem agrees with the “1001 Nights” story, though it differs in details. An analysis of the differences in the first part of the narratives need not concern us here, as our folk-tale is connected with only the last third of the romance.

In the metrical version, after Abu, through the favor of the sultan, has been married to Nuzhat, one of the ladies-in-waiting, the new couple begin to live extravagantly, and soon exhaust the dowry and wedding gifts. Then after much deliberation Abu decides to go to the sultan, tell him that Nuzhat his wife is dead, and ask for money for her burial. The ruse succeeds; Abu returns home with a thousand ounces of gold. He at once counsels his wife to go to the sultana with a similar story that he is dead and that money is needed for his funeral. Nuzhat, too, receives a thousand ounces from the sultana. The sultan now visits his wife, and tells her of the death of Nuzhat. She insists that it is Abu who is dead, and they argue violently about the matter. Finally the sultan decides to send one of his servants to report the truth. When Abu sees the servant coming, he bids his wife lie on the bier, and the servant is shown her corpse. He reports that it is Nuzhat who is dead. The sultana is enraged at the servant’s statement, and sends her nurse for the truth. This time Abu lies on the bier, and Nuzhat shows his body to the nurse. When the old woman returns with her contradictory story, the sultan’s servant calls her a black falsifying witch. At last the sultan and sultana themselves go to see. Both Abu and Nuzhat are found lying as if dead. The sultan and his wife now argue so violently as to which of their favorites died first, that the deceitful couple, fearful of the outcome, kneel before their rulers, confess the trick, and beg forgiveness. The royal pair laugh at the joke, and give Abu and his wife enough to support them the rest of their days.

The last part of the Arabian story is substantially as given above, only Nuzhat goes first to the sultana with the account of Abu’s death, after which Abu visits the sultan and tells him of Nuzhat’s death. Then follows the quarrel between the sultan and his wife over the contradictory reports brought back by the two messengers. All four go in person to discover the truth. Both Nuzhat and Abu are found dead. Sultan: “I would give a thousand pieces of gold to know which died first.” Abu jumps up, says that he died first, and claims the reward. Ending as above.

This story of Abu is also told as a folk-tale in Simla, northern India (Dracott, 166–173), where it retains the Arabic title, “Abul Hussain,” and is almost identical with the “1001 Nights” version. In the Simla tale, however, the despatching of servants to learn which one is really dead is lacking. The sultan and his wife together go to Abul’s house, and find both dead. “If we could only find out which died first!” etc.

Our story, the Tagalog folk-tale, is told almost as an anecdote. The sultan has been transformed into a doctor; the sultana, into the doctor’s sister; Abu, into a poor servant, Pedro; and Nuzhat, into Marta. The glitter of the Oriental harem has vanished, as indeed has also the first two-thirds of the story. The descent in setting and language has been so great, that I am inclined to suspect that this droll has existed—at least, in one family—for a long time. It could hardly have been derived from Molteni’s poetic version. For the same sort of relationship between another folk-tale and an “Arabian Nights” story, see No. 13 and the notes.

The Three Brothers.

Narrated by Gregorio Frondoso, a Bicol from Tigaon, Camarines. The narrator says, “This story was told to me by an old man who happened to stay at our house one night. He was a traveller. I was then a little boy.”

Once upon a time, when wishing was having, there dwelt in the joyous village of Delight a poor farmer, Tetong, with his loving wife Maria. His earning for a day’s toil was just enough to sustain them; yet they were peaceful and happy. Nevertheless they thought that their happiness could not be complete unless they had at least one child. So morning and night they would kneel before their rustic altar and pray God to grant them their desire. As they were faithful in their purpose, their wish was fulfilled. A son was born to them, and joy filled their hearts. The couple’s love for their child grew so intense, that they craved for another, and then for still another. The Lord was mindful of their prayers; and so, as time went on, two more sons were born to them. The second son they named Felipe; and the youngest, Juan. The name of the oldest was Pedro. All three boys were lovely and handsome, and they greatly delighted their parents.

One night, while he and his wife were sitting before their dim light and their three sons were asleep, Tetong said to his wife, “Do you not think it would be better to get rid of our sons? As you see, we are daily becoming poorer and poorer because of them. I have decided to cast them away into some distant wild forest, where they may feed themselves on fruits or roots.”

On hearing these words of her husband, Maria turned pale: her blood ran cold in her veins. But what could she do? She felt the same distress as her husband. After a few moments of silence, she replied in a faltering voice, “My husband, you may do as you wish.” Accordingly Tetong made ready the necessary provisions for the journey, which consisted of a sack of rice and some preserved fish.

After two weeks their provisions were almost used up. Tetong then called his sons together, and said to them, “My sons, we have very little to eat now. I am going to leave you for some days: I am going back to our village to get rice and fish. Be very good to one another, and continue working, for our camotes will soon have roots, and our corn ears.” Having said these words, he blessed them and left.

Days, weeks, and months elapsed, but Tetong did not reappear. The corn bore ears, and the camotes produced big sound roots; but these were not sufficient to support the three brothers. Nor did they know the way back to their home. At last, realizing that their father and mother did not care for them any more, they agreed to wander about and look for food. They roved through woods, thickets, and jungles. At last, fatigued and with bodies tired and bruised, they came to a wide river, on the bank of which they stopped to rest. While they were bewailing their unhappy lot, they caught sight, on the other side of the river, of banana-trees with bunches of ripe fruit. They determined to get those fruits; but, as they knew nothing about swimming, they had to cut down bamboos and join them together to bridge the stream. So great was their hunger, that each ate three bunches of the ripe bananas. After they had satisfied their hunger, they continued on their way refreshed.

Soon they came upon a dark abyss. Curious to know what it might contain, the three brothers looked down into it, but they could not see the bottom. Not contented, however, with only seeing into the well, they decided to go to the very bottom: so they gathered vines and connected them into a rope.

Pedro was the first to make the attempt, but he could not stand the darkness. Then Felipe tried; but he too became frightened, and could not stay long in the dark. At last Juan’s turn came. He went down to the very bottom of the abyss, where he found a vast plain covered with trees and bushes and shrubs. On one side he saw at a short distance a green house. He approached the house, and saw a most beautiful lady sitting at the door. When she saw him, she said to him in friendly tones, “Hail, Juan! I wonder at your coming, for no earthly creature has ever before been here. However, you are welcome to my house.” With words of compliment Juan accepted her invitation, and entered the house. He was kindly received by that lady, Maria. They fell in love with each other, and she agreed to go with Juan to his home.

They had talked together but a short while, when Maria suddenly told Juan to hide, for her guardian, the giant, was coming. Soon the monster appeared, and said to Maria in a terrible voice, “You are concealing some one. I smell human flesh.” She denied that she was, but the giant searched all corners of the house. At last Juan was found, and he boldly fought with the monster. He received many wounds, but they were easily healed by Maria’s magic medicine. After a terrific struggle, the giant was killed. Maria applauded Juan’s valor. She gave him food, and related stories to him while he was eating. She also told him of her neighbor Isabella, none the less beautiful than she. Juan, in turn, told her of many things in his own home that were not found in that subterranean plain.

When he had finished eating and had recovered his strength, Juan said that they had better take Isabella along with them too. Maria agreed to this. Accordingly Juan set out to get Isabella. When he came to her house, she was looking out the window. As soon as she saw him, she exclaimed in a friendly manner, “O Juan! what have you come here for? Since my birth I have never seen an earthly creature like you!”

“Madam,” returned Juan in a low voice, “my appearance before you is due to some Invisible Being I cannot describe to you.” The moment Isabella heard these words, she blushed. “Juan,” she said, “come up!”

Juan entered, and related to her his unfortunate lot, and how he had found the abyss. Finally, struck with Isabella’s fascinating beauty, Juan expressed his love for her. They had not been talking long together, when footsteps were heard approaching nearer and nearer. It was her guardian, the seven-headed monster. “Isabella,” it growled, with an angry look about, “some human creature must be somewhere in the house.”

“There is nobody in the house but me,” she exclaimed. The monster, however, insisted. Seeking all about the house, it at last discovered Juan, who at once attacked with his sword. In this encounter he was also successful, cutting off all the seven heads of the monster.

With great joy Juan and Isabella returned to Maria’s house. Then the three went to the foot of the well. There Juan found the vine still suspended. He tied one end of it around Isabella’s waist, and then she was pulled up by the two brothers waiting above. When they saw her, Pedro and Felipe each claimed her, saying almost at the same time, “What a beauty! She is mine.” Isabella assured them that there were other ladies below prettier than she. When he heard these words, Felipe dropped one end of the vine again. When Maria reached the top of the well, Felipe felt glad, and claimed her for himself. As the two brothers each had a maiden now, they would not drop the vine a third time; but finally Maria persuaded them to do so. On seeing only their brother’s figure, however, the two unfeeling brothers let go of the vine, and Juan plunged back into the darkness. “O my friends!” said Maria, weeping, “this is not the way to treat a brother. Had it not been for him, we should not be here now.” Then she took her magic comb, saying to it, “Comb, if you find Juan dead, revive him; if his legs and arms are broken, restore them.” Then she dropped it down the well.

By means of this magic comb, Juan was brought back to life. The moment he was able to move his limbs, he groped his way in the dark, and finally he found himself in the same subterranean plain again. As he knew of no way to get back to earth, he made up his mind to accept his fate.

As he was lazily strolling about, he came to a leafy tree with spreading branches. He climbed up to take a siesta among its fresh branches. Just as he closed his eyes, he heard a voice calling, “Juan, Juan! Wake up! Go to the Land of the Pilgrims, for there your lot awaits you.” He opened his eyes and looked about him, but he saw nothing. “It is only a bird,” he said, “that is disturbing my sleep.” So he shut his eyes again. After some moments the same voice was heard again from the top of the tree. He looked up, but he could not see any one. However, the voice continued calling to him so loudly, that he could not sleep. So he descended from the tree to find that land.

In his wanderings he met an old man wearing very ragged, worn-out clothes. Juan asked him about the Land of the Pilgrims. The old man said to him, “Here, take this piece of cloth, which, as you see, I have torn off my garment, and show it to a hermit you will find living at a little distance from here. Then tell him your wish.” Juan took the cloth and went to the hermit. When the hermit saw Juan entering his courtyard without permission, he was very angry. “Hermit,” said Juan, “I have come here on a very important mission. While I was sleeping among the branches of a tree, a bird sang to me repeatedly that I must go to the Land of the Pilgrims, where my lot awaits me. I resolved to look for this land. On my way I met an old man, who gave me this piece of cloth and told me to show it to you and ask you about this place I have mentioned.” When the hermit saw the cloth, his anger was turned into sorrow and kindness. “Juan,” he said, “I have been here a long time, but I have never seen that old man.”

Now, this hermit had in his care all species of animals. He summoned them all into his courtyard, and asked each about the Land of the Pilgrims; but none could give any information. When he had asked them all in vain, the hermit told Juan to go to another hermit living some distance away.

Accordingly Juan left to find this hermit. At first, like the other, this hermit was angry on seeing Juan; but when he saw the piece of cloth, his anger was turned into pity and sorrow. Juan told him what he was looking for, and the hermit sounded a loud trumpet. In a moment there was an instantaneous rushing of birds of every description. He asked every one about the Land of the Pilgrims, but not one knew of the place. But just as Juan was about to leave, suddenly there came an eagle swooping down into the courtyard. When asked if it knew of the Land of the Pilgrims, it nodded its head. The hermit then ordered it to bear Juan to the Land of the Pilgrims. It willingly obeyed, and flew across seas and over mountains with Juan on its back. After Juan had been carried to the wished-for land, the eagle returned to its master.

Here Juan lived with a poor couple, who cared for him as if he were their own child, and he served them in turn. He asked them about the land they were living in. They told him that it was governed by a tyrannical king who had a beautiful daughter. They said that many princes who courted her had been put to death because they had failed to fulfil the tasks required of them. When Juan heard of this beautiful princess, he said to himself, “This is the lot that awaits me. She is to be my wife.” So, in spite of the dangers he ran the risk of, he resolved to woo her.

One day, when her tutors were away, he made a kite, to which he fastened a letter addressed to the princess, and flew it. While she was strolling about in her garden, the kite suddenly swooped down before her. She was surprised, and wondered. “What impudent knave,” she said, “ventures to let fall his kite in my garden?” She stepped towards the kite, looked at it, and saw the letter written in bold hand. She read it. After a few moments’ hesitation, she replaced it with a letter of her own in which she told him to come under the window of her tower.

When he came there, the princess spoke to him in this manner: “Juan, if you really love me, you must undergo hardships. Show yourself to my father to-morrow, and agree to do all that he commands you to do. Then come back to me.” Juan willingly promised to undertake any difficulties for her sake.

The next morning Juan waited at the stairway of the king’s palace. The king said to him, “Who are you, and what do you come here for?”

“O king! I am Juan, and I have come here to marry your daughter.”

“Very well, Juan, you can have your wish if you perform the task I set you. Take these grains of wheat and plant them in that hill, and to-morrow morning bring me, out of these same grains, newly baked bread for my breakfast. Then you shall be married immediately to my daughter. But if you fail to accomplish this task, you shall be beheaded.”

Juan bowed his head low, and left. Sorrowful he appeared before the princess.

“What’s the matter, Juan?” she said.

“O my dear princess! your father has imposed on me a task impossible to perform. He gave me these grains of wheat to be planted in that hill, and to-morrow he expects a newly baked loaf of bread from them.”

“Don’t worry, Juan. Go home now, and to-morrow show yourself to my father. The bread will be ready when he awakes.”

The next morning Juan repaired to the palace, and was glad to find the bread already on the table. When the king woke up, he was astonished to see that Juan had performed the task.

The next morning Juan went back to the palace. The king, just arisen from bed, looked out of the window, and was astounded to see the mongo and sand perfectly assorted. “Well, Juan,” said the king, “you have successfully performed the tasks I required of you. But I have one thing more to ask of you. Yesterday afternoon, while my wife and I were walking along the seashore, my gold ring fell into the water. I want you to find it, and bring it to me to-morrow morning.”

“Your desire shall be fulfilled, O king!” replied Juan.

He told the princess of the king’s wish. “Come here tomorrow just before dawn,” she said, “and bring a big basin and a bolo. We will go together to find the ring.”

Just before dawn the next day he went to her tower, where she was waiting for him in the disguise of a village maid. They went to the seashore where the ring was supposed to have been lost. There the princess Maria—that was her name—said to him, “Now take your basin and bolo and cut me to pieces. Pour out the chopped mass into the water in which my father’s ring was dropped, but take care not to let a single piece of the flesh fall to the ground!”

On hearing these words, Juan stood dumfounded, and began to weep. Then in an imploring tone he said, “O my beloved! I would rather have you chop my body than chop yours.”

“If you love me,” she said, “do as I tell you.”

Then Juan reluctantly seized the bolo, and with closed eyes cut her body to pieces and poured the mass into the water where the ring was supposed to be. In five minutes there rose from the water the princess with the ring on her finger. But Juan fell asleep; and before he awoke, the ring fell into the water again.

“Oh, how little you love me!” she exclaimed. “The ring fell because you did not catch it quickly from my finger. Cut up my body as before, and pour the mass of flesh into the water again.” Accordingly Juan cut her to pieces a second time, and again poured the mass into the water. Then in a short time Maria rose from the water with the ring on her finger; but Juan fell asleep again, and again the ring fell back into the water.

Now Maria was angry: so she cut a gash on his finger, and told him to cut her body to pieces and pour the mass out as before. At last the ring was found again. This time Juan was awake, and he quickly caught the ring as she rose from the water.

That morning Juan went before the king and presented the ring to him. When the monarch saw it, he was greatly astonished, and said to himself, “How does he accomplish all the tasks I have given him? Surely he must be a man of supernatural powers.” Raising his head, he said to Juan, “Juan, you are indeed the man who deserves the hand of my daughter; but I want you to do me one more service. This will be the last. Fetch me my horse, for I want to go out hunting to-day.” Now, this horse could run just as fast as the wind. It was a very wild horse, too, and no one could catch it except the king himself and the princess.

Juan promised, however, and repaired to Maria’s tower. When she learned her father’s wish, she went with Juan and helped him catch the horse. After they had caught it, she caught hers too. Then they returned to the palace. Juan and Maria now agreed to run away. So after Juan had tied the king’s horse near the stairway, they mounted Maria’s horse and rode off rapidly.

When the king could not find his daughter, he got on his horse and started in pursuit of Juan and Maria, who were now some miles ahead. But the king’s horse ran so fast, that in a few minutes he had almost overtaken the fugitives. Maria, seeing her father behind them, dropped her comb, and in the wink of an eye a thick grove of bamboos blocked the king’s way. By his order, a road was made through the bamboo in a very short time. Then he continued his chase; but just as he was about to overtake them a second time, Maria flung down her ring, and there rose up seven high hills behind them. The king was thus delayed again; but his horse shot over these hills as fast as the wind, so that in a few minutes he was once more in sight of the fugitives. This time Maria turned around and spat. Immediately a wide sea appeared behind them. The king gave up his pursuit, and only uttered these words: “O ungrateful daughter!” Then he turned back to his palace.

The young lovers continued their journey until they came to a small village. Here they decided to be married, so they at once went to the village priest. He married them that very day. Juan and Maria now determined to live in that place the rest of their lives, so they bought a house and a piece of land. As time went by, Juan thought of his parents.

One day he asked permission from his wife to visit his father and mother. “You may go,” she said; “but remember not to let a single drop of your father’s or mother’s tears fall on your cheeks, for you will forget me if you do.” Promising to remember her words, Juan set out.

When his parents saw him, they were so glad that they embraced him and almost bathed him with tears of joy. Juan forgot Maria. It happened that on the day Juan reached home, Felipe, his brother, was married to Maria, the subterranean lady, and a feast was being held in the family circle. The moment Maria recognized Juan, whom she loved most, she annulled her marriage with Felipe, and wanted to marry Juan. Accordingly the village was called to settle the question, and Maria and Juan were married that same day. The merrymaking and dancing continued.

In the mean time there came, to the surprise of every one, a beautiful princess riding in a golden carriage drawn by fine horses. She was invited to the dance. While the people were enjoying themselves dancing and singing, they were suddenly drawn together around this princess to see what she was doing. She was sitting in the middle of the hall. Before her she had a dog chained. Then she began to ask the dog these questions:—

“Did you not serve a certain king for his daughter?”

“No!” answered the dog.

“Did he not give you grains of wheat to be planted in a hill, and the morning following you were to give him newly baked bread made from the wheat?”

“No!”

“Did he not mix together two jars of mongo and sand, then order you to assort them so that the mongo was in one jar and the sand in the other?”

“No!”

“Do you not remember when you and a princess went together to the seashore to find the ring of her father, and when you cut her body to pieces and poured the chopped mass into the water?”

When Juan, who was watching, heard this last question, he rushed from the ring of people that surrounded her and knelt before her, saying, “O my most precious wife! I implore your forgiveness!” Then the new-comer, who was none other than Maria, Juan’s true wife, embraced him, and their former love was restored. So the feast went on. To the great joy of Felipe, Maria, the subterranean lady, was given back to him; and the two couples lived happily the rest of their lives.

Notes.

This story, which is a mixture of well-known motifs and incidents, really falls into two parts, though an attempt is made at the end to bind them together. The first part, ending with the treachery of the brothers after the hero has made his underground journey and rescued the two beautiful maidens from their giant captors, has resemblances to parts of the “Bear’s Son” cycle. The second half of the story is a well-developed member of the “Forgotten Betrothed” cycle, preserving, in fact, all the characteristic incidents, and also prefacing to this whole section details that form a transition between it and part 1. I am unable to point out any European parallels to the story as a whole, but analogues of both parts are very numerous. As the latter half constitutes the major portion of our story, we shall consider it first.

The fundamental and characteristic incidents of the “Forgotten Betrothed” cycle (sometimes called the “True Bride” cycle) are as follows:—

A The performance by the hero of difficult tasks through the help of the loved one, who is usually the daughter of a magician.

B The magic flight of the couple, either with transformations of themselves or with the casting behind them of obstacles to retard the pursuer.

C The forgetting of the bride by the hero because he breaks a taboo (the cause of the forgetting is usually a parental kiss, which the hero should have avoided).

E The marriage of the hero and heroine.

Andrew Lang (Custom and Myth, 2d ed., 87–102) traces incidents A and B as far back as the myth of Jason, the earliest literary reference to which is in the Iliad (vii, 467; XXIII, 747). But this story does not contain the last three incidents: clearly they have come from some other source, and have been joined to the first two,—a natural process in the development of a folk-tale. The episode of the magic flight is very widely distributed: Lang mentions Zulu, Gaelic, Norse, Malagasy, Russian, Italian, and Japanese versions. Of the magic flight combined with the performance of difficult tasks set by the girl’s father, the stories are no less widely scattered: Greece, Madagascar, Scotland, Russia, Italy, North America (Algonquins), Finland, Samoa (p. 94). The only reasonable explanation of these resemblances, according to Lang, is the theory of transmission; and if Mr. Lang, the champion of the “anthropological theory,” must needs explain in this rather business-like way a comparatively simple tale, what but the transmission theory can explain far more complicated stories of five or six distinct incidents in the same sequence?

The “Forgotten Betrothed” cycle was clearly invented but once; when or where, we shall not attempt to say. But that its excellent combination of rapid, marvellous, and pathetic situations has made it a tale of almost universal appeal, is attested to by the scores of variants that have been collected within the last half-century and more. In his notes to Campbell’s Gaelic story, “The Battle of the Birds,” No. 2, Köhler cites Norwegian, Swedish, Italian, German, and Hungarian versions (Orient und Occident, 2 : 107). Ralston (pp. 132–133), Cosquin (2 : No. 32 and notes), Crane (No. XV and notes, pp. 343–344), Bolte (in his additions to Köhler, 1 : 170–174), and Bolte-Polívka (to Nos. 51, 56, 113) have added very full bibliographies. It is unnecessary here to list all the variants of this story that have been collected, but we will examine some of the analogues to our tale from the point of view of the separate incidents.

After the hero of our present story has been deserted by his treacherous brothers, and has found himself once more in the under-world, he is told by a mysterious voice to go to the Land of the Pilgrims, where he will find his fate. He meets an old man, who directs him to a hermit. The hermit, in turn, directs the youth to another hermit, who learns from an eagle where the Land of the Pilgrims is, and directs the bird to carry the youth thither. While the story does not state that the Land of the Pilgrims is on the “upper-world,” we must suppose that it is, and that the eagle is the means whereby the hero escapes from the underground kingdom. In a large number of members of the “Bear’s Son” cycle, to which, as has been said, the first part of our story belongs, this is the usual means of escape. The incident is also found in a large number of tales not connected otherwise with this group (see Cosquin, 2 : 141–144). It is sometimes combined with the quest for the water of life, with which in turn is connected the situation of the hero’s being referred from one guide to another (giants, sages, hermits, etc.), as in our story (cf. Grimm, No. 97, and notes; also Bolte-Polívka to No. 97, especially 2 : 400; Thorpe, 158; Tawney, 1 : 206; Persian Tales, 2 : 171). This whole section appears to have been introduced as a transition between parts 1 and 2.

The second part of our story opens with the “bride-wager” incident (see Von Hahn, 1 : 54, “Oenomaosformel”), though I can point to no parallel of Juan’s method of making love to the princess; that is, by means of a letter conveyed by a kite.

The tasks which the hero is obliged to perform vary greatly in the different members of the “Forgotten Betrothed” cycle. Juan has to plant wheat and bake bread from the ripened grain in twenty-four hours, separate a jar of mongo from a jar of sand, and fetch a ring from the sea. The first task imposed by the king has analogies in a number of European tales. In Groome’s No. 34 the Devil says to the hero, “Here is one more task for you: drain the marsh, and plough it, and sow it, and to-morrow bring me roasted maize” (p. 106). In Groome’s No. 7 the king says to the old man, “See this great forest! Fell it all, and make it a level field; and plough it for me, and break up all the earth; and sow it with millet by to-morrow morning. And mark well what I tell you: you must bring me a cake [made from the ripened millet-seed, clearly; see p. 23] made with sweet milk.” Cosquin (2 : 24) cites a Catalan and a Basque story in which the hero has not only to fell a great forest, but to sow grain and harvest it. In kind this is the same sort of impossible task imposed on Truth in a Visayan story (JAFL 19 : 100–102), where the hero has to beget, and the princess his wife to bring forth, in one night, three children. Helpful eagles solve this difficulty for Truth by conveying to him three newly-born babes. The second task is a well-known one, and is found in many members of the “Grateful Animals” cycle. Usually it is ants, which the hero has earlier spared, that perform the service of separating two kinds of seed, etc. (see Tawney, 1 : 361 and note). The mixture of sand and mongo, in our story, is not a very happy conception. Originally it must have been either gravel and mongo, or else mongo and some other kind of lentil nearly resembling it in size. The third task, with the method of accomplishing it, is perhaps the most interesting of all. In a Samoan story of the “Forgotten Betrothed” cycle (Lang, op. cit., p. 98), the heroine bids the hero cut her body into pieces and cast them into the sea. There she becomes a fish and recovers the ring. In a Catalan tale (Rondallayre, 1 : 41) the hero is also required to fetch a ring from the bottom of the sea. His loved one tells him to cut her to pieces, taking care not to let any part drop to the ground, and to throw all into the water. In spite of all his care, he lets fall to earth one drop of blood. The heroine recovers the ring, but lacks the first joint of her little finger when she resumes her original shape.

The “magic flight” is discussed by Cosquin (1 : 152–154) and Macculloch (167 ff.). Two kinds of transformation are to be noted in connection with this escape: the pursued either transform themselves, and thus escape detection by the pursuer, or else cast behind them magic objects, which turn into retarding and finally insurmountable obstacles in the path of the pursuer. In our story the transformations are of the second type, as they are in the story of “Pedro and the Witch” (No. 36). So far as I know, the first type does not occur in Filipino folk-tales. Both types are found frequently in Occidental Märchen, but in Oriental stories the second seems to predominate over the first (see Cosquin’s citations of Oriental occurrences of this incident). In Somadeva (Tawney, 1 : 355 ff.) we have two flights and both types of escape. As to the details of the flight itself in our story, we may note that the comb becoming a thicket of thorns has many analogues. The ring becoming seven mountains suggests with its magic number an Oriental origin. With spittle turning into a lake or sea, compare similar transformations of drops of water and a bladder full of water (Macculloch, 171–172).

The incident of the “forgetting of the betrothed” is usually motivated with some sort of broken taboo. When the hero desires to visit his parents, and leaves his sweetheart outside the city, she usually warns him not to allow himself to be kissed. In a Gaelic Märchen he is forbidden to speak; sometimes he is warned by his wife not to eat, etc. (Köhler-Bolte, 172). In our story the taboo is somewhat unusual: the hero is to allow no tears of joy shed by his parents to fall on his cheeks. The idea behind this charge, however, is the same as that behind the forbidden kiss. With the taboo forbidding the partaking of food, compare the episode of the “Lotus-Eaters” in the Odyssey.

In most of the Märchen of this group the re-awakening of the memory of the hero is accomplished through the conversation of two birds (doves or hens) which the forgotten betrothed manages to introduce into the presence of her lover just before he is married to another (Köhler-Bolte, 172; Rittershaus, 150). In our story the heroine asks a dog questions about the tasks she had helped the hero perform. I can point to no exact parallel of this situation, though it agrees in general with the methods used in the other members of the group.