The merchant laughed in his turn at what seemed to him an insolent comparison.

‘When a trader goes thousands of miles, through a thousand perils to bring home precious wares from afar which those at home scarcely know the use of, true, then, he alone can fix the price. But a pot of marjoram, every one knows the price of that.’

‘Perhaps not,’ replied the stranger, binding his cloak about him with the pot tightly held under his arm. ‘At all events it is clear you don’t;’ and he took a step forward as if he considered the negotiation at an end.

The merchant was vexed; he would not on any account miss taking back a pot of marjoram, and he knew he was now so near home that no other chance would there be of procuring one. Swallowing down his annoyance as well as he could, therefore, he led his horse nearer to the strange man and said,—

‘You make me quite curious to hear your price named, friend, as till this moment I had not thought there could be two ideas on the subject.’

‘My price is three hundred thousand scudi,’ replied the strange man, who was really a magician; ‘and if you knew its powers you would know, too, it is cheap at that.’

And again he made as if he would have gone on his way, indifferent whether the bargain were concluded or not.

The merchant was quite puzzled how to act. The pot of marjoram he must have, and his knowledge of the art of bargaining convinced him that the man’s manner meant he would not rebate an iota of his price. Whatever awkwardness he felt in suddenly giving three hundred thousand scudi for an article he had just appraised at a paul it was even more apparent to him that any attempt at haggling would only have added to the absurdity of the situation by its futility. Therefore, assuming a magnificent air, as if the vast price were after all no matter to him, he called to his steward to count out the sum demanded and rode on.

Arrived at home, his showy presents were received with raptures by his two eldest daughters, while the youngest received her modest-seeming share of his generosity with an expression of surprise and admiration, which gave the good merchant a secret satisfaction in imagining that she was not altogether ignorant of its immense value.

As days went by, however, everything fell back into the usual routine. The elder sisters continued the same round of gaiety in which they had ever been immersed, the younger remained as of old, quietly absorbed in her household duties; but if she had any pastime it was that of diligently cultivating her pot of marjoram. By degrees, however, through the steward’s gossip with the servants, it came round to the knowledge of the sisters that, though their younger sister had seemed to frame so humble a request, its satisfaction had cost their father’s treasury a fabulous sum. The discovery excited their utmost indignation, and their jealousy being roused, they determined to inflict a condign and appropriate punishment for what they deemed her presumption, by destroying the illstarred pot of marjoram.

To get at it, however, was no easy matter, as its guardian seldom left the house, and was always watching over it with jealous care. At last they resolved, by way of pretext for securing her absence, to represent to their father that it was not good for a young girl to remain so shut up; that whether she had a taste for it or not, she ought to see the world; and urged their arguments so efficaciously that he quite admitted their cogency, and one evening, calling his youngest daughter to him, imperatively required that she should accompany him to an evening engagement.

The poor child dared not disobey her father, but parted from her pot of marjoram with a heavy heart, as if some foreboding of evil possessed her. No sooner had she left the house than the sisters went up into her room, and taking the pot of marjoram, flung it out of the window, so that it all lay broken and shattered on the highroad, where it was soon trampled under foot and every vestige of it dispersed.

When she came in and saw what was done her grief was unbounded, and no sooner was the house sunk in slumber than, determining to live no longer under the same roof with those who had treated her so unfeelingly, she set out to wander forth absorbed in sorrow, and not caring whither she went.

On, on, on she went, taking no heed of the way, all through the night, and when the morning dawned she found herself in the midst of a vast plain, at a place where many roads met. As she hesitated for a moment which she should take, there suddenly appeared before her a fairy,2 though the last time she looked up she had not seen a speck anywhere between herself and the horizon.

‘Where are you going so early, my pretty maiden, and why weep you?’ said the fairy, in a soothing voice that seemed made to charm an answer out of the most reluctant.

Nevertheless, it was no easy question to answer, for the maiden had no sort of idea whither she was going; therefore she took the second question first and poured out the whole tale of her sisters’ harshness and her late terrible disappointment.

‘That is not so very bad after all,’ replied the fairy, when she had finished her tale. ‘I see you have been trying to be a sensible girl, but you must be brave as well as sensible. Men say of us women, “Women always look at the dark side of things;”3 there is always a bright side which you must try to look out for, even when, as in this instance, you couldn’t possibly see it; for all the evil that befalls us does not work evil in the end.4 Now it happens that there is a particularly bright side to this case of yours, and the evil that was done you will bring you no ultimate harm. But you must exercise fortitude and stedfastness in what you will have to do. For this I will give you a man’s clothing, as it would not be seemly for a young girl like you to be going about the world alone, and it will save you from many dangers.’

So saying, though she had no bundle of any sort about her, she produced a complete suit of male attire, travelling cloak and all, and in the girdle were bound weapons, and many articles of which the maiden did not even know the use or the name, but the fairy assured her she would want them all by and by. Then, having pointed out which was the road she should take, she again bid her be of good heart, and disappeared almost before the maiden had time to utter her heartfelt thanks.

The fairy had no sooner vanished than the whole face of the country wore a different aspect; instead of being surrounded by a vast plain, mighty mountains rose on the right hand and on the left, while before her, straight along her path, was a dense forest. The maiden’s heart misgave her at the sight, but she remembered the fairy’s advice and walked steadily along. Notwithstanding her conversation had not seemed to last many minutes too, the sun was already high in the heavens, and its rays beat so fiercely upon her that she was glad even of the gloomy forest’s shade. Arrived at the first trees she was pleased to hear the trickling of a little brook over the stones, and to find that the good fairy had not failed to give her a supply of provisions of which she now gladly availed herself.

As the afternoon grew cooler she rose and walked on till nightfall without further adventure, and then disposed herself to rest for the night, climbing first into the spreading boughs of a large tree, that she might be out of the way of any wild beasts which the forest might harbour.

In the middle of the night her sleep was disturbed by a horrible growling; and what was her surprise when she fully woke to find that though it proceeded from a common he-, and she-bear 5 stretched out under the very tree she had chosen for her resting-place, she could understand all the meaning it contained just as if they had spoken in words; and she recognised the new power as another gift of the good fairy.

‘Where have you been all this long time?’ growled the she-bear; ‘it is quite abominable what a long time you stay away now continually; I have been hunting through the whole forest for you.’

‘That was quite waste of trouble,’ replied the he-bear testily, ‘for I have been a long way from the forest.’

‘Where were you, then?’ growled the she-bear again, with a tone that showed she was determined to know all about it.

‘If you must know, I went twenty miles along the side of the river, then over the back of the rocky mountains, and then skirting round the forest till I came to the kingdom of Persia. And out of the kingdom of Persia there went up a great wail, for last night, from his high tower, the king of Persia fell out of window and broke all his bones, moreover his flesh is all cut with the glass, which has entered into his wounds. Therefore the land of Persia bewails her king.’

‘Then let them get another king,’ growled the she-bear.

‘That is not so easy,’ rejoined the he-bear. ‘For over all the face of the earth was no king so comely in person as the king of Persia. But that is not the worst, for the matter concerns us more nearly than you have any idea of.’

‘How can it concern us?’ retorted the she-bear.

‘It concerns us so much that if anyone only knew of us we should both be killed. For the only remedy for his wounds is that we should both be killed, the fat of our bodies be melted together, an ointment made of it with honey and wax, and be smeared over the king’s body, and then bathe him in warm baths, doing this alternately for the space of three days he will be made well again. And now he has sent a proclamation into all lands inviting any physician to come to heal him by his art, and if any of them by their books and their divination should discover this we both shall certainly be put to death.’

‘Nonsense! do come and go to sleep,’ replied the she-bear testily; ‘how should anyone find us out in the midst of this forest?’

‘It’s not very likely certainly,’ growled the he-bear.

And in consequence of this happy feeling of security both brutes were soon fast asleep.

How gladly the maiden listened to their snoring, when she found she could understand it just as well as their growling.

‘I’m sound asleep,’ snored the she-bear.

‘I’m so tired I don’t want ever to wake again,’ snored her mate.

‘Neither shall you,’ said the maiden as she noiselessly let herself down from the tree.

‘Only think of that old king of Persia wanting our fat; long may he wish for it!’ snored the she-bear.

‘Now it would be a fine thing to give back all his strength and his beauty to the king of Persia, but the price of one’s life is too much for the honour,’ snored the he-bear.

‘Nevertheless, you shall have that honour,’ whispered the maiden, as she drew two sharp two-edged knives with which her girdle was furnished, and, taking her stand firmly, plunged one with each hand deep into the throat of each beast. A mingled stream of blood gushed forth, and the two huge carcases rolled over without so much as a grunt, so neatly had the execution been performed.

By the first morning’s light she once more called all her courage to her assistance, and cut up the carcasses, extracting the fat. Then she lit a fire and melted it down together, nor was she without the requisite wax and honey, for the good fairy had provided her with enough of each. The ointment made, she set out to follow the line of travel the bear had indicated, and not without much toil and weariness at last found herself in the kingdom of Persia. Strong in belief in the efficacy of her remedy, she presented herself at once at the palace gate and demanded admission on the score of her ability to effect the desired cure of the ailing king.

‘Though I may not have the high-sounding fame of which I daresay many can boast who have come at the summons of your king, yet so certain am I of the powers of my treatment that I put my life in your hands, and give you leave to torture me to death if I succeed not.’

‘Fear not, fair sir,’ replied the chamberlain; ‘no difficulty will be made in admitting you, for you alone have applied to heal the king. Every other mediciner throughout the whole world, on reading the description of the king’s ailments given in the proclamation, has pronounced his health past recovery, and not one will even make the attempt.’

Pale, emaciated, and agonised as he was, the maiden at once recognised on her admission to the presence of the king the justice of the bear’s account of his personal attractions, and now more earnestly than ever desired her success.

The king very willingly submitted to her medicaments, and at the end of three days was, as the bear had predicted, quite sound in limb and restored to all his beauty of person. If his personal attractions had been an object of admiration to the maiden, those of his supposed physician had not been lost on the king, and when she came on the fourth day to take her leave of him, he told her at once he could not think of parting with her; she must remain attached to his court, and be always his physician in attendance. The flush of joy which she could not conceal at the proposal sufficed to convince the king of the justice of certain suspicions he had already entertained, that his supposed physician was no physician, but a maiden worthy to be his queen.

For the moment he said nothing further, but only assigned to the stranger apartments in the palace, and a suite of his own, and a yearly stipend on the most liberal scale. As days went by, being continually in each other’s presence, with that familiarity which their new relations allowed, each had the opportunity of growing more and more fond of the other. At last the king called his chamberlain to him one day and told him it was his desire that the state physician should appear before him dressed in queenly robes, and attended by a train of ladies of the court, and damsels and pages of honour.

The chamberlain fancied that the life-peril through which the prince had so lately passed had injured his brain, and only undertook the commission with a visible reluctance. Nevertheless, as he durst not disobey any command of his sovereign, how strange soever, all was done as he had directed; though what puzzled the chamberlain the more was that the physician seemed as nearly demented as the king, for, instead of testifying any reluctance in submitting to such a travesty, his countenance had betrayed the most unmistakable joy at hearing the king’s pleasure.

The king had further given orders for the attendance of all the great officers of state and all the nobles of the land, as well as his guards of various degrees, all in brilliant gala dress. Before going into the state hall to receive their homage, however, he entered alone into his private cabinet, whither he commanded the attendance of his physician. Both meeting thus, each habited to the greatest advantage in their own appropriate dress, each was more than ever smitten with the attractions of the other. The king was not very long in winning from the maiden the confession that the robes she now wore were those of her sex, or that she shared his own desire that they should be united by that tie which would bind them together inseparably for ever. No sooner had he thus obtained her consent than he led her into the midst of the assembled court and required the homage of all his people to her as their queen.

As for the wicked sisters, his first act was to send for them and have them burnt to death.

[‘How well I remember,’ added the narrator, ‘the way my mother used always to end that story when she told it to me.’

‘And how was that?’ asked I eagerly, not at all sorry to come across some local addition at last.

‘But it has nothing to do with the tale, really,’ she replied, as deeming it too unimportant to trouble me with.

‘Never mind, I should like to hear it,’ said I.

‘Well then, it used to run thus: “Never was such a banquet made in all the world as for the nuptials of this king of Persia. The confetti were as big as eggs; and, do you know, I had five of them given to me.”’

‘O mamma,’ I used to say then, ‘why didn’t you keep them for me? what splendid confetti they must have been!’

‘Stop, and you shall hear what I did with them,’ she would reply.

Uno lo dava al gallo	One I gave to the cock
Che mi portava a cavallo,	Who carried me on his back,6
Una a la gallina	And one to the hen
Che m’ insegnò la via.	Who showed me the way,
Uno al porco	And one to the pig
Che m’ insegnò la porta.	Who pointed out the door;
Uno ne mangiai,	One I ate myself,
E uno ne misse là,	And one I put by there,
Che ancora ci sarà.	Where no doubt it still remains.

And she used to point as she spoke at an old glass cabinet, where I would go and rummage, always expecting to find the sweetmeat, till one day, getting convinced it had no existence, I got very angry, and threw a big key at one of the panes and broke it, and she never would tell me that story any more.]

1 ‘Il vaso di persa.’ Marjoram goes by the name of ‘persa’ in the vernacular of Rome. Parsley, which sounds the more literal translation, is ‘erbetta.’ I think the narrator believed it to be connected with Persia. ↑

2 ‘Fata’ is a powerful enchantress. I know no English equivalent but ‘fairy,’ though there is this difference that a ‘fata’ is by no means invariably an airy and beautiful being; she more often wears a very ordinary appearance, and not unfrequently that of a very old wrinkled woman, but is always goodnatured and benevolent, as distinguished from the malevolent ‘strega,’ a nearer counterpart of our ‘witch.’ ↑

3 ‘Le femmine sempre pigliano il peggio.’ ↑

4 ‘Non tutto il male vien’ per nuocere.’ ↑

5 ‘Orgo,’ the vernacular form of the classic ‘Orco,’ is the Italian equivalent for ‘Old Bogey;’ but it is also used in place of ‘orso,’ a bear (as in the precise instance of this tale being told to me), when it is desired to give terror to his character in a tale. ↑

6 Has this anything to do with ‘riding the cock-horse’? ↑

THE POT OF RUE.1

They say there was once a rich merchant who had three daughters. Two of them were very gay and fond of dancing and theatres, but the youngest was very stay-at-home and scarcely ever went beyond the garden.

One day when the father was going abroad to buy merchandise, he asked his three daughters what he should bring them home. The two eldest asked for all manner of dresses and ornaments, but the youngest asked only for a pot of rue.

‘That’s a funny fancy,’ said the father, ‘but an easy one to satisfy at all events; so be sure you shall have it.’

‘Not so easy, perhaps, as you think,’ replied the maiden; ‘only now you have promised it, mind you bring it, as you will find you will not be able to get home unless you bring it with you.’

The father did not pay much heed to her words, but went to a far country, bought his merchandise, taking care to include the fine clothes and jewels for his two eldest daughters, and, forgetting about the pot of rue, set out to come home.

They were scarcely a day’s journey out at sea when the ship stood quite still, nor was the captain able by any means to govern it, for neither sail nor oar would move it an inch.

‘Some one on board has an unfulfilled promise on him,’ declared the captain; and he called upon whoever it was to come forward and own it, that he might be thrown overboard, and that the lives of all the passengers and crew should not be put in jeopardy by his fault.

Then the merchant came forward and said it was true he had forgotten to bring with him something he had promised to his little daughter, but that it was so slight a matter he did not think it could be that which was stopping the ship.

As no one else had anything of the sort to accuse themselves of, the captain judged that it was indeed the merchant’s fault that had stopped the ship; only, as he was such a great merchant and a frequent trader by his vessel, he agreed to put back with him instead of throwing him overboard. He first, however, asked,—

‘And what may the thing be that you have to take to your daughter?’

‘Nothing but a pot of rue,’ replied the merchant.

‘A pot of rue!’ answered the captain; ‘that is no easy matter. In the whole country there is no one has a plant of it but the king, and he is so choice over it that he has decreed that if anyone venture to ask him only for a single leaf he shall instantly be put to death.’

‘That is bad hearing,’ said the merchant. ‘Nevertheless, as I have promised to get it I must make the trial, and if I perish in the attempt I might have had a worse death.’

So they landed the merchant, and he went straight up to the king’s palace.

‘Majesty!’ he said, throwing himself on his knees before the throne. ‘It is in no spirit of wantonness I break the decree which forbids the asking a single leaf of the precious plant of rue. A promise was on me before I knew the king’s decree, and I am bound thereby to ask not merely a single leaf but the whole plant, of the king, even though it be at peril of my life.’

Then said the king,—

‘To whom hadst thou made this promise?’

And the merchant made answer,—

‘Though it was only to my youngest daughter I made the promise, yet having made it, I will not leave off from asking for it.’

Then the king answered,—

‘Because thou hast been faithful to thy promise, and courageous in risking thy life rather than to break thy word, behold I give the whole plant at thy desire; and this without breaking my royal decree. For my decree said that whoso desired a single leaf should be put to death, but in that thou hast asked the whole plant thou hast shown a courage worthy of reward.’

So he took the plant of rue and gave it to the merchant to give to his daughter; moreover, he bade him tell her that she should every night burn a leaf of the plant. With that he dismissed him.

The merchant returned home and distributed the presents he had brought to his daughters, and not more pleased were the elder ones with their fine gifts than was the younger with her simple pot of rue. In the evening they went with their father to the ball as usual, but the youngest staid at home as she was wont to do, and this night she burnt a leaf of the rue as the king had bidden her. But the king had three beautiful sons, and no sooner had she burnt the rue leaf than the eldest son of the king appeared before her, and sitting beside her, said so many kind things that no evening had ever passed so pleasantly. This she did every evening as the king had bidden.

But the other merchants said to the merchant her father,—

‘How is it that only two daughters come to the balls?’

And the merchant, not knowing how to account for the youngest daughter’s preference for staying at home, answered,—

‘I have only two daughters old enough to come to the balls?’

But the other merchants said,—

‘Nay, but bring now thy youngest daughter.’

So the next evening the merchant made the youngest daughter go with him to the ball, and the two elder daughters were left at home.

As the youngest was wont never to leave her room, the others, how jealous soever they were of her, were never able to do her any harm. But now that they felt secure she was absent for a considerable space, they went into her apartment and set fire to it, and the whole place was burnt, and also the garden, and the plant of rue.

If the king’s son had come in haste for the burning of a single leaf, I leave it to be imagined with what speed he came for the burning of the whole plant. With such impetus, indeed, he came, that he was bruised and burnt all over with the flaming beams of which the apartment was built, and cut all over with the broken glass; so that when he reached home again he was in a sorry plight indeed.

But the youngest daughter, coming home with her father from the ball, and finding all her apartment burnt to the ground, as well as all the plants in the garden, and with them the pot of rue, she said, ‘I will stay no more in this place.’ So she dressed herself in man’s clothes and wandered forth.

On, on, on, she went, till night came, and she could go no further, but she laid herself to sleep under a tree. In the middle of the night came an ogre and an ogress,2 and laid themselves down also under the tree. Then she heard the ogre speaking to the ogress, and saying, ‘Our king’s eldest son, the flower of the land, is sore ill and like to die, having fallen through the window of the highest story of the palace, and is cut with the glass, and bruised all over. What shall be done to heal the king’s eldest son, the flower of the land?’

And the ogress made answer: ‘This is what should be done—but it is well no one knows it. They should kill us, and take the fat that is round our hearts and make an ointment, and anoint therewith the wounds of the king’s son.’

When the merchant’s daughter heard this, she waited till the ogre and ogress were gone to sleep; then she took out a brace of pistols—for with the man’s dress she had also a brace of pistols—and with one in each hand she killed the ogre and ogress together, and with her knife she ripped them open, and took out the fat that was round their hearts. Then she journeyed on till she came to the king’s palace. At the door of the palace stood a guard, who told her there was no entrance for such as her; but she said, ‘To heal the wounds of the king’s eldest son am I come.’

Then the sentinel laughed, and said, ‘So many great and learned surgeons have come, and have benefited him nothing, there is no entrance for a mountebank like thee. Begone! begone!’

But she, knowing certainly that she had the only means of healing, would not be sent away; and when the sentinel would have driven her off she struggled so bravely that he had to call out all the guard to resist her; and when they all used their strength against her, she protested so loudly that the noise of the struggle made the king himself begin to inquire what was the matter. Then they told him, ‘Behold, there stands without a low and base fellow, who would fain pretend to heal the wounds of the king’s son.’

But the king answered: ‘As all the great and learned surgeons have failed, let even the travelling doctor try his skill; maybe he knows some means of healing.’

Then she was brought into the apartment of the king’s son, and she asked for all she needed to make the ointment, and linen for bandages, and to be left alone with him for the space of a week. At the end of a week the king’s son was perfectly cured and well. Then she dressed herself with care, but still in the garb of a travelling doctor—for she had no other—and stood before him, and said, ‘Know you me not?’ And when he looked at her he said, ‘Ah! yes; the maiden of the rue plant!’ For till then she had been so soiled with the dust of travel that he could not recognise her. Then when he had recognised her he protested he would marry her, and, sending to the king his father, he told him the same.

When the king heard of his resolve, he said, ‘It is well that the prince is healed of his wounds; but with the return of bodily health it is evident he has lost his reason, in that he is determined to marry his surgeon. Nevertheless, as nothing is gained in this kind of malady by contradiction, it is best to humour him. We must get this surgeon to submit to be dressed up like a princess, and we must amuse him by letting him go through the form of marrying her.’

It was done, therefore, as the king had said. But when the ladies of the court came to attend the supposed surgeon, and saw her dressed in her bridal robes, they saw by the way they became her that she was indeed a woman and no surgeon, and that the prince was by no means distempered in his mind.

But the prince silenced their exclamations, saying: ‘Nay, but say nothing; for perchance if my father knew that this should be a real marriage, and no mere make-believe to humour a disordered whim, he might withhold his consent, seeing the maiden is no princess. But I know she is the wife destined for me, because my mother, before she died, told me I should know her by the pot of rue; and because, by devoting herself to healing me, she has deserved well of me. So let the marriage go through, even as the king my father had devised.’

So the marriage was celebrated, and when the king learnt afterwards that the pretended surgeon was a real maiden, he knew the thing could not be altered, and said nothing. So the merchant’s daughter became the prince’s wife.

[The following is a third variant of this story, but so like the last, that I only give an abbreviated version of it.]

1 ‘Il Vaso di Ruta.’ ↑

2 ‘Orco ed orchessa.’ ↑