THE ARABIAN NIGHTS

BY RICHARD GOTTHEIL

The Arabian Nights—­or, more accurately, ’The Thousand Nights and a Night’ (Alf Leilah wa-leilah)—­have gained a popularity in Europe, since they were first turned into a modern language by Galland in 1704, which rivals, if it does not exceed, their regard in the East.  They opened up to Europe a wealth of anecdote, a fertility of daring fancy, which has not ceased to amuse and to interest.  It is not their value as literature which has placed them so high in the popular esteem, both in the East and in the West; for they are written in a style not a little slovenly, the same scenes, figures, and expressions are repeated to monotony, and the poetical extracts which are interwoven are often of very uncertain excellence.  Some of the modern translations—­as by Payne and Burton—­have improved upon the original, and have often given it a literary flavor which it certainly has not in the Arabic.  For this reason, native historians and writers seldom range the stories in their literary chronicles, or even deign to mention them by name.  The ‘Nights’ have become popular from the very fact that they affect little; that they are contes pure and simple, picturing the men and the manners of a certain time without any attempt to gloss over their faults or to excuse their foibles:  so that “the doings of the ancients become a lesson to those that follow after, that men look upon the admonitory events that have happened to others and take warning.”  All classes of men are to be found there:  Harun al-Rashid and his viziers, as well as the baker, the cobbler, the merchant, the courtesan.  The very coarseness is a part of the picture; though it strikes us more forcibly than it did those to whom the tales were told and for whom they were written down.  It is a kaleidoscope of the errors and failings and virtues of the men whose daily life it records; it is also a picture of the wonderfully rich fantasy of the Oriental mind.

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In the better texts (i.e., of Boulak and Calcutta) there are no less than about two hundred and fifty stories; some long, others short.  There is no direct order in which they follow one upon the other.  The chief story may at any moment suggest a subordinate one; and as the work proceeds, the looseness and disconnectedness of the parts increase.  The whole is held together by a “frame”; a device which has passed into the epic of Ariosto (’Orlando Furioso,’ xxviii.), and which is not unlike that used by Boccaccio (’Decameron’) and Chaucer (’Canterbury Tales’).  This “frame” is, in short:—­A certain king of India, Shahriyar, aroused by his wife’s infidelity, determines to make an end of all the women in his kingdom.  As often as he takes a wife, on the morrow he orders her slain.  Shahrzad, the daughter of his Vizier, takes upon herself the task of ridding the king of his evil intent.  On the night of her marriage