# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 3/Faristan and Fatima

FARISTAN AND FATIMA. AN ORIENTAL LEGEND. DONE INTO HIS MOTHER-TONGUE BY E. A. BOWRING.
PART I.
PART II.
His servants, by the flickering glare, Perceived a woman with dishevell’d hair, And scanty clothing, seeking to conceal Her somewhat striking dishabille, Which in the darkness, by the torchlight aided, Seem’d greater than it in the day did.
The Sultan’s son his march suspended, And then approach’d her unattended, While she with arms and hands was trying Her want of clothing to replace, And left exposed, in beauty vying, Two legs and feet of matchless grace.
The Prince, instead of putting (as his duty Clearly enjoin’d) his hands before his face, With might and main stood staring at the beauty— “What loveliness is this I trace! And yet the time, spot, dress, are rather funny—” “My lord!” she said in accents sweet as honey, “I feel so awkward in this negligée, I really know not what to say!”
The Prince at once confess’d the force Of her remark, and then of course Gave her his own great coat at this suggestion, And said, “Fair lady, just one question! Pray, are you married? If you single are, Come home with me, and be the brightest star Within my harem! Be a prince’s bride, I love you more than all the world beside!”
Fair Fatima soon comprehended Th’ advantage of this offer splendid, And found her knowledge as a tailor In measuring its extent avail her. Alas! when this proposal made he, I grieve to say the naughty lady Forgot her duty and her plightcd troth, Forgot her husband and her oath. “My lord! I’m single, and quite ready To offer you allegiance steady, And live but for Your Royal Highness!” “A bargain!” he exclaim’d with slyness;— A horse is brought, and, lighted by the torches, Soon Fatima’s inside his harem’s porches.
Scarce had she gone, when Faristan comes back, Bringing the clothes she seem’d to lack. She is not there! His wonderment immense is: He shouted, search’d, and well-nigh lost his senses. “She is some rohber’s prize,” then thought he, In this we scarce can contradict him; He little dreamt that she could be so naughty, As to have been a willing victim!
“Why didn’t I escort her home at once, Dress’d as she was? Alas, poor silly dunce! In what distress my darling little wife Will be! She said that she should find her life So sad without me, that she needs must be Buried alive in the same grave with me. You phœnix of a woman! if a stranger Has dared to pester you with his advances, I’m sure that you’ll have saved yourself from danger, As any noble matron would,—the chance is That you have scratch’d your face, or torn your hair, Or even stabb’d yourself in your despair!”
Alas, poor Faristan deluded, She felt more happy far than you did! She liked her quarters in the harem so, That she had not the slightest wish to go, And took so kindly to her new position, She quite forgot you and your sad condition.
PART III.
Poor Faristan begins to seek her Early and late, through all the country round, But all in vain; his hopes grow weaker, No trace of her can anywhere be found. He also searches for his friend the Prophet, Hoping that he could tell him something of it.—
At length a person who was present At the adventure, brought the news unpleasant That Fatima, the good and tender, Instead of swearing “No surrender!” Had shown the Prince a preference decided, And in his harem happily resided.
Our hero now no longer waits, But hastens to the palace gates, Past all the servants, heralds, courtiers pushes, Into the Prince’s very presence rushes, And there begins he to implore him His faithful lost one to restore him.
The Prince, kind man (who maybe had enough Of Fatima ere this), gave no rebuff, But told him what had pass’d, without concealment, On learning what this strong appeal meant. “She doubtless was beside herself with terror,” Said Faristan, “and thought that you were me; O let her come, and I’ll explain her error,— My own dear wife! You presently shall see, My gracious lord, with how much fervour She’ll rush to kiss me—heaven preserve her!”
“’Tis well!” the Prince replied, “so be it!
I’ll at a distance stand to see it.”
The lady came—good Faristan Was so much dazzled by the splendour Of her gold clothes and jewels, that, poor man, He knew her scarce, and felt like some pretender. But Fatima in half a second Knew him too well, stepp’d back, turn’d deadly white, Then fiery red; but soon she reckon’d With woman’s wit the way to win the fight.
Now, when the Prince observed her start, he Rush’d up and said, “You know this party?”
“O yes!” replied the gentlest of all creatures, I recognise too well his features. This is the robber who attack’d me, Beat me, and dragg’d me to the spot from whence Your Highness had the goodness to extract me, Half-naked, thanks to his impertinence!”
On hearing his dear wife thus speak, Poor Faristan turns pale as death, Stares wildly round, feels faint and weak, His senses swim, he gasps for breath. The Court in chorus all asserted Such conduct proved a mind perverted; His guilt was clear, the Prince commanded That they should take him to the Cadi. Into the judgment-room he’s handed, The case is tried, the gentle lady Duly deposes, our poor friend Makes no defence, what cares he for his life, Seeing this conduct of his faithless wife? He’d rather have it at an end. The verdict’s “Guilty!” so they take him straightway Off to the gallows near the city’s gateway.
What could have saved his neck and reputation, As he stood trembling at the gallows’ base, Had not the Prophet (who in our narration Has play’d a part) approach’d the place? His figure glisten’d with an angel’s splendour. “This man is innocent, and no offender, And I’m his witness too!” he cried aloud. The hangman dropp’d the rope, the crowd Stared when they heard this speech of one Who never spoke in ignorance or malice, And all together hasten’d to the palace; The Sultan came, attended by his son. The Prophet, highly honour’d at the Court, First says his say; then Fatima is brought. Around them both, the others form a ring; Too conscious of her guilt, the naughty thing Lifts up her eyes, the Prophet recognises, Falls down a corpse, while great the crowd’s surprise is.
Good Faristan gets ample compensation, While Fatima’s consign’d to her old tomb; There she may stop until the day of doom. He hasn’t now the slightest inclination To throw himself, and weep, and rave E’en for nine seconds on her grave.