Let me whisk you away: sail you down the Tigris to Bagdad, show you the hallowed academia of the windy city, park you in a London writing pit in the 18th century.
And bind them all together with an Arabian princess.
Allez. The year was 1948: the place, the windy city.
The tale of the woman who made the discovery which concerns us tonight started far, far away from Chicago.
Born in Turkey, her father was an Arab merchant. As a child she travelled in a covered wagon with nomad horsemen, sailed down the Tigris to Baghdad, and through the Persian Gulf and Arabian sea to Bombay.
Much, much later, just after she turned 50, a growing authority on oriental manuscripts, Nabia Abbott sat at the Chicago Oriental Institute, poring over a scrap of mediaeval paper which originated from Syria.
And she became aware that the words she was reading were strangely familiar.
To describe the paper as busy would be an understatement. Six different hands were evident on both sides of the paper, each piece seemingly random: a personal letter, a preamble to a legal contract, a doodle of a human figure.
But there it was in the margin, clear as day: a fragment from the riotous carnival of story known as The Arabian Nights.
It proved the story’s protagonist, Scheherazade, dated from at least the early ninth century. She had been telling her tales for approximately 1,100 years.
Not all versions of the tales are the same: some are short, some are long, there’s the purist ones from the Syrian tradition which only include early stories, or the Egyptian tradition which even uses folk tales from the 18th and 19th centuries.
One frame binds them all together: Scheherazade herself. The woman who told 1001 tales so compelling, so entrancing, that she strung along the man who had hitherto been murdering his brides after just one night of bliss.
And there is a description of her, there in the folds of the pages:
- “[Scheherazade] had perused the books, annals and legends of preceding Kings, and the stories, examples and instances of bygone men and things; indeed it was said that she had collected a thousand books of histories relating to antique races and departed rulers. She had perused the works of the poets and knew them by heart; she had studied philosophy and the sciences, arts and accomplishments; and she was pleasant and polite, wise and witty, well read and well bred.”
All the more surprising, then, that she should make her way to England by alighting at Grub Street.
The place doesn’t exist any more.
It ran from Fore Street in London, east of St Giles-without-Cripplegate, north to Chiswell Street. It was a sorry stretch of London disreputability. Dr Johnson used it to define mediocrity: “much inhabited by writers of small histories, dictionaries, and temporary poems, whence any mean production is called grub street”
The impoverished storytellers of Grub Street were a world away from the Arabian queen. But they could recognise a best seller when they saw one.
The first French translation of One Thousand And One Nights was a lofty affair by the French orientalist Antoine Galland, who stumbled upon a manuscript while wandering through Constantinople. It was published in 1704 onwards.
But two years later a dodgy anonymous English translation began circulating. Someone had seen fit, Sinbad-style, to pirate the French translation and make a fast buck.
And they did. The translation sold so widely that Scheherazade became a household name. It has gone down in history as The Grub Street manuscript, and it coined the English title the stories go by these days: The Arabian Night’s Entertainment.
So there it is: a string of stories, linked by the woman who told them best of all.
12 thoughts on “A thousand and one stories”
Lovely post! Thank you.
Pleasure, Helen 🙂
I remember reading a number of the Arabian Nights tales as a child . . . perhaps not all 1001.
And I bet I didn’t stop mid-story to save it til the next night.
That’s the advantage of not being a megalomaniac murderous dictator, Nancy. People will let you hear their stories, no strings attached.
What you’ve shared is so interesting! I am more acquainted through reputation than really knowing the individual tales. I’ve known this piece of music my whole life, however. My parents had a record that was played often and I loved it. I need to scour my bookshelves, too, as I am quite sure somewhere I have at least one volume of these tales. You’ve raised my interest and curiosity!
The music is one of my greatest favourites, Debra.
Definitely time for a re-read, Debra. Maybe one a night for the next….
I like this update to the collection’s history taking it back 1200 years, Kate, confirmation of my inkling that Scheherazade (and of course the traditional tales she recounted) go back further than is usually assumed. By the way, did you know that Aladdin, popularly included in the Arabian Nights, wasn’t part of the original collection but added to it in subsequent translations, beginning with Antoine Galland?
I did – it reminds me of the bible for its organic make-up, Chris. So many different versions, some with a lot of stories, some with only a few. Only the storyteller remains constant. Lets see – so he published the first set of stories in 1704, and the Egyptian version was still acquiring stories even after that. Galland’s version came from Constantinople….now you’ve set me thinking. Aladdin may need a post all of his own…
Grub Street sounds made-up, doesn’t it? And now, rather sadly, it is unmade – yet goes down in history. I have always been fascinated by the tales, and by Rimsky Chestaffliction’s music celebrating them. Thanks for that amazing bit of background.
My dad used to call him Rips-its-corsets-off, Col. Strange but true. It is cracking music, isn’t it?
Grub Street is right up there with Cripplegate and Petticoat Lane, isn’t it?
It certainly is. And with wondering if there are clowns at Piccadilly Circus, and what annoyed their majesties at Kings Cross.
Fasinating. It also reminds us how beloved storytellers were in the days before mass-produced books, movies, music and TV. The evenings passed slowly indeed in olden days.