"The Thousand and Second Tale of Scheherazade" - читать интересную книгу автора (Poe Edgar Allan)

Machiavelli, beyond doubt), had a very ingenious little plot in her
mind. On the night of the wedding, she contrived, upon I forget what
specious pretence, to have her sister occupy a couch sufficiently near
that of the royal pair to admit of easy conversation from bed to
bed; and, a little before cock-crowing, she took care to awaken the
good monarch, her husband (who bore her none the worse will because he
intended to wring her neck on the morrow),- she managed to awaken him,
I say, (although on account of a capital conscience and an easy
digestion, he slept well) by the profound interest of a story (about a
rat and a black cat, I think) which she was narrating (all in an
undertone, of course) to her sister. When the day broke, it so
happened that this history was not altogether finished, and that
Scheherazade, in the nature of things could not finish it just then,
since it was high time for her to get up and be bowstrung- a thing
very little more pleasant than hanging, only a trifle more genteel.
The king's curiosity, however, prevailing, I am sorry to say, even
over his sound religious principles, induced him for this once to
postpone the fulfilment of his vow until next morning, for the purpose
and with the hope of hearing that night how it fared in the end with
the black cat (a black cat, I think it was) and the rat.
The night having arrived, however, the lady Scheherazade not only
put the finishing stroke to the black cat and the rat (the rat was
blue) but before she well knew what she was about, found herself
deep in the intricacies of a narration, having reference (if I am
not altogether mistaken) to a pink horse (with green wings) that went,
in a violent manner, by clockwork, and was wound up with an indigo
key. With this history the king was even more profoundly interested
than with the other- and, as the day broke before its conclusion
(notwithstanding all the queen's endeavors to get through with it in
time for the bowstringing), there was again no resource but to
postpone that ceremony as before, for twenty-four hours. The next
night there happened a similar accident with a similar result; and
then the next- and then again the next; so that, in the end, the
good monarch, having been unavoidably deprived of all opportunity to
keep his vow during a period of no less than one thousand and one
nights, either forgets it altogether by the expiration of this time,
or gets himself absolved of it in the regular way, or (what is more
probable) breaks it outright, as well as the head of his father
confessor. At all events, Scheherazade, who, being lineally
descended from Eve, fell heir, perhaps, to the whole seven baskets
of talk, which the latter lady, we all know, picked up from under
the trees in the garden of Eden-Scheherazade, I say, finally
triumphed, and the tariff upon beauty was repealed.
Now, this conclusion (which is that of the story as we have it
upon record) is, no doubt, excessively proper and pleasant- but
alas! like a great many pleasant things, is more pleasant than true,
and I am indebted altogether to the "Isitsoornot" for the means of
correcting the error. "Le mieux," says a French proverb, "est l'ennemi
du bien," and, in mentioning that Scheherazade had inherited the seven
baskets of talk, I should have added that she put them out at compound