Beautiful Rosalinda

The Spanish princess, the daughter of the Spanish king, turned sixteen. It was time to marry her off. Suitors heard of this and came from all corners of the earth in great numbers.

Among them were an Indian raja, the heir to the French throne, a Portuguese prince, the Persian shah, and countless dukes and princes.

The last to arrive was the Turkish sultan, old and bow-legged.

The princess peeked through a crack at the suitors her father was receiving in the grand hall and laughed until she could barely stand. Only twice did she not laugh. The first time was when she saw the Portuguese prince, for he was stately, handsome, and very much to her liking. The second time she did not laugh was when she saw the Turkish sultan—he was simply too frightful.

The princess's father was at a loss: all the suitors were noble and wealthy—how could he choose the worthy one? After all, he loved his daughter as deeply as any father loves his only child, whether he wore a crown or not. He thought for three days and finally came up with an idea. Let the princess throw a golden ball at random. Whoever it hit would become her husband.

On the appointed day, the suitors gathered in front of the palace. The princess stepped out onto the balcony, and all the suitors instantly closed their eyes, blinded by her beauty.

Then the princess threw her golden ball. She aimed, of course, for the Portuguese prince. But, to her misfortune, the Turkish sultan stood nearby. Seeing where the ball was headed, he pressed himself tightly against the Portuguese prince. The ball grazed the prince's shoulder, but—alas!—it also touched the shoulder of the cunning Turk.

And so, both stood before the king and his daughter.

The king was in a quandary. After all, he had devised this ball-throwing scheme to avoid having to make a choice. Moreover, his beloved daughter, looking at her two suitors, alternated between crying and laughing, and the king could not understand whom she wished to marry.

"Your Royal Majesty," said the Portuguese prince, "I love your daughter and ask for her hand in marriage."

"I am no less fond of the princess," retorted the Turkish sultan. "There is no need for such a beautiful maiden to marry a greenhorn who has never even been married before. I, on the other hand, have a hundred wives and know well how to handle them. So do not doubt, Your Royal Majesty, give your daughter to me."

But then the princess firmly declared:

"My husband can only be the one for whom I will be the only one, like the heart in his chest."

And she looked at the Portuguese prince.

The king finally understood what his daughter wanted and replied:

"Nothing can be done, Your Turkish Sultanate, seek your hundred-and-first wife elsewhere, for I will not give you my daughter."

The Turkish sultan was furious. In his rage, he stomped on his turban, muttering that it deserved no better treatment if its owner could be so humiliated. In the end, he said to the king:

"If your daughter is not to be mine, then let her belong to no one."

With these words, he picked up his turban and left.

The next day, the Spanish princess fell gravely ill. She grew thinner and paler by the hour, her eyes sunken deep into her skull. The illness consumed her body, and the princess bent over as if she were a sheaf binder. The healers did not know what to call the illness or how to cure it.

In his distress, the king rang the Council bell.

"Lords of the Council!" he said. "My daughter is wasting away day by day. Tell me what to do."

And the wise lords of the Council replied:

"We have heard that in Italy, at the court of one of the kings, lives a girl named Rosalinda. She is as beautiful as she is wise. She once found the missing daughter of that king and saved her. Send for her—perhaps she can save your daughter as well."

"Excellent!" exclaimed the king. "Your advice, Lords of the Council, pleases me greatly."

The king clapped his hands and ordered ships to be prepared at once. He appointed the eldest lord of the Council as the ambassador to the Italian king.

The ships were already raising their anchors when the king, out of breath, ran to the shore.

"Ah, eldest lord of the Council, I nearly forgot to give you the iron glove. If that king refuses to let Rosalinda go, throw the glove at his feet as a declaration of war."

The ambassador bowed to the king, took the glove, and the ships set sail.

The glove almost came in handy. The king, Rosalinda's adoptive father, flatly refused to let his foster daughter go to Spain. There would have been war if Rosalinda herself had not burst into the hall. Hearing why the ambassador had come, she said:

"Do not grieve, dear king, I will go to Spain for a short while. Perhaps I can help the Spanish princess."

And she persuaded the king until he agreed.

The ships returned to Spain. The Spanish king himself and the sorrowful Portuguese prince came to meet Rosalinda.

As soon as Rosalinda stepped ashore, she said:

"Take me to your daughter at once."

And it was high time, for the princess had nearly wasted away.

"This is no ordinary illness," Rosalinda thought to herself. "There is something more to it!" She locked herself in the princess's chambers and ordered that no one enter for three days and three nights. The Spanish king himself placed seven large wax seals on the doors leading to his daughter's chambers.

Evening came. Rosalinda wanted to light a candle, but she had no flint, tinder, or firestarter. She glanced out the window and noticed a dim light far away on a hill. Without hesitation, Rosalinda took the candle, jumped out the window, and ran in that direction. The farther she went, the brighter the light became. When Rosalinda came close, she saw a large bonfire. On the fire stood a huge cauldron in which something was boiling. An old, bow-legged Turk in a turban stirred the brew and muttered something—not in Italian, not in Spanish, but in his own Turkish tongue.

"Hmm," thought Rosalinda, "is it in this cauldron that the life of the Spanish princess is melting away?" And she said to the Turk:

"Ah, poor thing, rest a little, you must be very tired."

"I cannot rest," replied the Turk. "I have been stirring for three months, day and night, night and day. It won't be long now. Soon I will return to my Turkey, or else my hundred wives might quarrel among themselves."

"Then let me stir for you," said Rosalinda.

"Stir, stir, but I swear by the beard of Muhammad, if you stir poorly, I will boil you in this cauldron too."

The Turk sat on the ground, cross-legged, while Rosalinda diligently stirred the foul brew with a dried owl's foot.

"Am I stirring well?" she asked the Turk.

"Stir, stir," grumbled the Turk.

"Then you sleep," said Rosalinda.

The Turk fell asleep.

Then Rosalinda tipped over the cauldron of magical brew right onto the Turk.

Oh, what a sight! The Turk instantly became as thin as a twig, shriveled up, and finally turned into a pile of dust.

Rosalinda lit her candle from the embers and ran back to the palace.

When she returned, the Spanish princess was sleeping peacefully for the first time in many days, like a child. A rosy hue appeared on her pale cheeks.

On the day Rosalinda had appointed, the Spanish king broke the seven seals and opened the doors. His cheerful and healthy daughter threw herself into his arms.

The king rewarded Rosalinda with rich gifts and sent her back to Italy with great honors. The Spanish princess hugged her tightly, kissed her, and begged her not to forget that she had a sister in Spain. And the Portuguese prince, her suitor, added: "And a brother."

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Beautiful Rosalinda

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