by Paul Nurse
Even this first pirated English translation was then pirated in turn. Soon after its London debut, the Arabian Nights appeared in similarly unauthorized editions in Dublin, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Liverpool and Manchester. “Read Sindbad and you will be sick of Aeneas,” the Gothic novelist Horace Walpole assured a friend, praising the Nights for possessing “a wildness … that captivates.”
The book’s popularity was no flash in the pan. Over the course of the next century Galland’s Nights continued to be pirated, running to more than thirty editions in French and English alone. Frequent newspaper and journal serializations, as well as cheap “chapbook” editions of individual stories like “Sindbad” and “Aladdin,” contributed to a continuous dissemination of Arabian Nights’ tales and characters throughout Europe and eventually the greater world. By the end of the century, the Nights had leapfrogged the seas to reach North America and Australia. Little wonder, then, that during the Napoleonic Era an anthologist could note that much of Europe believed the Nights’
store house of ingenious fiction … imagery … [and] supernatural agency skillfully introduced” had “contributed more to the … delight of every succeeding generation … than all the works which the industry and … imagination of Europeans have provided for the instruction and entertainment of youth.
Just as important, the Arabian Nights’ popularity was not restricted to the West, for the Galland edition was likewise pirated in Asia by being re translated into eastern languages in the decades following its appearance. Since it is now clear that all Arabic editions containing Galland’s orphan stories appeared only after the publication of his Nights, at least some of this more recent Arabic material must have come from Les mille et une nuits. Nor was Arabic the only eastern language to see translations of Galland’s work. A century and a half later, Sir Richard Burton claimed to have found three separate Hindi editions of Galland while in India, making the first European adaption of The Thousand and One Nights not only a western but also an eastern success story as well.
Then, the deluge. What no one involved with the book—not Galland, nor the Nights’ hack translators, nor its thousands of readers—could foretell was an altogether remarkable set of circumstances that would see the work spawn a hydra-headed influence on western art and thought for many decades to come. At its publication, the Arabian Nights was a hugely popular storybook in many languages, but little else. Yet by appearing at a critical juncture in East–West relations, the work not only provided enjoyment but also became a focal point for those oriental fantasies that had fascinated westerners for generations. Very quickly, it came to represent the common impression of the Muslim Orient like nothing else—an early indicator of the Enlightenment tendency to observe Asian societies through an approving glass. Eighteenth-century philosophers, disillusioned with the current state of European civilization, became inclined to praise Asian cultures as models for the West. The chinoiserie craze that began in the mid-seventeenth century saw European artistic styles influenced by Chinese themes and forms, and was an outgrowth of the near-reverence that the Enlightenment West accorded China. Likewise, the Nights made the world of Islam an enticing world of alien enchantment, different enough to be intriguingly strange, but sufficiently close for westerners to understand.
Admired as the Nights was, no one should believe that the western passion for oriental romance was due solely to its publication. Besides the cultural impact of the Bible, allusions to the East appear frequently in Elizabethan and Jacobean arts—think of Othello or the Moroccan prince in The Merchant of Venice—as part of a general European curiosity about the Orient. It is beyond doubt, however, that the glowing popular reception of the Nights served as a prime stimulus toward establishing the idea of an exotic eastern world as an enduring vision. Soon catchphrases like “genie in a bottle,” “magic carpet ride” and “Aladdin’s lamp” entered common usage. There appeared Arabian Nights–themed balls and masques, and a clutch of western artists and composers began using “oriental” themes in their work. The developing English pantomime tradition frequently employed Sindbad, Ali Baba and especially Aladdin as stock characters—even today, “Aladdin” ranks second only to “Cinderella” as a “panto” show. Since there is no limit to the number of wishes Aladdin’s lamp may grant in the original tale, it was probably one of these early stage adaptions that introduced the “three wishes only” device to add suspense to Aladdin’s drama.
Literary buccaneers were not the only ones looking to make some profit from the Nights’ popular success. With the work setting a kind of bookish seal on Europe’s burgeoning fascination with the East, it was inevitable that imitations and collections of competing eastern tales would arrive in the wake of Les mille et une nuits. Within a short time, other compendiums began appearing, chief among them François Pétis de la Croix’s collection of translated Turkish Tales in 1707, followed three years later by a series of Persian stories pointedly entitled Mille et une jours—“A Thousand and One Days.”
The efforts of scholars like Galland and Pétis de la Croix were legitimate adaptations of genuine eastern folklore, but in sheer numbers they were no match for the series of endless knock-offs that appeared for more than a century after the Nights’ first appearance. The exact number of such fictions is difficult to determine, but it is probable that Britain and France alone saw the publication of more than a thousand essays, short tales, novels and long poems. These were soon numerous enough to constitute a new genre of literature: the European “oriental tale” of the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries.
Like knock-offs in general, many were forgettable dreck, written for no reason other than to cash in on the prevailing taste for opulent eastern melodrama. But better writers saw in the mock-oriental story scope for satire or allegory, using exotic locales and characters to poke fun at their own societies or addressing philosophical issues by employing fashionable eastern settings. A few of these fictions, like Samuel Johnson’s Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia and James Justinian Morier’s perennial favourite about a rascally Persian barber, The Adventures of Haji Baba of Isfahan, have become bona fide classics. But most are little more than poor men’s versions of the Nights—sensationalist literature emphasizing the coarseness and licentiousness, as well as the mystery and the magic, present even in Galland’s expurgated version.
Enough of these imitations appeared that a reaction against the Nights and its kin set in among the educated classes. This did nothing to dampen general enthusiasm for the work, but it did indicate that not everyone welcomed the Arabian Nights with high acclaim. A number of establishment figures saw the popular enthusiasm for the Nights, eastern tales and the oriental craze in general as nothing but a regrettable fad—quickly begun, quickly forgotten and of no particular value.
Voltaire, although he claimed to have read the Nights ten times and used oriental themes in many of his philosophe romances, still professed scorn for those mock-eastern tales enjoying such a vogue, calling them “senseless stories that mean nothing.” Within a few years, Britain’s Earl of Shaftesbury was making sneering references to the prevailing “Moorish fancy” in literature. “Monsters and monsterland were never more in request,” Shaftesbury wrote, “and we may often see a philosopher, or wit, run a tale-gathering in these idle deserts as familiarly as the silliest woman or merest boy.”
This last phrase is suggestive of a belief among some Brits that there was something childish or even unmanly about reading the Arabian Nights and similar works, an early expression of the attitude of innate cultural superiority that would come to be criticized as “orientalism.” The fashion for eastern romance was thought to have something unbecomingly feminine in its nature—literature appropriate for a lady’s fancy, perhaps, but hardly proper for more rational Enlightenment gentlemen.
Curiously, this was essentially the same attitude, centuries removed, as that of classical Islam, when upper-class court ladies in Baghdad or Cairo might read such works as the Nights for enjoyment, b
ut educated men thought them nonsense fit only for the hoi polloi. When Alexander Pope sent copies of the Arabian Nights to Bishop Francis Atterbury, Atterbury responded by sniffing that the work was likely “the product of some Woman’s imagination,” containing no moral that he could see, and dismissing the tales as things “so extravagant, monstrous, and disproportioned” that they were likely to give “a judicious eye pain.” Some who read too much into Galland’s adaption even questioned the Nights’ authenticity. Just before the French Revolution, the English critic James Beattie puzzled over
whether the tales be really Arabick [sic], or invented by Mons. Galland, I have never been able to learn with certainty. If they be Oriental, they are translated with unwarranted latitude; for the whole tenor of the style is in the French mode: and the Caliph … and the Emperor of China, are addressed in … terms … usual at the court of France.
Whether in France, Britain or elsewhere, the public didn’t care a button about establishment opinions. For the century and a half following the appearance of Galland’s volumes, the Arabian Nights’ Entertainments bedazzled much of the West with its blend of the fantastic and the extraordinary. Even the most sober-minded of individuals were not immune to the book’s charm. A telling anecdote concerns a distinguished lord advocate for Scotland, Sir James Stewart, who found his daughters reading the Nights one Saturday evening. Good Presbyterian that he was, the outraged father snatched the book from their hands with a stern Calvinist lecture against reading such frivolity on the eve of the Holy Sabbath. That was Sir James’s mistake: actually putting his hands on the work. The next morning his family came downstairs, dressed for divine services, only to find their patriarch engrossed in reading the Arabian Nights, which he confessed sheepishly he had been doing all night long.
The success of the mock-oriental tale was directly caused by the general admiration for the Arabian Nights, but imitations were only part of the book’s impact. The appearance of eastern stories from both East and West did much more than create a fashion for fictional material dealing with a mysterious Orient. In important ways, the pseudo-oriental story inspired by the Nights helped the development of fiction itself as a legitimate literary category. By providing the popularity needed for an acceptance of fictional works designed for entertainment (and not simply as vehicles for religious allegory or moral instruction), fiction lost much of its bad reputation for flighty falsehood and became recognized as a worthy literary genre. What is not so apparent, however, is that as a series of short fictions linked by a narrator enmeshed in her own story, the Arabian Nights also helped develop the genres of the western short story and the novel, as well as fantasy and picaresque tales. A taste was being created for imaginative fiction with narratives such as those found in fairy tales and works like the Nights, and the latter’s frame-tale structure, allowing for stories to appear within stories, likewise permitted the appearance of variety and changes of mood within a single text. Such frame-tale works as the Canterbury Tales and the Decameron had appeared in Europe before, but the publication of Galland’s work caused such a collective stir that a vogue for similar works centring on the marvellous was created in western literature.
Great Britain was the main beneficiary of this trend. It may be no accident that when the first English novels began appearing in the early decades of the eighteenth century, the Arabian Nights was already established as a standard English-language book, sparking the first imitations even as its stories were still being translated across the Channel. At the same time as proto-novels like The Sir Roger de Coverley Papers arrived around 1712 (one of its authors, Joseph Addison, also dabbled in oriental stories), the Arabian Nights was making its mark, providing multiple examples of narrative fiction’s essential elements of character, setting and incident for writers to create novels along the lines of Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe and Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels.
Both works appeared in the decades following the Grub Street edition of the Nights, and both bear strong similarities to the older work. Each can be read as a takeoff of Sindbad’s fabulous voyages into imaginary worlds, even marvel worlds, of continuously linked dramatic incidents recounted by a single narrator. Like Scheherazade’s stories, the adventures of Crusoe and Lemuel Gulliver are fictional, yet describe events accepted as real within the context of the story, melding actual times, places and sympathetic figures with the unusual and sometimes fantastic. Jonathan Swift, as well as enjoying French fairy tales, was certainly among the Nights’ first English readers, receiving the dedication to a 1709 book with the wittily inverted words, “The Arabian and Turkish Tales were owing to your Tale of a Tub.”
The two literary genres inspired by the Arabian Nights—the European oriental tale and the English-language novel—are offspring of the same parent, linked by the extravagant allure given the West by the Nights and creating a demand for more such romances. In England, where the oriental tale genre flourished for more than a century, this linkage is so strong that the early twentieth-century literary scholar Martha Pike Conant states emphatically—and in a highly appropriate analogy—“the Arabian Tales was the fairy godmother of the English novel.”
And not only of the English novel, but also of one of literature’s most enduring and universal genres. While some tales smack of proto–science fiction or horror fiction, literary scholars are almost unanimous in proclaiming that one of the work’s core stories—“The Tale of the Three Apples”—is the earliest surviving example of a murder mystery. Although “The Three Apples” becomes more of a “Who is responsible” story than a simple “Whodunnit,” it does contain elements of traditional detective fiction, with an investigator (Haroun al-Rashid’s companion Jafar) working against the clock to reveal the murderer of a young woman, but finding that the case is more complex than he first thought. Eventually, he discovers that the denouement touches him personally. After more than a thousand years, “The Three Apples” remains a thrilling tale of suspense equal to any contemporary mystery story.
The general European concern with eastern styles, expressed through words, music, theatre, art and even architecture, had more lasting influences than simple homages. The success of the Nights also breathed life into new genres by providing impetus to developing trends. As antitheses of the Enlightenment emphasis on rationality, the oriental tale, celebrating an emotionalism believed to be a typical feature of Asian life, went hand-in-hand with the parallel development of the Gothic story to fire the opening salvoes in a revolt against the predominant attitudes of the age.
Once the vogue for the mock-oriental story settled down somewhat in the second half of the eighteenth century, original works using the Nights only as part-inspiration began making their mark on western literature, creating some of the earliest European fantasy works. Two period novels, neither strict oriental knock-offs, can be linked to their respective authors’ passion for The Thousand and One Nights, but both went further than the standard eastern pastiche by blending elements of the oriental and Gothic genres in a fresh literary concoction.
Little read today outside of university classrooms, William Beckford’s Vathek and Jan Potocki’s Saragossa Manuscript are nonetheless considered major precursors to the modern fantasy novel. Both were original works exploring new thematic venues, but scratch below their surfaces and it becomes clear both are tied to the Nights in various ways, chief among them the interest the two über-eccentric authors (Beckford was obsessed with towers and Potocki shot himself with a bullet made from the strawberry-shaped knob of a sugar-bowl) showed in the older work. William Beckford—fabulously wealthy from Jamaican sugar and multitalented (Mozart is suppose to have been his private piano tutor as a boy)—was so besotted by the Nights and the idea of the Orient that his guardians tried to stem his youthful interest by burning his collection of eastern books and paintings.
A terrible waste of art and literature, since Beckford’s interest was sincere and lifelong. Preferring French to English, he went on to study Arabic an
d Persian, then later indulged himself by living behind four-metre walls on his estate as a kind of quasi-oriental potentate. At one point, Beckford even spent time translating into French sundry Arabian Nights stories that appeared in manuscripts different from Galland’s, but only found true satisfaction when he decided to construct his own “Arabian” tale as an expression of his innermost desires.
At twenty-two, Beckford sat down and in a three-day burst of creative energy wrote The History of the Caliph Vathek (1786), a grim tale of decadence and damnation that was among the most widely read novels of its day. Although written originally in French (it only appeared in English after Beckford’s agent had it translated and published without his knowledge), Vathek ranks with Horace Walpole’s Castle of Otranto and Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein among the foremost English Gothic novels. It also stands as a kind of culmination of the period oriental story, taking the genre further in its depiction of excess and misdeeds than previous works by ending in a memorable underground hell where the damned wander forever with their hearts encased in flames. Although it is set in a fictional Muslim East, Vathek merges European Gothic and pseudo-oriental conventions in a polished, original book—an orientalized horror story that stands as one of the earliest examples of European Romantic orientalism.
Further separating it from the bulk of eastern imitations is the fact that parts are distinctly autobiographical, with the caliph Vathek the fictional counterpart of Beckford himself, his Calvinist mother the sorceress Carathis, Vathek’s illicit paramour Nouronihar a stand-in for Beckford’s cousin Louisa and Nouronihar’s effeminate fiancé modelled on another cousin, the young William Courtenay. Venturing beyond standard oriental fare, Vathek stands as a kind of literary confessional, since the hedonistic Beckford (forced to flee England for a decade over a homosexual scandal) created his amoral protagonist as a vision of himself: a man sated by pleasure who longs for the esoteric knowledge that will allow him to achieve a union with the absolute. Disdaining conventional morality in the pursuit of a higher understanding, Beckford/Vathek reaches for the sublimity of heaven, only to pay for his crimes by eternal damnation.
