Chapter LXXV…

Chapter LXXV

Victory to Ganesa, who, when dancing, makes a shower of stars, resembling a rain of flowers, fall from the sky, by a blow of his trunk!

Then Mrigánkadatta, having passed that night, set out in the morning from that wood, together with Prachandasakti and his other affectionate ministers, making for Ujjayiní in order to gain Sasánkavatí, and looking out for the rest of his ministers.

And as he was going along on his way, he saw his minister Vikramakesarin being carried through the air by a hideously deformed man. And while he was eagerly pointing him out to his other ministers, that minister alighted from the air near him. And quickly dismounting from the shoulder of that man, he came up and embraced the feet of Mrigánkadatta, with his eyes full of tears. And the delighted Mrigánkadatta embraced him in return, and so did his ministers, one after another, and then Vikramakesarin dismissed that man, saying, "Come to me, when I think of you." Then Mrigánkadatta out of curiosity asked Vikramakesarin for the story of his adventures, and he sat down in the forest and related them.

The adventures of Vikramakesarin.

When I had been separated from you on that occasion by the curse of the Nága, and had wandered about for many days in search of you, I said to myself, "I will make for Ujjayiní, for they will go there quickly," and having formed this intention, I set out for that city. And in course of time I reached a village near it, named Brahmasthala, and there I sat down on the bank of a lake at the foot of a tree. There an old Bráhman, afflicted with the bite of a serpent, came up to me and said, "Rise up from this place, my son, lest you incur my fate. For there is a great serpent here, and I am so tortured by the bite which he has given me, that I am now about to drown myself in this lake." When he said this, I dissuaded him, out of compassion, from committing suicide, and I then and there counteracted the effect of the poison by my knowledge of antidotes.

Then the Bráhman eagerly, but with due politeness, asked me the whole story of my life, and when he knew the facts, said to me kindly, "You have to-day saved my life, so receive, hero, this charm for mastering Vetálas, which I inherited from my father. For it is suitable to you who possess all powers, but what, I pray, could a feeble creature, like me, do with it?" When I heard that, I answered that noble Bráhman, "What use can I make of Vetálas, now that I am separated from Mrigánkadatta?" When the Bráhman heard that, he laughed, and went on to say to me, "Do you not know that you can obtain from a Vetála all that you desire? Did not king Trivikramasena obtain of old time the sovereignty of the Vidyádharas by the favour of a Vetála? Listen now, I will tell you his story in proof of it."

Here begins the 1st of the 25 tales of a Demon. [276] (Vetála-Panchavinsatiká.)

On the banks of the Godávarí there is a place named Pratishthána. In it there lived of old time a famous king, named Trivikramasena, the son of Vikramasena, equal to Indra in might. Every day, when he was in his hall of audience, a mendicant named Kshántisíla came to him, to pay him his respects, and presented him with a fruit. And every day, the king as soon as he received the fruit, gave it into the hand of the superintendent of his treasury who was near him. In this way ten years passed, but one day, when the mendicant had left the hall of audience, after giving the fruit to the king, the king gave it to a young pet monkey, that had escaped from the hands of its keepers, and happened to enter there. While the monkey was eating that fruit, it burst open, and there came out of it a splendid priceless jewel. When the king saw that, he took up the jewel, and asked the treasurer the following question, "Where have you put all those fruits which I have been in the habit of handing over to you, after they were given to me by the mendicant?" When the superintendent of the treasury heard that, he was full of fear, and he said to the king, "I used to throw them into the treasury from the window without opening the door; if your Majesty orders me, I will open it and look for them." When the treasurer said this, the king gave him leave to do so, and he went away, and soon returned, and said to the king, "I see that those fruits have all rotted away in the treasury, and I also see that there is a heap of jewels there resplendent with radiant gleams."

When the king heard it, he was pleased, and gave those jewels to the treasurer, and the next day he said to the mendicant, who came as before, "Mendicant, why do you court me every day with great expenditure of wealth? I will not take your fruit to-day until you tell me." When the king said this, the mendicant said to him in private, "I have an incantation to perform which requires the aid of a brave man, I request, hero, that you will assist me in it." When the king heard that, he consented and promised him that he would do so. Then the mendicant was pleased and he went on to say to that king, "Then I shall be waiting for you at night-fall in the approaching black fortnight, in the great cemetery here, under the shade of a banyan-tree, and you must come to me there. The king said--"Well! I will do so." And the mendicant Kshántisíla returned delighted to his own dwelling.

Then the heroic monarch, as soon as he had got into the black fortnight, remembered the request of the mendicant, which he had promised to accomplish for him, and as soon as night came, he enveloped his head in a black cloth, and left the palace unperceived, sword in hand, and went fearlessly to the cemetery. It was obscured by a dense and terrible pall of darkness, and its aspect was rendered awful by the ghastly flames from the burning of the funeral pyres, and it produced horror by the bones, skeletons, and skulls of men that appeared in it. In it were present formidable Bhútas and Vetálas, joyfully engaged in their horrible activity, and it was alive with the loud yells of jackals, [277] so that it seemed like a second mysterious tremendous form of Bhairava. And after he had searched about in it, he found that mendicant under a banyan-tree, engaged in making a circle, and he went up to him and said, "Here I am arrived, mendicant; tell me, what can I do for you?"

When the mendicant heard that, and saw the king, he was delighted, and said to him--"King, if I have found favour in your eyes, go alone a long way from here towards the south, and you will find an sinsapá-tree. [278] On it there is a dead man hanging up; go and bring him here; assist me in this matter, hero." As soon as the brave king, who was faithful to his promise, heard this, he said, "I will do so," and went towards the south. And after he had gone some way in that direction, along a path revealed by the light of the flaming pyres, he reached with difficulty in the darkness that asoka-tree; the tree was scorched with the smoke of funeral pyres, and smelt of raw flesh, and looked like a Bhúta, and he saw the corpse hanging on its trunk, as it were on the shoulder of a demon. So he climbed up, and cutting the string which held it, flung it to the ground. And the moment it was flung down, it cried out, as if in pain. Then the king, supposing it was alive, came down and rubbed its body out of compassion; that made the corpse utter a loud demoniac laugh. Then the king knew that it was possessed by a Vetála, and said without flinching, "Why do you laugh? Come, let us go off." And immediately he missed from the ground the corpse possessed by the Vetála, and perceived that it was once more suspended on that very tree. Then he climbed up again and brought it down, for the heart of heroes is a gem more impenetrable than adamant. Then king Trivikramasena threw the corpse possessed by a Vetála over his shoulder, and proceeded to go off with it, in silence. And as he was going along, the Vetála in the corpse that was on his shoulder said to him, "King, I will tell you a story to beguile the way, listen."

Story of the prince, who was helped to a wife by the son of his father's minister. [279]

There is a city named Váránasí, which is the dwelling-place of Siva, inhabited by holy beings, and thus resembles the plateau of mount Kailása. The river Ganges, ever full of water, flows near it, and appears as if it were the necklace ever resting on its neck; in that city there lived of old time a king named Pratápamukuta, who consumed the families of his enemies with his valour, as the fire consumes the forest. He had a son named Vajramukuta, who dashed the god of love's pride in his beauty, and his enemies' confidence in their valour. And that prince had a friend, named Buddhisaríra, whom he valued more than his life, the sagacious son of a minister.

Once on a time that prince was amusing himself with that friend, and his excessive devotion to the chase made him travel a long distance. As he was cutting off the long-maned [280] heads of lions with his arrows, as it were the chowries that represented the glory of their valour, he entered a great forest. It seemed like the chosen home of love, with singing cuckoos for bards, fanned by trees with their clusters of blossoms, waving like chowries. In it he and the minister's son saw a great lake, looking like a second sea, the birthplace of lotuses [281] of various colours; and in that pool of gods there was seen by him a maiden of heavenly appearance, who had come there with her attendants to bathe. She seemed to fill the splendid tank with the flood of her beauty, and with her glances to create in it a new forest of blue lotuses. With her face, that surpassed the moon in beauty, she seemed to put to shame the white lotuses, and she at once captivated with it the heart of that prince. The youth too, in the same way, took with a glance such complete possession of her eyes, that she did not regard her own modesty or even her ornaments. And as he was looking at her with his attendants, and wondering who she was, she made, under pretence of pastime, a sign to tell him her country and other particulars about her. She took a lotus from her garland of flowers, and put it in her ear, and she remained for a long time twisting it into the form of an ornament called dantapatra or tooth-leaf, and then she took another lotus and placed it on her head, and she laid her hand significantly upon her heart. The prince did not at that time understand those signs, but his sagacious friend the minister's son did understand them. The maiden soon departed, being led away from that place by her attendants, and when she had reached her own house, she flung herself down on a sofa, but her heart remained with that prince, to justify the sign she had made.

The prince, for his part, when without her, was like a Vidyádhara who has lost his magic knowledge, and, returning to his own city, he fell into a miserable condition. And one day the minister's son questioned him in private, speaking of that beauty as easy to obtain, whereupon he lost his self-command and exclaimed, "How is she to be obtained, when neither her name, nor her village, nor her origin is known? So why do you offer me false comfort?" When the prince said this to the minister's son, he answered, "What! did you not see, what she told you by her signs? By placing the lotus in her ear, she meant to say this, 'I live in the realm of king Karnotpala.' By making it into the tooth-leaf ornament she meant to say, 'Know that I am the daughter of a dentist [282] there.' By lifting up the lotus she let you know her name was Padmávatí; and by placing her hand on her heart she told you that it was yours. Now there is a king named Karnotpala in the country of Kalinga; he has a favourite courtier, a great dentist named Sangrámavardhana, and he has a daughter named Padmávatí, the pearl of the three worlds, whom he values more than his life. All this I knew from the talk of the people, and so I understood her signs, which were meant to tell her country and the other particulars about her. [283]

When that prince had been told all this by the minister's son, he was pleased with that intelligent man, and rejoiced, as he had now got an opportunity of attaining his object, and, after he had deliberated with him, he set out with him from his palace on the pretence of hunting, but really in search of his beloved, and went again in that direction. And on the way he managed to give his retinue the slip by the speed of his swift horse, and he went to the country of Kalinga accompanied by the minister's son only. There they reached the city of king Karnotpala, and searched for and found the palace of that dentist, and the prince and the minister's son entered the house of an old woman, who lived near there, to lodge. The minister's son gave their horses water and fodder, and placed them there in concealment, and then said to that old woman in the presence of the prince, "Do you know, mother, a dentist named Sangrámavardhana?" When the old woman heard that, she said to him courteously, "I know him well; I was his nurse, and he has now made me attend upon his daughter as a duenna; but I never go there at present, as I have been deprived of my clothes, for my wicked son, who is a gambler, takes away my clothes as soon as he sees them." When the minister's son heard this, he was delighted, and he gratified the old woman with the gift of his upper garment and other presents, and went on to say to her, "You are a mother to us, so do what we request you to do in secret; go to that Padmávatí, the daughter of the dentist, and say to her, 'The prince, whom you saw at the lake, has come here, and out of love he has sent me to tell you.'" When the old woman heard this, she consented, being won over by the presents, and went to Padmávatí, and came back in a moment. And when the prince and the minister's son questioned her, she said to them, "I went and told her secretly that you had come. When she heard that, she scolded me, and struck me on both cheeks with her two hands smeared with camphor. So I have come back weeping, distressed at the insult. See here, my children, these marks of her fingers on my face."

When she said this, the prince was despondent, as he despaired of attaining his object, but the sagacious minister's son said to him in private, "Do not despond, for by keeping her own counsel and scolding the old woman, and striking her on the face with her ten fingers white with camphor, she meant to say, 'Wait for these remaining ten moonlight nights of the white fortnight, for they are unfavourable to an interview.'"

After the minister's son had comforted the prince with these words, he went and sold secretly in the market some gold, which he had about him, and made that old woman prepare a splendid meal, and then those two ate it with that old woman. After the minister's son had spent ten days in this fashion, he again sent the old woman to Padmávatí, to see how matters stood. And she, being fond of delicious food, liquor, and other enjoyments of the kind, went again to the dwelling-house of Padmávatí, to please her guests, and returned and said to them, "I went there to-day and remained silent, but she of her own accord taunted me with that crime of having brought your message, and again struck me here on the breast with three fingers dipped in red dye, so I have returned here thus marked by her." When the minister's son heard this, he said, of his own accord, to the prince, "Do not entertain any despondent notions, for by placing the impression of her three fingers marked with red dye on this woman's heart, she meant to say; 'I cannot receive you for three nights.'"

When the minister's son had said this to the prince, he waited till three days had passed, and again sent the old woman to Padmávatí. She went to her palace, and Padmávatí honoured her and gave her food, and lovingly entertained her that day with wine and other enjoyments. And in the evening, when the old woman wished to go back to her house, there arose outside a terrible tumult. Then the people were heard exclaiming, "Alas! Alas! a mad elephant has escaped from the post to which he was tied, and is rushing about, trampling men to death." Then Padmávatí said to that old woman, "You must not go by the public road, which is rendered unsafe by the elephant, so we will put you on a seat, with a rope fastened to it to support it, and let you down by this broad window here into the garden of the house, there you must get up a tree and cross this wall, and then let yourself down by another tree and go to your own house." After she had said this, she had the old woman let down from the window by her maid into the garden, by means of that seat with a rope fastened to it. She went by the way pointed out to her, and related the whole story, exactly as it happened, to the prince and the minister's son. Then the minister's son said to the prince, "Your desire is accomplished, for she has shewn you by an artifice the way you should take; so go there this very day, as soon as evening sets in, and by this way enter the palace of your beloved."

When the minister's son said this, the prince went with him into the garden, by the way over the wall pointed out by the old woman. There he saw that rope hanging down with the seat, and at the top of it were some maids, who seemed to be looking out for his arrival. So he got on to the seat, and the moment those female servants saw him, they pulled him up with the rope, and he entered the presence of his beloved through the window. When he had entered, the minister's son returned to his lodging. And when the prince entered, he beheld that Padmávatí with a face like a full moon, shedding forth beauty like beams, like the night of the full moon remaining concealed through fear of the black fortnight. As soon as she saw him, she rose up boldly, and welcomed him with affectionate embraces and other endearments natural in one who had waited for him so long. Then the prince married that fair one by the Gándharva form of marriage, and all his wishes being now fulfilled, remained with her in concealment.

And after he had lived with her some days, he said to her one night, "My friend the minister's son came with me and is staying here, and he is now left alone in the house of your duenna; I must go and pay him a visit, fair one, and then I will return to you." When the cunning Padmávatí heard that, she said to her lover, "Come now, my husband, I have a question to ask you; did you guess the meaning of those signs which I made, or was it that friend of yours the minister's son?" When she said this, the prince said to her, "I did not guess anything at all, but that friend of mine, the minister's son, who is distinguished for superhuman insight, guessed it all, and told it to me." When the fair one heard this, she reflected, and said to him, "Then you have acted wrongly in not telling me about him before. Since he is your friend, he is my brother, and I must always honour him before all others with gifts of betel and other luxuries." When she had dismissed him with these words, the prince left the palace at night by the way by which he came, and returned to his friend. And in the course of conversation he told him, that he had told his beloved how he guessed the meaning of the signs which she made. But the minister's son did not approve of this proceeding on his part, considering it imprudent. And so the day dawned on them conversing.

Then, as they were again talking together after the termination of the morning prayer, the confidante of Padmávatí came in with betel and cooked food in her hand. She asked after the health of the minister's son, and after giving him the dainties, in order by an artifice to prevent the prince from eating any of them, she said, in the course of conversation, that her mistress was awaiting his arrival to feast and spend the day with her, and immediately she departed unobserved. Then the minister's son said to the prince; "Now observe, prince, I will shew you something wonderful." Thereupon he gave that cooked food to a dog to eat, and the dog, as soon as he had eaten it, fell dead upon the spot. When the prince saw that, he said to the minister's son, "What is the meaning of this marvel?" And he answered him, "The truth is that the lady has found out that I am intelligent, by the fact that I guessed the meaning of her signs, and so she has sent me this poisoned food in order to kill me, for she is deeply in love with you, and thinks that you, prince, will never be exclusively devoted to her while I am alive, but being under my influence, will perhaps leave her, and go to your own city. So give up the idea of being angry with her, persuade the high-spirited woman to leave her relations, and I will invent and tell you an artifice for carrying her off."

When the minister's son had said this, the prince said to him, "You are rightly named Buddhisaríra as being an incarnation of wisdom;" and at the very moment that he was thus praising him, there was suddenly heard outside a general cry from the sorrowing multitude, "Alas! Alas! the king's infant son is dead." The minister's son was much delighted at hearing this, and he said to the prince, "Repair now to Padmávatí's palace at night, and there make her drink so much, that she shall be senseless and motionless with intoxication, and apparently dead. And when she is asleep, make a mark on her hip with a red hot iron spike, and take away all her ornaments, and return by letting yourself down from the window by a rope; and after that I will take steps to make everything turn out prosperously." When the minister's son had said this, he had a three-pronged spike made, with points like the bristles of a boar, and gave it to the prince. And the prince took in his hand that weapon which resembled the crooked hard hearts of his beloved and of his friend, which were firm as black iron; and saying, "I will do as you direct," went at night to the palace of Padmávatí as before, for princes should never hesitate about following the advice of an excellent minister. There he made his beloved helpless with drink, and marked her on the hip with the spike, and took away her ornaments, and then he returned to that friend of his. And he shewed him the ornaments, and told him what he had done. Then the minister's son considered his design as good as accomplished.

And the next morning the minister's son went to the cemetery, and promptly disguised himself as an ascetic, and he made the prince assume the guise of a disciple. And he said to him, "Go and take the pearl necklace which is part of this set of ornaments, and pretend to try to sell it in the market, but put a high price on it, that no one may be willing to buy it, and that every one may see it being carried about, and if the police here should arrest you, say intrepidly, 'My spiritual preceptor gave it me to sell.'"

When the minister's son had sent off the prince on this errand, he went and wandered about in the market-place, publicly showing the necklace. And while he was thus engaged, he was seen and arrested by the police, who were on the lookout for thieves, as information had been given about the robbery of the dentist's daughter. And they immediately took him to the chief magistrate of the town; and he, seeing that he was dressed as an ascetic, said to him courteously, "Reverend sir, where did you get this necklace of pearls which was lost in this city, for the ornaments of the dentist's daughter were stolen during the night?" When the prince, who was disguised as an ascetic, heard this, he said, "My spiritual preceptor gave it me; come and question him." Then the magistrate of the city came to the minister's son, and bowed, and said to him, "Reverend sir, where did you get this pearl necklace that is in the possession of your pupil?" When the cunning fellow heard that, he took him aside and said, "I am an ascetic, in the habit of wandering perpetually backwards and forwards in the forests. As chance would have it, I arrived here, and as I was in the cemetery at night, I saw a band of witches collected from different quarters. And one of them brought the prince, with the lotus of his heart laid bare, and offered him to Bhairava. And the witch, who possessed great powers of delusion, being drunk, tried to take away my rosary, while I was reciting my prayers, making horrible contortions with her face. And as she carried the attempt too far, I got angry, and heating with a charm the prongs of my trident, I marked her on the loins. And then I took this necklace from her neck. And now I must sell this necklace, as it does not suit an ascetic."

When the magistrate heard this, he went and informed the king. When the king heard it, he concluded that that was the pearl necklace which had been lost, and he sent a trustworthy old woman to see if the dentist's daughter was really marked with a trident on the loins. The old woman came back and said that the mark could be clearly seen. Then the king made up his mind that she was a witch, and had really destroyed his child. So he went in person to that minister's son, who was personating an ascetic, and asked him how he ought to punish Padmávatí; and by his advice he ordered her to be banished from the city, though her parents lamented over her. And when she was banished, and was left in the forest, though naked, she did not abandon the body, supposing that it was all an artifice devised by the minister's son. And in the evening the minister's son and the prince, who had abandoned the dress of ascetics, and were mounted on their horses, came upon her lamenting. And they consoled her, and mounted her upon a horse, and took her to their own kingdom. There the prince lived happily with her. But the dentist, supposing that his daughter had been devoured by wild beasts in the forest, died of grief, and his wife followed him.

When the Vetála had said this, he went on to say to the king, "Now I have a doubt about this story, resolve it for me; Was the minister's son guilty of the death of this married couple, or the prince, or Padmávatí? Tell me, for you are the chief of sages. And if, king, you do not tell me the truth, though you know it, this head of yours shall certainly split in a hundred pieces."

When the Vetála said this, the king, who discerned the truth, out of fear of being cursed, gave him this answer--"O thou skilled in magic arts, what difficulty is there about it? Why, none of the three was in fault, but the whole of the guilt attaches to king Karnotpala." The Vetála then said, "Why, what did the king do? Those three were instrumental in the matter. Are the crows in fault when the swans eat the rice?" Then the king said, "Indeed no one of the three was in fault, for the minister's son committed no crime, as he was forwarding his master's interests, and Padmávatí and the prince, being burnt with the fire of the arrows of the god of Love, and being therefore undiscerning and ignorant, were not to blame, as they were intent on their own object. But the king Karnotpala, as being untaught in treatises of policy, and not investigating by means of spies the true state of affairs even among his own subjects, and not comprehending the tricks of rogues, and inexperienced in interpreting gestures and other external indications, is to be considered guilty, on account of the indiscreet step which he took."

When the Vetála, who was in the corpse, heard this, as the king by giving this correct answer had broken his silence, he immediately left his shoulder, and went somewhere unobserved by the force of his magic power, in order to test his persistence; and the intrepid king at once determined to recover him.

NOTE.

An account of the various forms of the introduction to the XXV Tales of a Demon will be found in Oesterley's German translation of the Baitál Pachísí. The Hindi version contains the well-known story of Theodosius the younger and his wife Athenais or Eudokia. The Mongolian form differs widely from that in our text. Seven brothers, sorcerers, live in India; a mile from them live two Khan's sons; the elder of these studies magic under the seven enchanters for seven years, but learns nothing; the younger acquires their art in a moment, and both return to their palace. The younger turns himself into a horse, which the elder by his order sells to the seven enchanters. These try to kill the horse, but the Khan's son then turns himself into a fish, which the enchanters pursue in the form of seven sea-gulls, then into a dove, which they pursue as seven hawks, then he takes refuge with Nágárjuna, becoming the chief bead in his rosary, and asks him to put this bead in his mouth and to strew the rest on the ground. The beads then become worms which the sorcerers pick up in the form of hens. The Khan's son changes himself into a man, and kills the hens with a stick, when lo! seven human corpses are seen lying on the ground. As a penance for this crime the Khan's son is sent to fetch the Siddhi-kür, which he fastens up in a bag, and which behaves in much the same way as the Vetála does in our text.

It is remarkable that there are no questions addressed by the Siddhi-kür to his captor. At the end of every story the Khan's son utters an involuntary, often meaningless exclamation, of which the Siddhi-kür takes advantage. (Oesterley's Baitál Pachísí, pp. 174 and 175.)

Oesterley refers to an Arabian form of the 1st story in Scott's Tales, Anecdotes and Letters, 1800, p. 108. A painter falls in love with the picture of a beauty, and finds that the original is in the possession of a certain minister. He penetrates in disguise into the minister's harem, wounds his beloved in the hand and takes away her veil. He then goes in the disguise of a pilgrim to the king, and says that he has seen six witches, and that he has wounded one of them, who left her veil behind her. The veil is recognized, the owner produced, convicted by her veil, and as a witch flung into a chasm. There the painter finds her, rescues her and carries her off. See also the 1001 Nights, Breslau, 1, p. 245 (Oesterley's Baitál Pachísí, pp. 182 and 183).

Chapter LXXVI

(Vetála 2.)

Then king Trivikramasena again went to the asoka-tree to fetch the Vetála. And when he arrived there, and looked about in the darkness by the help of the light of the funeral pyres, he saw the corpse lying on the ground groaning. Then the king took the corpse, with the Vetála in it, on his shoulder, and set out quickly and in silence to carry it to the appointed place. Then the Vetála again said to the king from his shoulder, "King, this trouble, into which you have fallen, is great and unsuitable to you; so I will tell you a tale to amuse you, listen."

Story of the three young Bráhmans who restored a dead lady to life.

There is, on the banks of the river Yamuná, a district assigned to Bráhmans, named Brahmasthala. In it there lived a Bráhman, named Agnisvámin, who had completely mastered the Vedas. To him there was born a very beautiful daughter named Mandáravatí. Indeed, when Providence had created this maiden of novel and priceless beauty, he was disgusted with the nymphs of Heaven, his own previous handiwork. And when she grew up, there came there from Kányakubja three young Bráhmans, equally matched in all accomplishments. And each one of these demanded the maiden from her father for himself, and would sooner sacrifice his life than allow her to be given to another. But her father would not give her to any one of them, being afraid that, if he did so, he would cause the death of the others; so the damsel remained unmarried. And those three remained there day and night, with their eyes exclusively fixed on the moon of her countenance, as if they had taken upon themselves a vow to imitate the partridge. [284]

Then the maiden Mandáravatí suddenly contracted a burning fever, which ended in her death. Then the young Bráhmans, distracted with grief, carried her when dead, after she had been duly adorned, to the cemetery, and burnt her. And one of them built a hut there and made her ashes his bed, and remained there living on the alms he could get by begging. And the second took her bones and went with them to the Ganges, and the third became an ascetic and went travelling through foreign lands.

As the ascetic was roaming about, he reached a village named Vajraloka. And there he entered as a guest the house of a certain Bráhman. And the Bráhman received him courteously. So he sat down to eat; and in the meanwhile a child there began to cry. When, in spite of all efforts to quiet it, it would not stop, the mistress of the house fell into a passion, and taking it up in her arms, threw it into the blazing fire. The moment the child was thrown in, as its body was soft, it was reduced to ashes. When the ascetic, who was a guest, saw this, his hair stood on end, and he exclaimed, "Alas! Alas! I have entered the house of a Bráhman-demon. So I will not eat food here now, for such food would be sin in a visible material shape." When he said this, the householder said to him, "See the power of raising the dead to life inherent in a charm of mine, which is effectual as soon as recited." When he had said this, he took the book containing the charm and read it, and threw on to the ashes some dust, over which the charm had been recited. [285] That made the boy rise up alive, exactly as he was before. Then the mind of the Bráhman ascetic was quieted, and he was able to take his meal there. And the master of the house put the book up on a bracket, and after taking food, went to bed at night, and so did the ascetic. But when the master of the house was asleep, the ascetic got up timidly, and took the book, with the desire of restoring his beloved to life.

And he left the house with the book, and travelling day and night at last reached the cemetery, where that beloved of his had been burnt. And at that moment he saw the second Bráhman arrive there, who had gone to throw her bones into the river Ganges. And having also found the one who remained in the cemetery sleeping on her ashes, having built a hut over them, he said to the two, "Remove this hut, in order that by the power of a certain charm I may raise up my beloved alive from her ashes." Having earnestly solicited them to do this, and having overturned that hut, the Bráhman ascetic opened the book, and read the charm. And after thus charming some dust, he threw it on the ashes, and that made Mandáravatí rise up alive. And as she had entered the fire, she possessed, when resuscitated, a body that had come out of it more splendid than before, as if made of gold. [286]

When the three Bráhmans saw her resuscitated in this form, they immediately became love-sick, and quarrelled with one another, each desiring her for himself. And the first said, "She is my wife, for she was won by the power of my charm." And the second said, "She belongs to me, for she was produced by the efficacy of sacred bathing-places." And the third said, "She is mine, for I preserved her ashes, and resuscitated her by asceticism."

"Now king, give judgment to decide their dispute; whose wife ought the maiden to be? If you know and do not say, your head shall fly in pieces."

When the king heard this from the Vetála, he said to him, "The one who restored her to life by a charm, though he endured hardship, must be considered her father, because he performed that office for her, and not her husband; and he who carried her bones to the Ganges is considered her son; but he, who out of love lay on her ashes, and so remained in the cemetery embracing her and practising asceticism, he is to be called her husband, for he acted like one in his deep affection." [287]

When the Vetála heard this from king Trivikramasena, who had broken silence by uttering it, he left his shoulder, and went back invisible to his own place. But the king, who was bent on forwarding the object of the mendicant, made up his mind to fetch him again, for men of firm resolution do not desist from accomplishing a task they have promised to perform, even though they lose their lives in the attempt.

NOTE.

Oesterley, in the notes to his German translation of the Baitál Pachísí, refers to the Turkish Tútínámah in which the lady dies of despair at the difficulty of the choice, as in the Tamul version. [In the Hindi version she dies of snake-bite.] She is brought back to life by a good beating. The first suitor opens the grave, the second advises the use of the cudgel, the third carries it out.

This method of restoring people, who die suddenly, to life by a good beating, is found in a Persian story, professing to be derived from a book "Post nubila Phoebus," in which the physician bears the name of Kati, and asserts that he learnt the method from an old Arab. The story is found in Epistolæ Turcicæ et Narrationes Persicæ editæ et Latine conversæ a Joh. Ury. Oxonii, 1771, 4o, pp. 26 and 27. This collection, which contains not the least hint of its origin, is particularly interesting as it contains the VIIIth story of the Siddhikür; "The Painter and the Wood-carver." [See Sagas from the Far East, p. 97.] The Episode of the stealing of the magic book is found, quite separated from the context, in many MS. versions of the Gesta Romanorum: see Appendix to Oesterley's edition. (Oesterley's Baitál Pachísí, pp. 183-185.)

Chapter LXXVII

(Vetála 3.)

Then the heroic king Trivikramasena again went to the asoka-tree, to fetch the Vetála. And he found him there in the corpse, and again took him up on his shoulder, and began to return with him in silence. And as he was going along, the Vetála, who was on his back, said to him, "It is wonderful, king, that you are not cowed with this going backwards and forwards at night. So I will tell you another story to solace you, listen."

Story of the king, and the two wise birds.

There is on the earth a famous city named Pátaliputra. In it there lived of old time a king named Vikramakesarin, whom Providence made a storehouse of virtues as well as of jewels. And he possessed a parrot of godlike intellect, knowing all the sástras, that had been born in that condition owing to a curse, and its name was Vidagdhachúdámani. And the prince married as a wife, by the advice of the parrot, a princess of equal birth, of the royal family of Magadha, named Chandraprabhá. That princess also possessed a similar hen-maina, of the name of Somiká, remarkable for knowledge and discernment. And the two, the parrot and the maina, remained there in the same cage, assisting with their discernment their master and mistress.

One day the parrot became enamoured of the maina, and said to her, "Marry me, fair one, as we sleep, perch, and feed in the same cage." But the maina answered him, "I do not desire intimate union with a male, for all males are wicked and ungrateful." The parrot retorted, "It is not true that males are wicked, but females are wicked and cruel-hearted." And so a dispute arose between them. The two birds then made a bargain that, if the parrot won, he should have the maina for wife, and if the maina won, the parrot should be her slave, and they came before the prince to get a true judgment. The prince, who was in his father's judgment-hall, heard the point at issue between them, and then said to the maina, "Tell me, how are males ungrateful?" Then the maina said, "Listen," and in order to establish her contention, proceeded to relate this story illustrating the faults of males.

The maina's story. [288]

There is on the earth a famous city, of the name of Kámandakí. In it there was a rich merchant, of the name of Arthadatta. And he had a son born to him, of the name of Dhanadatta. When his father died, the young man became dissipated. And rogues got round him, and plunged him in the love of gambling and other vices. In truth the society of the wicked is the root of the tree of vice. In a short time his wealth was exhausted by dissipation, and being ashamed of his poverty, he left his own country, to wander about in foreign lands.

And in the course of his travels, he reached a place named Chandanapura, and desiring food, he entered the house of a certain merchant. As fate would have it, the merchant, seeing that he was a handsome youth, asked him his descent and other things, and finding out that he was of good birth, entertained him, and adopted him as a protégé. And he gave him his daughter Ratnávalí, with a dower, and thenceforth Dhanadatta lived in his father-in-law's house.

And in the course of some days, he forgot in his present happiness his former misery, and having acquired wealth, and longing for fresh dissipation, he wished to go back to his own land. Then the rascal with difficulty wrung a permission from his unwilling father-in-law, whose daughter was his only child, and taking with him his wife, covered with ornaments, accompanied by an old woman, set out from that place, with a party of three in all. And in course of time he reached a distant wood, and on the plea that there was danger of robbers, he took those ornaments from his wife and got them into his own possession. Alas! Observe that the heart of ungrateful males, addicted to the hateful vices of dicing and drabbing, is as hard as a sword.

Then the villain, being determined to kill his wife, though she was virtuous, for the sake of her wealth, threw her and the old woman into a ravine. And after he had thrown them there, he went away. The old woman was killed, but his wife was caught in a mass of creepers and did not die. And she slowly climbed up out of the chasm, weeping bitterly, supporting herself by clinging to grass and creepers, for the appointed end of her life had not yet come. And asking her way, step by step, she arrived, by the road by which she came, at the house of her father, with difficulty, for her limbs were sorely bruised. When she arrived there suddenly, in this state, her mother and father questioned her eagerly. And the virtuous lady weeping told this tale, "We were robbed on the way by bandits, and my husband was dragged away bound; the old woman died, but I survived, though I fell into a ravine. Then I was dragged out of the ravine by a certain benevolent traveller, who came that way, and by the favour of destiny I have arrived here." When the good Ratnávalí said this, her father and mother comforted her, and she remained there, thinking only of her husband.

And in course of time her husband Dhanadatta, who had gone back to his own country, and wasted that wealth in gambling, said to himself, "I will go and fetch more wealth, begging it from my father-in-law, and I will tell him that I have left his daughter in my house here." Thinking thus in his heart, he set out for that house of his father-in-law, and when he drew near, his wife beheld him from a distance, and she ran and fell at his feet, though he was a villain. For, though a husband is wicked, a good wife does not alter her feelings towards him. And when he was frightened, she told him all the fictitious story she had previously told her parents about the robbery, her fall, and so on. Then he entered fearlessly with her the house of his father-in-law; and his father-in-law and mother-in-law, when they saw him, welcomed him joyfully. And his father-in-law called his friends together, and made a great feast on the occasion, exclaiming, "It is indeed a happy thing, that my son-in-law has been let go with life by the robbers." Then Dhanadatta lived happily with that wife of his Ratnávalí, enjoying the wealth of his father-in-law. But, fie! what the cruel man did one night, though it should not be told for shame, must still for the story's sake be related. He killed his wife when asleep in his bosom, and took away all her ornaments, and then went away unobserved to his own country.

"So wicked are males!" When the maina had said this, the king said to the parrot--"Now say your say."--Then the parrot said--"King, females are of intolerable audacity, immoral and wicked; hear a tale in proof of it."

The parrot's story. [289]

There is a city of the name of Harshavatí, and in it there was a leading merchant named Dharmadatta, possessed of many crores. And that merchant had a daughter named Vasudattá, matchless in beauty, whom he loved more than his life. And she was given to an excellent young merchant named Samudradatta, equal to her in rank, distinguished for wealth and youth, who was an object that the eyes of lovely women loved to feast on, as the partridges on the rays of the moon, and who dwelt in the city of Támraliptí which is inhabited by honourable men. Once on a time, the merchant's daughter, while she was living in her father's house, and her husband was in his own country, saw at a distance a certain young and good-looking man. The fickle woman, deluded by Mára, [290] invited him by means of a confidante, and made him her secret paramour. And from that time forth she spent every night with him, and her affections were fixed upon him only.

But one day the husband of her youth returned from his own land, appearing to her parents like delight in bodily form. And on that day of rejoicing she was adorned, but she would have nothing to say to her husband in spite of her mother's injunctions, but when he spoke to her, she pretended to be asleep, as her heart was fixed on another. And then her husband, being drowsy with wine, and tired with his journey, was overpowered by sleep. In the meanwhile, as all the people of the house, having eaten and drunk, were fast asleep, a thief made a hole in the wall and entered their apartment. At that very moment the merchant's daughter rose up, without seeing the thief, and went out secretly, having made an assignation with her lover. When the thief saw that, his object being frustrated, he said to himself, "She has gone out in the dead of night adorned with those very ornaments which I came here to steal; so I will watch where she goes." When the thief had formed this intention, he went out, and followed that merchant's daughter Vasudattá, keeping an eye on her, but himself unobserved.

But she, with flowers and other things of the kind in her hands, went out, accompanied by a single confidante, who was in the secret, and entered a garden at no great distance outside the city.

And in it she saw her lover, who had come there to meet her, hanging dead on a tree, with a halter round his neck, for the city-guards had caught him there at night and hanged him, on the supposition that he was a thief. Then she was distracted and beside herself, and exclaiming, "I am ruined," she fell on the ground and lamented with plaintive cries. Then she took down her dead paramour from the tree, and placing him in a sitting position, she adorned him with unguents and flowers, and though he was senseless, embraced him, with mind blinded by passion and grief. And when in her sorrow she raised up his mouth and kissed it, her dead paramour, being animated by a Vetála, suddenly bit off her nose. Then she left him in confusion and agony, but still the unfortunate woman came back once more, and looked at him to see if he was still alive. And when she saw that the Vetála had left his body, and that he was dead and motionless, she departed slowly, weeping with fear and humiliation.

In the meanwhile the thief, who was hidden there, saw all, and said to himself, "What is this that this wicked woman has done? Alas! the mind of females is terrible and black like a dark well, unfathomable, exceedingly deep for a fall. [291] So I wonder what she will do now." After these reflections, the thief again followed her at a distance, out of curiosity.

She went on and entered her own chamber, where her husband was asleep, and cried out weeping, "Help! Help! This wicked enemy, calling himself a husband, has cut off my nose, though I have done nothing wrong." Then her husband, and her father, and the servants, hearing her repeated cries, woke up, and arose in a state of excitement. Then her father, seeing that her nose had been recently taken off, was angry, and had her husband bound as having injured his wife. But even while he was being bound, he remained speechless, like a dumb man, and said nothing, for all the listeners, his father-in-law and the others, had altogether turned against him. [292]

When the thief had seen all this, he slipped away nimbly, and the night, which was spent in tumult, gradually passed away, and then the merchant's son was taken by his father-in-law to the king, together with his wife who had been deprived of her nose. And the king, after he had been informed by them of the circumstances, ordered the execution of the young merchant, on the ground that he had maimed his own wife, rejecting with contempt his version of the story. Then, as he was being led to the place of execution, with drums beating, the thief came up to the king's officers and said to them, "You ought not to put this man to death without cause; I know the circumstances, take me to the king, that I may tell him the whole story." When the thief said this, they took him to the king, and after he had received a promise of pardon, he told him the whole history of the night from the beginning. And he said, "If your Majesty does not believe my words, look at once at the woman's nose, which is in the mouth of that corpse." When the king heard that, he sent servants to look, and finding that the statement was true, he gave orders that the young merchant should not suffer capital punishment. But he banished his wicked wife from the country, after cutting off her ears also, and punished his father-in-law by confiscating all his wealth, and being pleased with the thief, he made him chief magistrate of the city.

"So you see that females are naturally wicked and treacherous." When the parrot had told this tale, the curse imposed on him by Indra lost its force, and he became once more the Gandharva Chitraratha, and assuming a celestial form, he went to heaven. And at the same moment the maina's curse came to an end, and she became the heavenly nymph Tilottamá, and went at once to heaven. And so their dispute remained undecided in the judgment-hall.

When the Vetála had told this tale, he again said to the king, "So let your Majesty decide, which are the worst, males or females. But if you know and do not say, your head shall split in pieces."

When the king was asked this question by the Vetála, that was on his shoulder, he said to him, "Chief of magicians, women are the worst. For it is possible that once in a way a man may be so wicked, but females are, as a rule, always such everywhere." When the king said this, the Vetála disappeared, as before, from his shoulder, and the king once more resumed the task of fetching him.

NOTE.

Oesterley tells us that in the Vetála Cadai the two stories are told by two parrots, and the same is the case in the Turkish Tútínámah, Rosen, 2, p. 92.

The 1st story is found in the Turkish Tútínámah. The principal difference is that the parents of the extravagant man die after his first crime; after he has spent his property, he begs in a cemetery, and is there recognized by his wife; they live some time together, and then set out to return to his house. On the way they pass the old well, and there he murders her. There are some similar points in the 11th story of the Siddhikür. [See Sagas from the Far East, pp. 120-125.]

The second story is found in Babington's Vetála Cadai, p. 44. The lover receives a mortal wound, being taken for a thief, and in the agony of death bites off the nose of the adulteress. She smears her husband's betel-knife with the blood, and accuses him of the murder. The city-guards clear the matter up.

The 2nd story is found in a very different form in the Siddhikür, No. 10; in Jülg, p. 100. [See Sagas from The Far East, pp. 115-119.] Here a younger brother is not invited to supper by an elder, so he determines to rob him out of revenge. He observes his brother's wife go to a cemetery to see her dead lover, who, when she tries to feed him by force, bites off her nose and the tip of her tongue. Of course when she accuses her husband, the younger brother reveals the secret.

The story in the Turkish Tútínámah, Rosen, 2, p. 96, Wickerhauser, p. 212, closely resembles Somadeva's. The lovers are surprised by the city-guards, who crucify the man, and let the woman go. The man in the agony of death bites her nose off, and she accuses her husband of the deed; he is then condemned to lose his nose. But a thief, who has crept into the house, and has then followed the adulteress, reveals the secret, and the woman is thereupon drowned. The story in the Panchatantra, Benfey, II, p. 40, only resembles this in its conclusion. [See Johnson's Hitopadesa, p. 85.] It is no doubt a clever adaptation of the end of this story. The tale has been traced through all its migrations by Benfey, Vol. I, p. 140. (Oesterley's Baitál Pachísí, pp. 187-191.)

Chapter LXXVIII

(Vetála 4.)

Then king Trivikramasena again went at night to that asoka-tree in the cemetery: and he fearlessly took that Vetála that was in the corpse, though it uttered a horrible laugh, and placed it on his shoulder, and set out in silence. And as he was going along, the Vetála, that was on his shoulder, said to him again, "King, why do you take all this trouble for the sake of this wicked mendicant? In truth you show no discrimination in taking all this fruitless labour. So hear from me this story to amuse you on the way."

Story of Víravara.

There is a city on the earth rightly named Sobhávatí. In it there lived a king of great valour, called Súdraka. The fire of that victorious king's might was perpetually fanned by the wind of the chowries waved by the captured wives of his enemies. I ween that the earth was so glorious during the reign of that king, owing to the uninterrupted practice of righteousness that prevailed, that she forgot all her other sovereigns, even Ráma.

Once on a time a Bráhman, of the name of Víravara, came from Málava to take service under that king who loved heroes. His wife's name was Dharmavatí, his son was Sattvavara, and his daughter was Víravatí. These three composed his family; and his attendants were another three, at his side a dagger, a sword in one hand, and a splendid shield in the other. Although he had so small a retinue, he demanded from the king five hundred dínárs a day by way of salary. And king Súdraka, perceiving that his appearance indicated great courage, gave him the salary he desired. But he felt curious to know whether, as his retinue was so small, he employed so many gold coins to feed his vices, or lavished them on some worthy object. So he had him secretly dogged by spies, in order to discover his mode of life. And it turned out that every day Víravara had an interview with the king in the morning, and stood at his palace-gate in the middle of the day, sword in hand; and then he went home and put into the hand of his wife a hundred dínárs of his salary for food, and with a hundred he bought clothes, unguents and betel; and after bathing, he set apart a hundred for the worship of Vishnu and Siva; and he gave two hundred by way of charity to poor Bráhmans. This was the distribution which he made of the five hundred every day. Then he fed the sacrificial fire with clarified butter and performed other ceremonies, and took food, and then he again went and kept guard at the gate of the palace alone at night, sword in hand. When the king Súdraka heard from his spies, that Víravara always followed this righteous custom, he rejoiced in his heart; and he ordered those spies, who had dogged his path, to desist; and he considered him worthy of especial honour as a distinguished hero.

Then in course of time, after Víravara had easily tided through the hot weather, when the rays of the sun were exceedingly powerful, the monsoon came roaring, bearing a brandished sword of lightning, as if out of envy against Víravara, and smiting [293] with rain-drops. And though at that time a terrible bank of clouds poured down rain day and night, Víravara remained motionless, as before, at the gate of the palace. And king Súdraka, having beheld him in the day from the top of his palace, again went up to it at night, to find out whether he was there or not; and he cried out from it,--"Who waits there at the palace-gate?" When Víravara heard that, he answered, "I am here, your Majesty." Then king Súdraka thought to himself, "Ah! Víravara is a man of intrepid courage and devotedly attached to me. So I must certainly promote him to an important post." After the king had said this to himself, he came down from the roof of his palace, and entering his private apartments, went to bed.

And the next evening, when a cloud was violently raining with a heavy downfall, and black darkness was spread abroad, obscuring the heaven, [294] the king once more ascended the roof of the palace to satisfy his curiosity, and being alone, he cried out in a clear voice, "Who waits there at the palace-gate?" Again Víravara said, "I am here." And while the king was lost in admiration at seeing his courage, he suddenly heard a woman weeping in the distance, distracted with despair, uttering only the piteous sound of wailing. When the king heard that, pity arose in his mind, and he said to himself, "There is no oppressed person in my kingdom, no poor or afflicted person; so who is this woman, that is thus weeping alone at night?" Then he gave this order to Víravara, who was alone below, "Listen, Víravara; there is some woman weeping in the distance; go and find out who she is and why she is weeping."

When Víravara heard that, he said, "I will do so," and set out thence with his dagger in his belt, and his sword in his hand. He looked upon the world as a Rákshasa black with fresh clouds, having the lightning flashing from them by way of an eye, raining large drops of rain instead of stones. And king Súdraka, seeing him starting alone on such a night, and being penetrated with pity and curiosity, came down from the top of the palace, and taking his sword, set out close behind him, alone and unobserved. And Víravara went on persistently in the direction of the weeping, and reached a tank outside the city, and saw there that woman in the middle of the water uttering this lament, "Hero! merciful man! Generous man! How can I live without you?" And Víravara, who was followed by the king, said with astonishment, "Who are you, and why do you thus weep?"--Then she answered him, "Dear Víravara, know that I am this earth, and king Súdraka is now my righteous lord, but on the third day from this his death will take place, and whence shall I obtain such another lord? So I am grieved, and bewail both him and myself." [295] When Víravara heard this, he said, like one alarmed, "Is there then, goddess, any expedient to prevent the death of this king, who is the protecting amulet of the world?"

When the earth heard this, she answered, "There is one expedient for averting it, and one which you alone can employ." Then Víravara said,--"Then, goddess, tell it me at once, in order that I may quickly put it in operation: otherwise what is the use of my life?" When the earth heard this, she said,--"Who is as brave as you, and as devoted to his master? So hear this method of bringing about his welfare. If you offer up your child Sattvavara to this glorious goddess Chandí, famous for her exceeding readiness to manifest herself to her votaries, to whom the king has built a temple [296] in the immediate vicinity of his palace, the king will not die, but live another hundred years. And if you do it at once, his safety will be ensured, but if not, he will assuredly have ceased to live on the third day from this time."

When the goddess Earth said this to Víravara, he said, "Goddess, I will go, and do it this very instant." Then Earth said, "May success attend you!" and disappeared; and the king, who was secretly following Víravara, heard all this.

Then Víravara went quickly in the darkness to his own house, and king Súdraka, out of curiosity, followed him unobserved. There he woke up his wife Dharmavatí, and told her how the goddess Earth had directed him to offer up his son for the sake of the king. When she heard it, she said, "My lord, we must ensure the prosperity of the king; so wake up this young boy of ours and tell it him yourself." Then Víravara woke up his young son Sattvavara, who was asleep, and told him what had occurred, and said to him, "So, my son, the king will live if you are offered up to the goddess Chandí, but if not, he will die on the third day." When Sattvavara heard it, though he was a mere child, he shewed a heroic soul, and justified his name. [297] He said "I shall have obtained all I desire, if the sacrifice of my life saves that of the king, for so I shall have repaid him for his food which I have eaten. So why should there be any delay? Take me and offer me up immediately before the adorable goddess. Let me be the means of bringing about the happiness of my lord."

When Sattvavara said this, Víravara answered, "Bravo! you are in truth my own son." And the king, who had followed them, and heard all this conversation from outside, said to himself, "Ah! they are all equal in courage."

Then Víravara took his son Sattvavara on his shoulder, and his wife Dharmavatí took their daughter Víravatí, and they both went that very night to the temple of Chandí, and king Súdraka followed them unobserved. Then Sattvavara was taken down by his father from his shoulder, and placed in front of the idol, and the boy, who was full of courage, bowed before the goddess, and said, "May the sacrifice of my head ensure the life of king Súdraka! May he rule unopposed, goddess, for another hundred years!" When the boy Sattvavara said this, Víravara exclaimed, "Bravo!" and drew his sword and cut off his son's head, and offered it to the goddess, saying, "May the sacrifice of my son save the king's life!"--Immediately a voice was heard from the air, "Bravo! Víravara! What man is as devoted to his sovereign as thou, who, by the sacrifice of thy noble only son, hast bestowed on this king Súdraka life and a kingdom?" Then that young girl Víravatí, the daughter of Víravara, came up, and embraced the head of her slain brother, and weeping, blinded with excessive grief, she broke her heart and so died. And the king saw and heard all this from his concealment.

Then Víravara's wife Dharmavatí said to him, "We have ensured the prosperity of the king, so now I have something to say to you. Since my daughter, though a child and knowing nothing, has died out of grief for her brother, and I have lost these two children of mine, what is the use of life to me? Since I have been so foolish as not to offer my own head long ago to the goddess for the welfare of the king, give me leave to enter the fire with my children's bodies." When she urged this request, Víravara said to her, "Do so, and may prosperity attend you, for what pleasure could you find, noble woman, in continuing a life, that would for you be full of nothing but grief for your children. But do not be afflicted, because you did not sacrifice yourself. Would not I have sacrificed myself, if the object could have been attained by the sacrifice of any victim but our son? So wait until I have made a pyre for you with these pieces of timber, collected to build the fence round the sanctuary of the goddess."

When Víravara had said this, he made a funeral pyre with the timber, and placed on it the bodies of his two children, and lighted it with the flame of a lamp. Then his virtuous wife Dharmavatí fell at his feet, and, after worshipping the goddess Chandí, she addressed to her this prayer, "May my present husband be my husband also in a future birth! And may the sacrifice of my life procure prosperity for the king his master!" When the virtuous woman had said this, she threw herself fearlessly into the burning pyre, from which the flames streamed up like hair.

Then the hero Víravara said to himself, "I have done what the king's interests required, as the celestial voice testified, and I have paid my debt to my master for his food which I have eaten: so, as I am now left alone, why should I thus cling to life? It does not look well for a man like me to nurse his own life only, after sacrificing all his dear family, which it is his duty to maintain. So why should I not gratify Durgá by sacrificing myself?" Having thus reflected, he first approached the goddess with this hymn of praise:

"Hail to thee, thou slayer of the Asura Mahisha, destroyer of the Dánava Ruru, trident-bearing goddess! Hail to thee, best of mothers, that causest rejoicing among the gods, and upholdest the three worlds! Hail thou whose feet are worshipped by the whole earth, the refuge of those that are intent on final beatitude! Hail thou that wearest the rays of the sun, and dispellest the accumulated darkness of calamity! Hail to thee, Kálí, skull-bearing goddess, wearer of skeletons! Hail, Sivá! Honour to thee! Be propitious now to king Súdraka on account of the sacrifice of my head!" After Víravara had praised the goddess in these words, he cut off his head with a sudden stroke of his sword.

King Súdraka, who was a witness of all this from his place of concealment, was full of bewilderment, sorrow, and astonishment, and said to himself, "This worthy man and his family have performed for my sake a wonderful and difficult exploit never seen or heard of anywhere else. Though the world is wide and various, where could there be found a man so resolute as secretly to sacrifice his life for his master, without proclaiming the fact abroad? And if I do not requite this benefit, what is the use of my sovereignty, and of my protracting my life, which would only be like that of an animal?"

When the heroic king had thus reflected, he drew his sword from the sheath, and approaching the goddess, prayed thus to her, "Be propitious to me now, goddess, on account of this sacrifice of my head, and confer a boon on me, thy constant votary. Let this Bráhman Víravara, whose acts are in accordance with his name, and who sacrificed his life for my sake, be resuscitated with his family!" After uttering this prayer, king Súdraka was preparing to cut off his head with his sword, but at that moment a voice was heard from the air, "Do not act rashly; I am pleased with this courage of thine; let the Bráhman Víravara be restored to life, together with his wife and his children!"--Having uttered so much, the voice ceased, and Víravara rose up alive and unwounded, with his son, his daughter, and his wife. When the king, who quickly concealed himself again, saw that marvel, he was never tired of looking at them with an eye full of tears of joy.

And Víravara quickly awoke as if from sleep, and, beholding his children and wife alive, and also himself, he was confused in mind. And he asked his wife and children, addressing them severally by name, "How have you returned to life after having been reduced to ashes? I too cut off my head: what is the meaning of my being now alive? Is this a delusion, or the manifest favour of the goddess?" When he said this, his wife and children answered him, "Our being alive is due to a merciful interposition of the goddess, of which we were not conscious." Then Víravara came to the conclusion that it was so, and after worshipping the goddess, he returned home with his wife and children, having accomplished his object.

And after he had left his son, wife, and daughter there, he returned that very night to the palace-gate of the king, and stood there as before. King Súdraka, for his part, who had beheld all unobserved, again went up to the roof of his palace. And he cried out from the roof, "Who is in attendance at the palace-gate?" Then Víravara said, "I myself am in waiting here, your Majesty. And in accordance with your orders I went in search of that woman, but she disappeared somewhere as soon as seen, like a Rákshasí." When the king heard the speech of that Víravara, he was very much astonished, as he had himself seen what took place, and he said to himself, "Indeed people of noble spirit are deep and self-contained of soul as the sea, for when they have performed an unparalleled exploit, they do not utter any description of it." Thus reflecting, the king silently descended from the roof of the palace, and entered his private apartments, and there spent the rest of the night.

And the next morning, Víravara came to present himself at the time of audience, and then the delighted king related to the ministers all that Víravara had gone through during the night, so that they were all, as it were, thunderstruck with wonder. Then the king gave to Víravara and his son the sovereignty over the provinces of Láta and Karnáta, as a token of his regard. Then the two kings, Víravara and Súdraka, being equal in power, lived happily in the interchange of mutual good offices.

When the Vetála had told this exceedingly wonderful story, he went on to say to king Trivikramasena, "So tell me, king, who was the bravest of all these, and if you know and do not tell, the curse, which I before mentioned, shall descend upon you."

When the king heard this, he answered the Vetála, "King Súdraka was the greatest hero of them all." Then the Vetála said, "Was not Víravara greater, for his equal is not found on this earth? And was not his wife braver, who, though a mother, endured to witness with her own eyes the offering up of her son as a victim? And was not his son Sattvavara braver, who, though a mere child, displayed such preëminent courage? So why do you say that king Súdraka was more heroic than these?"

When the Vetála said this, the king answered him, "Do not say so! Víravara was a man of high birth, one in whose family it was a tradition that life, son, and wife must be sacrificed to protect the sovereign. And his wife also was of good birth, chaste, worshipping her husband only, and her chief duty was to follow the path traced out for her by her husband. And Sattvavara was like them, being their son; assuredly, such as are the threads, such is the web produced from them. But Súdraka excelled them all, because he was ready to lay down his life for those servants, by the sacrifice of whose lives kings are wont to save their own."

When the Vetála heard that speech from that king, he at once left his shoulder, and returned invisibly to his former place by his supernatural power, but the king resolutely set out on his former path in that cemetery at night to bring him back again.

NOTE.

For the story of Víravara, see Vol. I, pp. 253 and 519. Oesterley refers us to Benfey's Panchatantra, Vol. I, p. 414, where it is shown to be based upon the Asadrisa Játaka of Buddha. The story is found in the Persian Tútínámah, No 21, (in Iken, p. 89,) in a form resembling that in the Hitopadesa. But there is another form which is No. 2 in the same work of Kaderi and found in the older Tútínámah, (p. 17 in Iken,) which seems to be based on the Vetála Panchavinsati. This is also found in the Turkish Tútínámah. Jánbáz saves the life of a king by the mere determination to sacrifice himself and his whole family. (Oesterley's Baitál Pachísí, pp. 185-187.) Benfey refers us to No. 39 in Basile's Pentamerone, [Liebrecht's German translation, Vol. II, pp. 116-134,] and to No. 6 in Grimm's Kinder-Märchen.

Chapter LXXIX

(Vetála 5.)

Then king Trivikramasena went back again to that asoka-tree, and saw the Vetála in the corpse again hanging on it as before, and took him down, and after showing much displeasure with him, set out again rapidly towards his goal. And as he was returning along his way, in silence as before, through the great cemetery by night, the Vetála on his shoulder said to him, "King, you have embarked on a toilsome undertaking, and I liked you from the moment I first saw you, so listen, I will tell you a tale to divert your mind."

Story of Somaprabhá and her three suitors.

In Ujjayiní there lived an excellent Bráhman, the dear dependent and minister of king Punyasena, and his name was Harisvámin. That householder had by his wife, who was his equal in birth, an excellent son like himself, Devasvámin by name. And he also had born to him a daughter, famed for her matchless beauty, rightly named Somaprabhá. [298] When the time came for that girl to be given away in marriage, as she was proud of her exceeding beauty, she made her mother give the following message to her father and brother, "I am to be given in marriage to a man possessed of heroism, or knowledge, or magic power; [299] you must not give me in marriage to any other, if you value my life."

When her father Harisvámin heard this, he was full of anxiety, trying to find for her a husband coming under one of these three categories. And while so engaged, he was sent as ambassador by king Punyasena to negotiate a treaty with a king of the Dekkan, who had come to invade him. And when he had accomplished the object, for which he was sent, a noble Bráhman, who had heard of the great beauty of his daughter, came and asked him for her hand. Harisvámin said to the Bráhman suitor, "My daughter will not have any husband who does not possess either valour, knowledge, or magic power; so tell me which of the three you possess." When Harisvámin said this to the Bráhman suitor, he answered, "I possess magic power." Thereupon Harisvámin rejoined, "Then shew me your magic power." So that possessor of supernatural power immediately prepared by his skill a chariot that would fly through the air. And in a moment he took Harisvámin up in that magic chariot, and shewed him heaven and all the worlds. And he brought him back delighted to that very camp of the king of the Dekkan, to which he had been sent on business. Then Harisvámin promised his daughter to that man possessed of magic power, and fixed the marriage for the seventh day from that time.

And in the meanwhile another Bráhman, in Ujjayiní, came and asked Harisvámin's son Devasvámin for the hand of his sister. Devasvámin answered, "She does not wish to have a husband who is not possessed of either knowledge, or magic power, or heroism." Thereupon he declared himself to be a hero. And when the hero displayed his skill in the use of missiles and hand-to-hand weapons, Devasvámin promised to give him his sister, who was younger than himself. And by the advice of the astrologers he told him, as his father had told the other suitor, that the marriage should take place on that very same seventh day, and this decision he came to without the knowledge of his mother.

At that very same time a third person came to his mother, the wife of Harisvámin, and asked her privately for the hand of her daughter. She said to him, "Our daughter requires a husband who possesses either knowledge, or heroism, or magic power;" and he answered, "Mother, I possess knowledge." And she, after questioning him about the past and the future, promised to give the hand of her daughter to that possessor of supernatural knowledge on that same seventh day.

The next day Harisvámin returned home, and told his wife and his son the agreement he had made to give away his daughter in marriage; and they told him separately the promises that they had made; and that made him feel anxious, as three bridegrooms had been invited.

Then, on the wedding-day, three bridegrooms arrived in Harisvámin's house, the man of knowledge, the man of magic power, and the man of valour. And at that moment a strange thing took place: the intended bride, the maiden Somaprabhá, was found to have disappeared in some inexplicable manner, and though searched for, was not found. Then Harisvámin said eagerly to the possessor of knowledge; "Man of knowledge, now tell me quickly where my daughter is gone." When the possessor of knowledge heard that, he said, "The Rákshasa Dhúmrasikha has carried her off to his own habitation in the Vindhya forest." When the man of knowledge said this to Harisvámin, he was terrified and said, "Alas! Alas! How are we to get her back, and how is she to be married?" When the possessor of magic power heard that, he said, "Be of good cheer! I will take you in a moment to the place where the possessor of knowledge says that she is." After he had said this, he prepared, as before, a chariot that would fly through the air, provided with all kinds of weapons, and made Harisvámin, and the man of knowledge, and the brave man get into it, and in a moment he carried them to the habitation of the Rákshasa in the Vindhya forest, which had been described by the man of knowledge. The Rákshasa, when he saw what had happened, rushed out in a passion, and then the hero, who was put forward by Harisvámin, challenged him to fight. Then a wonderful fight took place between that man and that Rákshasa, who were contending for a woman with various kinds of weapons, like Ráma and Rávana. And in a short time the hero cut off the head of that Rákshasa with a crescent-headed arrow, though he was a doughty champion. When the Rákshasa was slain, they carried off Somaprabhá whom they found in his house, and they all returned in the chariot of the suitor who possessed magic power.

When they had reached Harisvámin's house, the marriage did not go forward, though the auspicious moment had arrived, but a great dispute arose between the man of knowledge, the man of magic power, and the man of valour. The man of knowledge said, "If I had not known where this maiden was, how would she have been discovered when concealed?--So she ought to be given to me." But the man of magic power said, "If I had not made this chariot that can fly through the air, how could you all have gone and returned in a moment like gods? And how could you, without a chariot, have fought with a Rákshasa, who possessed a chariot? So you ought to give her to me for I have secured by my skill this auspicious moment." The brave man said, "If I had not slain the Rákshasa in fight, who would have brought this maiden back here in spite of all your exertions? So she must be given to me." While they went on wrangling in this style, Harisvámin remained for a moment silent, being perplexed in mind.

"So tell me, king, to whom she ought to have been given, and if you know and do not say, your head shall split asunder." When Trivikramasena heard this from the Vetála, he abandoned his silence, and said to him; "She ought to be given to the brave man; for he won her by the might of his arms, at the risk of his life, slaying that Rákshasa in combat. But the man of knowledge and the man of magic power were appointed by the Creator to serve as his instruments; are not calculators and artificers always subordinate assistants to others?"

When the Vetála heard this answer of the king's, he left his seat on the top of his shoulder, and went, as before, to his own place; and the king again set out to find him, without being in the slightest degree discomposed.

NOTE.

The above story bears a slight resemblance to No. 71 in Grimm's Kinder- und Hausmärchen, Sechse kommen durch die ganze Welt; see the note in the 3rd volume of the third edition, page 120. Cp. also the 74th story in Laura Gonzenbach's Sicilianische Märchen, Part II, page 96, and the 45th story in the same book, Part I, p. 305, with Köhler's notes. The 9th story in Sagas from the Far East, p. 105, is no doubt the Mongolian form of the tale in our text. It bears a very strong resemblance to the 47th tale in the Pentamerone of Basile, (see Liebrecht's translation, Vol. II, p. 212,) and to Das weise Urtheil in Waldau's Böhmische Märchen. In this tale there are three rival brothers; one has a magic mirror, another a magic chariot, a third three magic apples. The first finds out that the lady is desperately ill, the second takes himself and his rivals to her, the third raises her to life. An old man decides that the third should have her, as his apples were consumed as medicine, while the other two have still their chariot and mirror respectively. Oesterley refers us to Benfey's articles in Ausland, 1858, pp. 969, 995, 1017, 1038, 1067, in which this story is treated in a masterly and exhaustive manner. He compares a story in the Siddhikür, No. 1, p. 55, in Jülg's version, which seems to be the one above referred to in Sagas from the Far East. The 22nd story in the Persian Tútínámah (Iken, p. 93,) which is found with little variation in the Turkish Tútínámah (Rosen, II, p. 165,) closely resembles the story in our text. The only difference is that a magic horse does duty for a magic chariot, and the lady is carried away by fairies. There is a story in the Tútínámah which seems to be made up of No. 2, No. 5 and No. 21 in this collection. [No. 22, in Somadeva.] It is No. 4 in the Persian Tútínámah, (Iken, p. 37,) and is also found in the Turkish version, (Rosen I, p. 151.) The lady is the work of four companions. A carpenter hews a figure out of wood, a goldsmith adorns it with gems, a tailor clothes it, and a monk animates it with life. They quarrel about her, and lay the matter before a Dervish. He avows that he is her husband. The head of the police does the same, and the Kazi, to whom it is then referred, takes the same line. At last the matter is referred to a divinity, and the lady is again reduced to wood. This form is the exaggeration of a story in Ardschi Bordschi translated by Benfey in Ausland, 1858, p. 845, (cp. Göttinger gel. Anz. 1858, p. 1517, Benfey's Panchatantra, Vol. I, p. 490 and ff.) A shepherd boy hews a female figure out of wood, a second paints her, a third improves her [by giving her wit and understanding, according to Sagas from the Far East,] a fourth gives her life. Naran Dákiní awards her to the last. (Oesterley's Baitál Pachísí, pp. 192-194). The story in Ardschi Bordschi will be found in Sagas from the Far East, pp. 298-303. The story which Oesterley quotes from the Tútínámah is still found in Bannu, as appears from a review of Mr. Thorburn's book in Melusine (1878), p. 179. The reviewer, M. Loys Brueyre, tells us that it is found in the Bohemian tales of Erben under the title, Wisdom and Fortune.

Chapter LXXX

(Vetála 6.)

Then king Trivikramasena again went to the asoka-tree, and carried off from it that Vetála on his shoulder, as before, and began to return with him swiftly in silence. And on the way the Vetála again said to him, "King, you are wise and brave, therefore I love you, so I will tell you an amusing tale, and mark well my question."

Story of the lady who caused her brother and husband to change heads.

There was a king famous on the earth by the name of Yasahketu, and his capital was a city of the name of Sobhávatí. And in that city there was a splendid temple of Gaurí, [300] and to the south of it there was a lake, called Gaurítírtha. And every year, during a feast on the fourteenth day of the white fortnight of the month Áshádha, large crowds came there to bathe from every part of the world. [301]

And once there came there to bathe, on that day, a young washerman of the name of Dhavala, from a village called Brahmasthala. He saw there the virgin daughter of a man named Suddhapata, a girl called Madanasundarí, who had come to bathe in the sacred water. [302] His heart was captivated by that girl who eclipsed the beauty of the moon, and after he had enquired her name and family, he went home love-smitten. There he remained fasting and restless without her, but when his mother asked him the cause, he told her the truth about his desire. [303] She went and told her husband Vimala, and when he came, and saw his son in that state, he said to him, "Why are you so despondent, my son, about an object so easily attained? Suddhapata will give you his daughter, if I ask him. For we are equal to him in family, wealth, and occupation; I know him and he knows me; so this is not a difficult matter for me to arrange." With these words Vimala comforted his son, and induced him to take food, and other refreshments, and the next day he went with him to the house of Suddhapata. And there he asked his daughter in marriage for his son Dhavala, and Suddhapata courteously promised to give her. And so, after ascertaining the auspicious moment, he gave his daughter Madanasundarí, who was of equal birth with Dhavala, in marriage to him the next day. And after Dhavala had been married, he returned a happy man to his father's house, together with his wife, who had fallen in love with him at first sight.

And one day, while he was living there in happiness, his father-in-law's son, the brother of Madanasundarí, came there. All received him courteously, [304] and his sister embraced him and welcomed him, and his connections asked him how he was, and at last, after he had rested, he said to them, "I have been sent here by my father, to invite Madanasundarí and his son-in-law, since we are engaged in a festival in honour of the goddess Durgá." And all his connections and their family approved his speech, and entertained him that day with appropriate meats and drinks.

Early the next day Dhavala set out for his father-in-law's house, with Madanasundarí and his brother-in-law. And he reached with his two companions the city of Sobhávatí, and he saw the great temple of Durgá, when he arrived near it; and then he said to his wife and brother-in-law, in a fit of pious devotion, "Come and let us visit the shrine of this awful goddess." When the brother-in-law heard this, he said to him, in order to dissuade him, "How can so many of us approach the goddess empty-handed?" Then Dhavala said, "Let me go alone, and you can wait outside." When he had said this, he went off to pay his respects to the goddess.

When he had entered her temple, and had worshipped, and had meditated upon that goddess, who with her eighteen mighty arms had smitten terrible Dánavas, and who had flung under the lotus of her foot and trampled to pieces the Asura Mahisha, a train of pious reflection was produced in his mind by the impulse of Destiny, and he said to himself, "People worship this goddess with various sacrifices of living creatures, so why should not I, to obtain salvation, appease her with the sacrifice of myself?" After he had said this to himself, he took from her inner shrine, which was empty of worshippers, a sword which had been long ago offered to her by some pilgrims, and, after fastening his own head by his hair to the chain of the bell, he cut it off with the sword, and when cut off, it fell on the ground.

And his brother-in-law, after waiting a long time, without his having returned, went into that very temple of the goddess to look for him. But when he saw his sister's husband lying there decapitated, he also was bewildered, and he cut off his head in the same way with that very same sword.

And when he too did not return, Madanasundarí was distracted in mind, and then she too entered the temple of the goddess. And when she had gone in, and seen her husband and her brother in such a state, she fell on the ground, exclaiming, "Alas! what is the meaning of this? I am ruined." And soon she rose up, and lamented those two that had been so unexpectedly slain, and said to herself, "Of what use is this life of mine to me now?" and being eager to abandon the body, she said to that goddess, "O thou that art the chief divinity presiding over blessedness, chastity, and holy rule, though occupying half the body of thy husband Siva, [305] thou that art the fitting refuge of all women, that takest away grief, why hast thou robbed me at once of my brother and my husband? This is not fitting on thy part towards me, for I have ever been a faithful votary of thine. So hear one piteous appeal from me who fly to thee for protection. I am now about to abandon this body which is afflicted with calamity, but grant that in all my future births, whatever they may be, these two men may be my husband and brother."

In these words she praised and supplicated the goddess, and bowed before her again, and then she made a noose of a creeper and fastened it to an asoka-tree. And while she was stretching out her neck, and putting it into the noose, the following words resounded from the expanse of air: "Do not act rashly, my daughter! I am pleased with the exceeding courage which thou hast displayed, though a mere girl; let this noose be, but join the heads of thy husband and thy brother to their bodies, and by virtue of my favour they shall both rise up alive." [306]

When the girl Madanasundarí heard this, she let the noose drop, and went up to the corpses in great delight, but being confused, and not seeing in her excessive eagerness what she was doing, she stuck, as fate would have it, her husband's head on to her brother's trunk, and her brother's head on to her husband's trunk, and then they both rose up alive, with limbs free from wound, but from their heads having been exchanged their bodies had become mixed together. [307]

Then they told one another what had befallen them, and were happy, and after they had worshipped the goddess Durgá, the three continued their journey. But Madanasundarí, as she was going along, saw that she had changed their heads, and she was bewildered and puzzled as to what course to take.

"So tell me, king, which of the two people, thus mixed together, was her husband; and if you know and do not tell, the curse previously denounced shall fall on you!" When king Trivikramasena heard this tale and this question from the Vetála, he answered him as follows: "That one of the two, on whom her husband's head was fixed, was her husband, for the head is the chief of the limbs, and personal identity depends upon it." When the king had said this, the Vetála again left his shoulder unperceived, and the king again set out to fetch him.

NOTE.

Oesterley remarks that the Hindi version of this story has been translated into French by Garcin de Tassy in the Journal des Savants, 1836, p. 415, and by Lancereau in the Journal Asiatique, Ser. 4, Tom. 19, pp. 390-395. In the Tútínámah, (Persian, No. 24, in Iken, No. 102; Turkish, Rosen, II, p. 169) the washerman is replaced by an Indian prince, his friend by a priest, and the rest is the same as in our text. That Goethe took that part of his Legende, which is based on this tale, from Iken's translation, has been shewn by Benfey in Orient und Occident, Vol. I, p. 719. (Oesterley's Baitál Pachísí, pp. 195, 196.)

Chapter LXXXI

Then king Trivikramasena went back to the asoka-tree, and again found the Vetála there, and took him on his shoulder. As he was going along with him, the Vetála said to him on the way, "King, listen to me, I will tell you a story to make you forget your fatigue."

Story of the king who married his dependent to the Nereid.

There is a city on the shore of the eastern sea, named Támraliptí; in that city there was a king of the name of Chandasinha; he turned away his face from the wives of others, but not from battle-fields; he carried off the fortune of his foes, but not the wealth of his neighbours.

Once on a time a popular Rájpút of the Dekkan, named Sattvasíla, came to the palace-gate of that king. And he announced himself, and then, on account of his poverty, he and some other Rájpúts tore a ragged garment in the presence of that king. Thus he became a dependent, [308] and remained there for many years perpetually serving the king, but he never received any reward from him. And he said to himself, "If I have been born in a royal race, why am I so poor? And considering my poverty is so great, why did the Creator make my ambition so vast? For though I serve the king so diligently, and my followers are sorely afflicted, and I have long been pining with hunger, he has never, up to the present time, deigned to notice me."

While such were the reflections of the dependent, the king one day went out to hunt. And he went, surrounded with horses and footmen, to the forest of wild beasts, while his dependent ran in front of him bearing a stick. And after he had hunted for some time, he followed up closely a boar that had escaped, and soon he reached another distant wood. And in that vast jungle, where the path was obscured with leaves and grass, the king lost the boar, and he became exhausted, and was unable to find his way. And the dependent was the only one that kept up with him, running on foot, regardless of his own life, tortured with hunger and thirst, though the king was mounted upon a horse swift as the wind. And the king, when he saw that the dependent had followed him, in spite of his being in such a condition, said to him in a kind voice, "Do you know the way by which we came?" When the dependent heard that, he put his hands together in an attitude of supplication, and said, "I do know it, but let my lord rest here for some time. For the sun, which is the centre-jewel of the girdle of the sky-bride, is now burning fiercely with all its rays flickering forth." When the king heard this, he said to him graciously, "Then see if you can find water anywhere here." The dependent said, "I will," and he climbed up a high tree, and saw a river, and then he came down again, and led the king to it. And he took the saddle off his horse, and let him roll, and gave him water and mouthfuls of grass, and so refreshed him. And when the king had bathed, he brought out of a corner of his garment delicious [309] ámalaka fruits, and washed them, and gave them to him. And when the king asked where he got them, he said to him kneeling with the ámalakas in his hand, "Ten years have now passed since I, living continually on these fruits, have been performing, in order to propitiate my sovereign, the vow of a hermit that does not dwell in solitude." When the king heard that, he answered him, "It cannot be denied that you are rightly named Sattvasíla." And being filled with compassion and shame, he said to himself; "Fie on kings who do not see who among their servants is comfortable or miserable, and fie on their courtiers who do not inform them of such matters!" Such were the king's thoughts, but he was at last induced by the importunity of the dependent to take two ámalakas from him. And after eating them and drinking water, he rested for a while in the company of the dependent, having satiated his hunger and thirst on fruits and water.

Then his dependent got his horse ready, and he mounted it, and the dependent went in front of him to shew him the way, but however much the king entreated him, he would not get up on the horse behind him, and so the king returned to his own city, meeting his army on the way. There he proclaimed the devotion of the dependent, and he loaded him with wealth and territories, and did not consider even then that he had recompensed him as he deserved. Then Sattvasíla became a prosperous man, and discarding the life of a dependent, he remained henceforth about the person of king Chandasinha.

And one day the king sent him to the island of Ceylon, to demand for him the hand of the king's daughter. He had to go there by sea; so he worshipped his patron divinity, and went on board a ship with the Bráhmans, whom the king appointed to accompany him. And when the ship had gone half-way, there suddenly rose from the sea a banner that excited the wonder of all in the ship. It was so lofty that its top touched the clouds, it was made of gold, and emblazoned like a waving flag of various hues. And at that very moment a bank of clouds suddenly arose, and began to pour down rain, and a mighty wind blew. And the ship was forced on to that flag by the rain and the wind, and thus fastened to it, as elephant-drivers force on an elephant and bind him to a post. And then the flag began to sink with the ship in the billowy sea.

And then the Bráhmans in the ship, distracted with fear, called on their king Chandasinha, crying out for help. And when Sattvasíla heard their cries, so great was his devotion to his master that he could not restrain himself, but with his sword in his hand, and his upper garment girded round him, the brave fellow daringly plunged into the billows, following the flag, in order to counteract the violence of the sea, not suspecting the real cause. And as soon as he had plunged in, that ship was carried to a distance by the wind and waves, and all the people, who were in it, fell into the mouths of the sea-monsters.

And when Sattvasíla, who had fallen into the sea, began to look about him, he found that he was in a splendid city, [310] but he could not see the sea anywhere. That city glittered with palaces of gold supported on pillars of jewels, and was adorned with gardens in which were tanks with steps of precious gems, and in it he beheld the temple of Durgá, lofty as mount Meru, with many walls of costly stone, and with a soaring banner studded with jewels. There he prostrated himself before the goddess, and praised her with a hymn, and sat down wondering whether it was all the effect of enchantment.

And in the meanwhile a heavenly maiden suddenly opened a door, and issued from a bright enclosure in front of the temple of the goddess. Her eyes were like blue lotuses, her face full-blown, her smile like a flower, her body was soft like the taper fibre of a water-lily's root, so that she resembled a moving lotus-lake. And waited on by a thousand ladies, she entered the inner shrine of the goddess and the heart of Sattvasíla at the same time. And after she had worshipped, she left the inner shrine of the goddess, but nothing would make her leave the heart of Sattvasíla. And she entered once more into the shining enclosure, and Sattvasíla entered after her.

And when he had entered, he beheld another splendid city, which seemed like a garden where all the enjoyments of the world had agreed to meet. In it Sattvasíla saw that maiden sitting on a couch studded with gems, and he went up to her, and sat down by her side. And he remained with his eyes fixed on her face, like a man in a painting, expressing his passion by his trembling limbs, the hairs on which stood erect. And when she saw that he was enamoured of her, she looked at the faces of her attendants, and then they, understanding the expression of her face, said to him, "You have arrived here as a guest, so enjoy the hospitality provided by our mistress, rise up, bathe, and then take food." When he heard that, he entertained some hope, and he rose up, though not without a struggle, and he went to a tank in the garden which they shewed him. And the moment that he plunged into it, he rose up, to his astonishment, in the middle of a tank in the garden of king Chandasinha in Támraliptí. [311] And seeing himself suddenly arrived there, he said to himself, "Alas! what is the meaning of this? Now I am in this garden, and a moment ago I was in that splendid city; I have exchanged in an instant the nectarous vision of that fair one for the grievous poison of separation from her. But it was not a dream, for I saw it all clearly in a waking state. It is clear that I was beguiled like a fool by those maidens of Pátála."

Thus reflecting, he wandered about in that garden like a madman, being deprived of that maiden, and wept in the anguish of disappointed passion. And the gardeners, when they beheld him in that state, with body covered with the yellow pollen of flowers wafted by the wind, as if with the fires of separation, went and told king Chandasinha, and he, being bewildered, came himself and saw him; and after calming him, he said to him, "Tell me, my friend; what is the meaning of all this? You set out for one place and reached another, your arrows have not struck the mark at which they were aimed." When Sattvasíla heard that, he told the king all his adventures, and he, when he heard them, said to himself, "Strange to say, though this man is a hero, he has, happily for me, [312] been beguiled by love, and I now have it in my power to discharge my debt of gratitude to him." So the brave king said to him, "Abandon now your needless grief, for I will conduct you by the same course into the presence of that beloved Asura maiden." With these words the king comforted him, and refreshed him with a bath and other restoratives.

The next day the king entrusted the kingdom to his ministers, and embarking on a ship, set out on the sea with Sattvasíla, who shewed him the way. And when they had got to that half-way spot, Sattvasíla saw the wonderful flagstaff rising out of the sea with the banner on it, as before, and he said to the king, "Here is that great flagstaff with such wonderful properties, towering aloft out of the sea: I must plunge in here, and then the king must plunge in also and dive down after the flagstaff." After Sattvasíla had said this, they got near the flagstaff, and it began to sink. And Sattvasíla first threw himself in after it, and then the king also dived in the same direction, and soon after they had plunged in, they reached that splendid city. And there the king beheld with astonishment and worshipped that goddess Párvatí, and sat down with Sattvasíla.

And in the meanwhile there issued from that glittering enclosure a maiden, accompanied by her attendant ladies, looking like the quality of brightness in concrete form. Sattvasíla said, "This is that fair one," and the king, beholding her, considered that his attachment to her was amply justified. She, for her part, when she beheld that king with all the auspicious bodily marks, said to herself, "Who can this exceedingly distinguished man be?" And so she went into the temple of Durgá to pray, and the king contemptuously went off to the garden, taking Sattvasíla with him. And in a short time the Daitya maiden came out from the inner shrine of the goddess, having finished her devotions, and having prayed that she might obtain a good husband; and after she had come out, she said to one of her attendants, "My friend, go and see where that distinguished man is whom I saw; and entreat him to do us the favour of coming and accepting our hospitality, for he is some great hero deserving special honour." When the attendant had received this order, she went and looked for him, and bending low, delivered to him in the garden the message of her mistress. Then the heroic king answered in a carelessly negligent tone, "This garden is sufficient entertainment for me: what other entertainment do I require?" When that attendant came and reported this answer to the Daitya maiden, she considered that the king was a man of a noble spirit and deserving of the highest regard.

And then the Asura maiden, (being, as it were, drawn towards himself with the cord of his self-command by the king, who shewed a lofty indifference for hospitality far above mortal desert,) went in person to the garden, thinking that he had been sent her by way of a husband, as a fruit of her adoration of Durgá. And the trees seemed to honour her, as she approached, with the songs of various birds, with their creepers bending in the wind like arms, and showers of blossoms. And she approached the king and bowing courteously before him, entreated him to accept of her hospitality. Then the king pointed to Sattvasíla, and said to her, "I came here to worship the image of the goddess of which this man told me. I have reached her marvellous temple, guided to it by the banner, and have seen the goddess, and after that, you; what other hospitality do I require?" When the maiden heard that, she said, "Then come, out of curiosity, to see my second city, which is the wonder of the three worlds." When she said this, the king laughed and said, "Oh! he told me of this also, the place where there is the tank to bathe in." Then the maiden said, "King, do not speak thus, I am not of a deceitful disposition, and who would think of cheating one so worthy of respect? I have been made the slave of you both by your surpassing excellence; so you ought not thus to reject my offer."

When the king heard this, he consented, and taking Sattvasíla with him, he accompanied the maiden to that glittering enclosure. And the door of it was opened, and she conducted him in, and then he beheld that other splendid city of hers. The trees in it were ever producing flowers and fruits, for all seasons were present there at the same time; [313] and the city was all composed of gold and jewels like the peak of mount Meru. And the Daitya maiden made the king sit down on a priceless jewelled throne, and offered him the arghya in due form, and said to him, "I am the daughter of Kálanemi the high-souled king of the Asuras, but my father was sent to heaven by Vishnu, the discus-armed god. And these two cities, which I inherit from my father, are the work of Visvakarman; they furnish all that heart can wish, and old age and death never invade them. But now I look upon you as a father, and I, with my cities, am at your disposal." When she had in these words placed herself and all that she possessed at the king's disposal, he said to her, "If this be so, then I give you, excellent daughter, to another, to the hero Sattvasíla, who is my friend and relation." When the king, who seemed to be the favour of the goddess Durgá in bodily form, said this, the maiden, who understood excellence when she saw it, acquiesced submissively. When Sattvasíla had attained the wish of his heart by marrying that Asura maiden, and had had the sovereignty of those cities bestowed on him, the king said to him, "Now I have repaid you for one of those ámalakas which I ate, but I am still indebted to you for the second, for which I have never recompensed you." When the king had said this to Sattvasíla, who bowed before him, he said to that Daitya maiden, "Now shew me the way to my own city." Then the Daitya maiden gave him a sword named "Invincible," and a fruit to eat, which was a remedy against old age and death, and with these he plunged into the tank which she pointed out, and the next thing that happened to him was, that he rose up in his own land with all his wishes gratified. And Sattvasíla ruled as king over the cities of the Daitya princess.

"Now tell me: which of those two shewed most courage in plunging into the water?" When the Vetála put this question to the king, the latter, fearing to be cursed, thus answered him; "I consider Sattvasíla the braver man of the two, for he plunged into the sea without knowing the real state of the case, and without any hope, but the king knew what the circumstances were when he plunged in, and had something to look forward to, and he did not fall in love with the Asura princess, because he thought no longing would win her." When the Vetála received this answer from the king, who thereby broke silence, he left his shoulder, as before, and fled to his place on the asoka-tree. And the king, as before, followed him quickly to bring him back again; for the wise never flag in an enterprise which they have begun, until it is finished.

Chapter LXXXII

(Vetála 8.)

Then king Trivikramasena returned to the asoka-tree, and again caught the Vetála, and put him on his shoulder, and set out with him. And as he was going along, the Vetála again said to him from his shoulder, "King, in order that you may forget your toil, listen to this question of mine."

Story of the three fastidious men.

There is a great tract of land assigned to Bráhmans in the country of Anga, called Vrikshaghata. In it there lived a rich sacrificing Bráhman named Vishnusvámin. And he had a wife equal to himself in birth. And by her he had three sons born to him, who were distinguished for preternatural acuteness. In course of time they grew up to be young men. One day, when he had begun a sacrifice, he sent those three brothers to the sea to fetch a turtle. So off they went, and when they had found a turtle, the eldest said to his two brothers,--"Let one of you take the turtle for our father's sacrifice, I cannot take it, as it is all slippery with slime." When the eldest brother said this, the two younger ones answered him, "If you hesitate about taking it, why should not we?" When the eldest heard that, he said, "You two must take the turtle; if you do not, you will have obstructed our father's sacrifice; and then you and he will certainly sink down to hell." When he told the younger brothers this, they laughed, and said to him, "If you see our duty so clearly, why do you not see that your own is the same?" Then the eldest said, "What, do you not know how fastidious I am? I am very fastidious about eating, and I cannot be expected to touch what is repulsive." The middle brother, when he heard this speech of his, said to his brother,--"Then I am a more fastidious person than you, for I am a most fastidious connoisseur of the fair sex." When the middle one said this, the eldest went on to say, "Then let the younger of you two take the turtle!" Then the youngest brother frowned, and in his turn said to the two elder, "You fools, I am very fastidious about beds, so I am the most fastidious of the lot."

So the three brothers fell to quarrelling with one another, and being completely under the dominion of conceit, they left that turtle and went off immediately to the court of the king of that country, whose name was Prasenajit, and who lived in a city named Vitankapura, in order to have the dispute decided. There they had themselves announced by the warder, and went in, and gave the king a circumstantial account of their case. The king said, "Wait here, and I will put you all in turn to the proof:" so they agreed and remained there. And at the time that the king took his meal, he had them conducted to a seat of honour, and given delicious food fit for a king, possessing all the six flavours. And while all were feasting around him, the Bráhman, who was fastidious about eating, alone of all the company did not eat, but sat there with his face puckered up with disgust. The king himself asked the Bráhman why he did not eat his food, though it was sweet and fragrant, and he slowly answered him, "I perceive in this cooked rice an evil smell of the reek from corpses, so I cannot bring myself to eat it, however delicious it may be." When he said this before the assembled multitude, they all smelled it by the king's orders, and said, "This food is prepared from white rice and is good and fragrant." But the Bráhman, who was so fastidious about eating, would not touch it, but stopped his nose. Then the king reflected, and proceeded to enquire into the matter, and found out from his officers [314], that the food had been made from rice which had been grown in a field near the burning-ghát of a certain village. Then the king was much astonished, and being pleased, he said to him, "In truth you are very particular as to what you eat; so eat of some other dish."

And after they had finished their dinner, the king dismissed the Bráhmans to their apartments, and sent for the loveliest lady of his court. And in the evening he sent that fair one, all whose limbs were of faultless beauty, splendidly adorned, to the second Bráhman, who was so squeamish about the fair sex. And that matchless kindler of Cupid's flame, with a face like the full moon of midnight, went, escorted by the king's servants, to the chamber of the Bráhman. But when she entered, lighting up the chamber with her brightness, that gentleman, who was so fastidious about the fair sex, felt quite faint, and stopping his nose with his left hand, said to the king's servants, "Take her away; if you do not, I am a dead man, a smell comes from her like that of a goat." When the king's servants heard this, they took the bewildered fair one to their sovereign, and told him what had taken place. And the king immediately had the squeamish gentleman sent for, and said to him, "How can this lovely woman, who has perfumed herself with sandal-wood, camphor, black aloes, and other splendid scents, so that she diffuses exquisite fragrance through the whole world, smell like a goat?" But though the king used this argument with the squeamish gentleman, he stuck to his point; and then the king began to have his doubts on the subject, and at last by artfully framed questions he elicited from the lady herself, that, having been separated in her childhood from her mother and nurse, she had been brought up on goat's milk.

Then the king was much astonished, and praised highly the discernment of the man who was fastidious about the fair sex, and immediately had given to the third Bráhman who was fastidious about beds, in accordance with his taste, a bed composed of seven mattresses placed upon a bedstead. White smooth sheets and coverlets were laid upon the bed, and the fastidious man slept on it in a splendid room. But, before half a watch of the night had passed, he rose up from that bed, with his hand pressed to his side, screaming in an agony of pain. And the king's officers, who were there, saw a red crooked mark on his side, as if a hair had been pressed deep into it. And they went and told the king, and the king said to them, "Look and see if there is not something under the mattresses." So they went and examined the bottom of the mattresses one by one, and they found a hair in the middle of the bedstead underneath them all. And they took it and shewed it to the king, and they also brought the man who was fastidious about beds, and when the king saw the state of his body, he was astonished. And he spent the whole night in wondering how a hair could have made so deep an impression on his skin through seven mattresses.

And the next morning the king gave three hundred thousand gold pieces to those three fastidious men, because they were persons of wonderful discernment and refinement. And they remained in great comfort in the king's court, forgetting all about the turtle, and little did they reck of the fact that they had incurred sin by obstructing their father's sacrifice.

When the Vetála, seated on the shoulder of the king, had told him this wonderful tale, he again asked him a question in the following words, "King, remember the curse I previously denounced, and tell me which was the most fastidious of these three, who were respectively fastidious about eating, the fair sex, and beds?" When the wise king heard this, he gave the Vetála the following answer, "I consider the man who was fastidious about beds, in whose case imposition was out of the question, the most fastidious of the three, for the mark produced by the hair was seen conspicuously manifest on his body, whereas the other two may have previously acquired their information from some one else." When the king said this, the Vetála left his shoulder, as before, and the king again went in quest of him, as before, without being at all depressed.

NOTE.

The above story resembles No. 2, in the Cento Novelle Antiche, and one in the Addition to the Arabian tales published by Mr. Scott. (Dunlop's History of Fiction, Vol. I, p. 415; Liebrecht's translation, p. 212 and note 282.) See also Liebrecht, Zur Volkskunde, p. 203. In the Cento Novelle Antiche a prisoner informs the king of Greece, that a horse has been suckled by a she-ass, that a jewel contains a worm, and that the king himself is the son of a baker.

The incident of the mattress reminds one of the test applied by the queen to her son's wife in "The Palace that stood on Golden Pillars," (Thorpe's Yuletide Stories, p. 64). In order to find out whether her daughter-in-law is of high birth, she puts first a bean, then peas, under her pillow. The prince's wife, who is really the daughter of a peasant, is apprised of the stratagem by her cat, which resembles Whittington's. Rohde in his Griechische Novellistik, p. 62, compares a story told by Aelian about the Sybarite Smindyrides, who slept on a bed of rose-leaves and got up in the morning covered with blisters. He also quotes from the Chronicle of Tabari a story of a princess who was made to bleed by a rose-leaf lying in her bed. Oesterley refers us to Babington's Vetála Cadai, p. 33, and the Chevalier de Mailly's version of the three Princes of Serendip. The three are sitting at table, and eating a leg of lamb, sent with some splendid wine from the table of the Emperor Behram. The eldest maintains that the wine was made of grapes that grew in a cemetery, the second that the lamb was brought up on dog's milk, the third says that the emperor had put to death the vazir's son, and the latter was bent on vengeance. All three statements turn out to be well-grounded. There are parallel stories in the 1001 Nights (Breslau). In Night 458 it is similarly conjectured that the bread was baked by a sick woman, that the kid was suckled by a bitch, and that the Sultan is illegitimate. In Night 459 a gem-cutter guesses that a jewel has an internal flaw, a man skilled in the pedigrees of horses divines that a horse is the offspring of a female buffalo, and a man skilled in human pedigrees that the mother of the favourite queen was a rope-dancer. Cp. also the decisions of Hamlet in Saxo Grammaticus, 1839, p. 138, in Simrock's Quellen des Shakespeare, 1, 81-85; 5, 170; he lays down that some bread tastes of blood, (the corn was grown on a battle-field), that some liquor tastes of iron, (the malt was mixed with water taken from a well, in which some rusty swords had lain), that some bacon tastes of corpses, (the pig had eaten a corpse), lastly that the king is a servant and his wife a serving-maid. Oesterley refers also to the beginning of Donatus' life of Virgil, and to Heraclius Von Otte, also to the parallels quoted above from Liebrecht. The brother, who was so fastidious about beds, may be compared with a princess in Andersen's Tale of "The Princess on a pea," Gesammelte Märchen, Part III, 8, 62, (Leipzig, 1847). This is identical with a tale found in Cavallius' Schwedische Volkssagen und Märchen, German version, Vienna, 1848, p. 222, which resembles No. 182 in the older editions of Grimm's Kindermärchen. (Andersen's story is clearly the same as Thorpe's referred to above.) Nearly akin is Diocletian's test in the Seven Wise Masters. His masters put an ash-leaf under the bed; and he remarks, "Either the floor has risen, or the roof sunk." (Oesterley, p. 215.) In the version in Simrock's Deutsche Volksbücher, Vol. XII, p. 122, it is an ivy-leaf. See also Ellis's Metrical Romances, p. 412.

Chapter LXXXIII

(Vetála 9.)

So king Trivikramasena again went to the asoka-tree, and taking the Vetála down from it, placed him on his shoulder, and set out. Then the Vetála said to him; "King, this wandering about in a cemetery at night is inconsistent with your kingly rank. Do you not see that this place of the dead [315] is full of ghosts, and terrible at night, and full of darkness as of the smoke of funeral pyres. Alas! what tenacity you display in this undertaking you have engaged in, to please that mendicant! So listen to this question from me which will render your journey more agreeable."

Story of Anangarati and her four suitors.

There is in Avanti a city built by gods at the beginning of the world, which is limitless as the body of Siva, and renowned for enjoyment and prosperity, even as his body is adorned with the snake's hood and ashes. [316] It was called Padmávatí in the Krita Yuga, Bhogavatí in the Tretá Yuga, Hiranyavatí in the Dvápara Yuga, and Ujjayiní in the Kali Yuga. And in it there lived an excellent king, named Víradeva, and he had a queen named Padmarati. The king went with her to the bank of the Mandákiní, and propitiated Siva with austerities, in order to obtain a son. And after he had remained a long time engaged in austerities, he performed the ceremonies of bathing and praying, and then he heard this voice from heaven, uttered by Siva, who was pleased with him, "King, there shall be born to thee a brave son to be the head of thy family, and a daughter, who with her matchless beauty shall put to shame the nymphs of heaven." When king Víradeva had heard this voice from heaven, he returned to his city with his consort, having gained all he desired.

There he first had a son born to him named Súradeva, and after a time queen Padmarati gave birth to a daughter. And her father gave her the name of Anangarati, on the ground that she was beautiful enough to inspire love in the breast of Cupid. And, when she grew up, in his desire to procure for her a suitable husband, he had brought the portraits of all the kings of the earth, painted on canvas. And as no one of them seemed a match for her, he said to his daughter, in his tenderness for her; "I cannot find a suitable match for you, my daughter, so summon all the kings of the earth, and select your own husband." When the princess heard that, she said to her father, "My father, I am too modest to select my own husband, but I must be given in marriage to a good-looking young man, who is a perfect master of one art; I do not want any other better man."

When the king heard this speech of his daughter Anangarati, he proceeded to search for a young man, such as she had described, and while he was thus engaged, there came to him from the Dekkan four magnificent men, brave and skilful, who had heard from the people what was going on. Those four suitors for the hand of the princess were received with respect by the king, and one after another they told to him in her presence their respective acquirements.

The first said; "I am a Súdra, Panchaphuttika by name; I make every day five splendid pairs of garments: The first of them I give to my god, and the second to a Bráhman, the third I retain for my own wearing, [317] the fourth I should give to my wife, if this maid here were to become my wife, the fifth I sell, and procure myself meat and drink: as I possess this art, let Anangarati be given to me."

When he had said this, the second man said, "I am a Vaisya, Bháshájna by name, I know the speech of all beasts and birds; [318] so let the princess be given to me."

When the second had said this, the third said, "I am a Kshatriya king, by name Khadgadhara, renowned for might of arm: my equal in the art of swordsmanship does not exist upon the earth, so bestow this maiden on me, O king."

When the third had said this, the fourth said, "I am a Bráhman, named Jívadatta, and I possess the following art; I can restore to life dead creatures, and exhibit them alive; [319] so let this maiden obtain for a husband me, who am renowned for daring exploits."

When they had thus spoken, the king Víradeva, with his daughter by his side, seeing that they were like gods in shape and dress, remained lost in doubt.

When the Vetála had told this story, he said to king Trivikramasena, menacing him with the before-mentioned curse, "So tell me, king, to which of these four ought the maiden Anangarati to be given?"

When the king heard this, he gave the Vetála the following answer; "You are thus repeatedly making me break silence simply in order to waste time; otherwise, master of magic, how could you possibly ask such an absurd question? How can a woman of Kshatriya caste be given to a Súdra weaver? Moreover, how can a Kshatriya woman be given to a Vaisya? And as to the power of understanding the language of beasts and birds, which he possesses, what is the practical use of it? And as for the third, the Bráhman, who fancies himself such a hero, of what worth is he, as he is a sorcerer, and degraded by abandoning the duties of his caste? Accordingly the maiden should be given to the fourth suitor, the Kshatriya Khadgadhara, who is of the same caste and distinguished for his skill and valour."

When the Vetála heard this, he left the king's shoulder, as before, and quickly returned by the power of his magic to his own place, and the king again pursued him, as before, to recover him, for despondency never penetrates into a hero's heart, that is cased in armour of fortitude.

NOTE.

This story is found on page 498 and ff of Vol. I. It bears a close resemblance to Tale 5, and many of the parallels there quoted are applicable to it. In the 47th tale of the Pentamerone of Basile, the sons boast of their accomplishments in a very similar manner.

Chapter LXXXIV

(Vetála 10.)

Then Trivikramasena went and took the Vetála from the asoka-tree, and put him on his shoulder once more, and set out; and as he was going along, the Vetála said from the top of his shoulder, "You are weary, king, so listen to this tale that is capable of dispelling weariness."

Story of Madanasená and her rash promise.

There was an excellent king of the name of Vírabáhu, who imposed his orders on the heads of all kings: he had a splendid city named Anangapura, and in it there lived a rich merchant, named Arthadatta; that merchant prince had for elder child a son named Dhanadatta, and his younger child was a pearl of maidens, named Madanasená.

One day, as she was playing with her companions in her own garden, a young merchant, named Dharmadatta, a friend of her brother's, saw her. When he saw that maiden, who with the full streams of her beauty, her breasts like pitchers half-revealed, and three wrinkles like waves, resembled a lake for the elephant of youth to plunge in in sport, he was at once robbed of his senses by the arrows of love, that fell upon him in showers. He thought to himself, "Alas, this maiden, illuminated with this excessive beauty, has been framed by Mára, as a keen arrow to cleave asunder my heart." While, engaged in such reflections, he watched her long, the day passed away for him, as if he were a chakraváka. Then Madanasená entered her house, and grief at no longer beholding her entered the breast of Dharmadatta. And the sun sank red into the western main, as if inflamed with the fire of grief at seeing her no more. And the moon, that was surpassed by the lotus of her countenance, knowing that that fair-faced one had gone in for the night, slowly mounted upward.

In the meanwhile Dharmadatta went home, and thinking upon that fair one, he remained tossing to and fro on his bed, smitten by the rays of the moon. And though his friends and relations eagerly questioned him, he gave them no answer, being bewildered by the demon of love. And in the course of the night he at length fell asleep, though with difficulty, and still he seemed to behold and court that loved one in a dream; to such lengths did his longing carry him. And in the morning he woke up, and went and saw her once more in that very garden, alone and in privacy, waiting for her attendant. So he went up to her, longing to embrace her, and falling at her feet, he tried to coax her with words tender from affection. But she said to him with great earnestness, "I am a maiden, betrothed to another, I cannot now be yours, for my father has bestowed me on the merchant Samudradatta, and I am to be married in a few days. So depart quietly, let not any one see you; it might cause mischief." But Dharmadatta said to her, "Happen what may, I cannot live without you." When the merchant's daughter heard this, she was afraid that he would use force to her, so she said to him, "Let my marriage first be celebrated here, let my father reap the long-desired fruit of bestowing a daughter in marriage; then I will certainly visit you, for your love has gained my heart." When he heard this, he said, "I love not a woman that has been embraced by another man; does the bee delight in a lotus on which another bee has settled?" When he said this to her, she replied, "Then I will visit you as soon as I am married, and afterwards I will go to my husband." But though she made this promise, he would not let her go without further assurance, so the merchant's daughter confirmed the truth of her promise with an oath. Then he let her go, and she entered her house in low spirits.

And when the lucky day had arrived, and the auspicious ceremony of marriage had taken place, she went to her husband's house and spent that day in merriment, and then retired with him. But she repelled her husband's caresses with indifference, and when he began to coax her, she burst into tears. He thought to himself, "Of a truth she cares not for me," and said to her, "Fair one, if you do not love me, I do not want you; go to your darling, whoever he may be." When she heard this, she said slowly, with downcast face, "I love you more than my life, but hear what I have to say. Rise up cheerfully, and promise me immunity from punishment; take an oath to that effect, my husband, in order that I may tell you."

When she said this, her husband reluctantly consented, and then she went on to say with shame, despondency, and fear; "A young man of the name of Dharmadatta, a friend of my brother's, saw me once alone in our garden, and smitten with love he detained me; and when he was preparing to use force, I being anxious to secure for my father the merit of giving a daughter in marriage, and to avoid all scandal, made this agreement with him; 'When I am married, I will pay you a visit, before I go to my husband;' so I must now keep my word, permit me, my husband; I will pay him a visit first, and then return to you, for I cannot transgress the law of truth which I have observed from my childhood." When Samudradatta had been thus suddenly smitten by this speech of hers, as by a down-lighting thunderbolt, being bound by the necessity of keeping his word, he reflected for a moment as follows; "Alas! she is in love with another man, she must certainly go; why should I make her break her word? Let her depart! Why should I be so eager to have her for a wife?" After he had gone through this train of thought, he gave her leave to go where she would; and she rose up, and left her husband's house.

In the meanwhile the cold-rayed moon ascended the great eastern mountain, as it were the roof of a palace, and the nymph of the eastern quarter smiled, touched by his finger. Then, though the darkness was still embracing his beloved herbs in the mountain caves and the bees were settling on another cluster of kumudas, a certain thief saw Madanasená, as she was going along alone at night, and rushing upon her, seized her by the hem of her garment. He said to her, "Who are you, and where are you going?" When he said this, she, being afraid, said, "What does that matter to you? Let me go; I have business here." Then the thief said, "How can I, who am a thief, let you go?" Hearing that, she replied, "Take my ornaments." The thief answered her, "What do I care for those gems, fair one? I will not surrender you, the ornament of the world, with your face like the moonstone, your hair black like jet, your waist like a diamond, [320] your limbs like gold, fascinating beholders with your ruby-coloured feet."

When the thief said this, the helpless merchant's daughter told him her story, and entreated him as follows, "Excuse me for a moment, that I may keep my word, and as soon as I have done that, I will quickly return to you, if you remain here. Believe me, my good man, I will never break this true promise of mine." When the thief heard that, he let her go, believing that she was a woman who would keep her word, and he remained in that very spot, waiting for her return.

She, for her part, went to that merchant Dharmadatta. And when he saw that she had come to that wood, he asked her how it happened, and then, though he had longed for her, he said to her, after reflecting a moment, "I am delighted at your faithfulness to your promise; what have I to do with you, the wife of another? So go back, as you came, before any one sees you." When he thus let her go, she said, "So be it," and leaving that place, she went to the thief, who was waiting for her in the road. He said to her, "Tell me what befell you when you arrived at the trysting-place." So she told him how the merchant let her go. Then the thief said, "Since this is so, then I also will let you go, being pleased with your truthfulness: return home with your ornaments!"

So he too let her go, and went with her to guard her, and she returned to the house of her husband, delighted at having preserved her honour. There the chaste woman entered secretly, and went delighted to her husband; and he, when he saw her, questioned her; so she told him the whole story. And Samudratta, perceiving that his good wife had kept her word without losing her honour, assumed a bright and cheerful expression, and welcomed her as a pure-minded woman, who had not disgraced her family, and lived happily with her ever afterwards.

When the Vetála had told this story in the cemetery to king Trivikramasena, he went on to say to him; "So tell me, king, which was the really generous man of those three, the two merchants and the thief? And if you know and do not tell, your head shall split into a hundred pieces."

When the Vetála said this, the king broke silence, and said to him, "Of those three the thief was the only really generous man, and not either of the two merchants. For of course her husband let her go, though she was so lovely and he had married her; how could a gentleman desire to keep a wife that was attached to another? And the other resigned her because his passion was dulled by time, and he was afraid that her husband, knowing the facts, would tell the king the next day. But the thief, a reckless evildoer, working in the dark, was really generous, to let go a lovely woman, ornaments and all."

When the Vetála heard that, he left the shoulder of the king, and returned to his own place, as before, and the king, with his great perseverance no whit dashed, again set out, as before, to bring him.

NOTE.

This story is the same as the 19th of Campbell's West Highland Tales, The Inheritance, Vol. II, pp. 16-18. Dr. Köhler, (Orient und Occident, Vol. II, p. 317), compares the Story in the 1,001 Nights of Sultan Akschid and his three sons. He tells us that it is also found in the Turkish Tales, called The Forty Vazírs, in the Turkish Tútínámah, and in Johann Andreæ's Chymische Hochzeit Christiani Rosencreutz. The form of it best known to the general reader is probably the 5th story in the Xth day of Boccacio's Decameron. The tale is no doubt originally Buddhistic, and the king's cynical remarks a later addition. Dunlop considers that Boccacio's story gave rise to Chaucer's Frankeleyne's Tale, the 12th Canto of the Orlando Inamorato, and Beaumont and Fletcher's Triumph of Honour.

Chapter LXXXV

(Vetála 11.)

Then king Trivikramasena again went and took that Vetála from the asoka-tree and put him on his shoulder, and set out with him; and as he was going along, the Vetála on his shoulder said to him; "Listen, king; I will tell you an interesting story."

Story of king Dharmadhvaja and his three very sensitive wives.

There lived of old in Ujjayiní a king of the name of Dharmadhvaja, he had three wives, who were all daughters of kings, and whom he held very dear. The first of them was called Indulekhá, the second Tárávalí, and the third Mrigánkavatí; and they were all possessed of extraordinary personal charms. And the successful king, who had conquered all his enemies, lived happily, amusing himself with all those three queens.

Once on a time, when the festival of the spring-season had arrived, he went with all those three wives to the garden to amuse himself. There he beheld the creepers weighed down with flowers, looking like Cupid's bows, with rows of bees for strings, strung for him by the Spring. And the king, who resembled the mighty Indra, hearing the notes which the cuckoos uttered on the sprays of the garden-trees, like the edict of Love, the god of enjoyment, betook himself with his wives to wine, which is the very life of that intoxication, by which Cupid lives. And he joyed in drinking the liquor first tasted by them, perfumed with their sighs, red as their bimba lips.

Then, as Indulekhá was playfully pulling the hair of the king, a blue lotus leaped from her ear, and fell on her lap. Immediately a wound was produced on the front of her thigh by the blow, and the delicate princess exclaimed "Oh! Oh!" and fainted. When the king and the attendants saw that, they were distracted with grief, but they gradually brought her round with cold water and fanning. Then the king took her to the palace, and had a bandage applied to the wound, and treated her with preparations made by the physicians.

And at night, seeing that she was going on well, the king retired with the second, Tárávalí, to an apartment on the roof of the palace exposed to the rays of the moon. There the rays of the moon, entering through the lattice, fell on the body of the queen, who was sleeping by the king's side, where it was exposed by her garment blowing aside. Immediately she woke up, exclaiming, "Alas! I am burnt," and rose up from the bed rubbing her limbs. The king woke up in a state of alarm, crying out, "What is the meaning of this?" Then he got up and saw that blisters had been produced on the queen's body. And the queen Tárávalí said to him when he questioned her, "The moon's rays falling on my exposed body have done this to me." When she said this and burst into tears, the king, being distressed, summoned her attendants, who ran there in trepidation and alarm. And he had made for her a bed of lotus-leaves, sprinkled with water, and sandal-wood lotion applied to her body.

In the meanwhile his third wife Mrigánkavatí heard of it, and left her palace to come to him. And when she had got into the open air, she heard distinctly, as the night was still, the sound of a pestle pounding rice in a distant house. The moment the gazelle-eyed one heard it, she said, "Alas I am killed," and she sat down on the path, shaking her hands in an agony of pain. Then the girl turned back, and was conducted by her attendants to her own chamber, where she fell on the bed, and groaned. And when her weeping attendants examined her, they saw that her hands were covered with bruises, and looked like lotuses upon which black bees had settled. So they went and told the king. The king Dharmadhvaja arrived in a state of consternation, and asked his beloved what it all meant. Then the tortured queen showed him her hands, and said to him, "As soon as I heard the sound of the pestle, these became covered with bruises." Then the king, filled with surprise and despondency, had sandal-wood unguent and other remedies applied to her hands, in order to allay the pain.

He reflected, "One of my queens has been wounded by the fall of a lotus, the second has had her body burned even by the rays of the moon, and alas! the third has got such terrible bruises produced on her hands by the mere sound of a pestle. By a dispensation of fate the excessive delicacy, which is the distinguishing excellence of my queens, has now become in them all, at one and the same time, a defect." Engaged in such reflections the king wandered round the women's apartments, and the night of three watches passed for him as tediously as if it had consisted of a hundred watches. But the next morning, the physician and surgeons took measures, which caused him soon to be comforted by the recovery of his wives.

When the Vetála had told this very wonderful story, he put this question to king Trivikramasena from his seat on his shoulder: "Tell me, king, which was the most delicate of those queens; and the curse I before mentioned will take effect, if you know and do not say."

When the king heard that, he answered, "The most delicate of all was the lady upon whose hand bruises were produced by merely hearing the sound of the pestle, without touching it. But the other two were no match for her, because the wound of the one and the blisters of the other were produced by contact with the lotus and the rays of the moon respectively."

When the king had said this, the Vetála again left his shoulder, and returned to his own place, and the persevering king again set out to fetch him.

NOTE.

Rohde in his Griechische Novellistik, p. 62, compares with this a story told by Timæus of a Sybarite, who saw a husbandman hoeing a field, and contracted a rupture from it. Another Sybarite, to whom he told his piteous tale, got ear-ache from hearing it. Oesterley in his German translation of the Baitál Pachísí, p. 199, refers us to Lancereau, No. 5, pp. 396-399, and Babington's Vetála Cadai, No. 11, p. 58. He points out that Grimm, in his Kindermärchen, 3, p. 238, quotes a similar incident from the travels of the three sons of Giaffar. Out of four princesses, one faints because a rose-twig is thrown into her face among some roses, a second shuts her eyes in order not to see the statue of a man, a third says "Go away, the hairs in your fur-cloak run into me," and the fourth covers her face, fearing that some of the fish in a tank may belong to the male sex. He also quotes a striking parallel from the Élite des contes du Sieur d'Ouville. Four ladies dispute as to which of them is the most delicate. One has been lame for three months owing to a rose-leaf having fallen on her foot, another has had three ribs broken by a sheet in her bed having been crumpled, a third has held her head on one side for six weeks owing to one half of her head having three or four more hairs on it than the other, a fourth has broken a blood-vessel by a slight movement, and the rupture cannot be healed without breaking the whole limb.

Chapter LXXXVI

(Vetála 12)

Then king Trivikramasena again went to the asoka-tree, and recovered the Vetála, and placed him on his shoulder, and set out with him again silently, as before. Then the Vetála again said to him from his seat on his shoulder; "King, I love you much because you are so indomitable, so listen, I will tell you this delightful story to amuse you."

Story of king Yasahketu, his Vidyádharí wife, and his faithful minister.

In the land of Anga there was a young king named Yasahketu, like a second and unburnt god of love come to earth to conceal his body. [321] He conquered by his great valour all his enemies; and as Indra has Vrihaspati for a minister, he had Dírghadarsin. Now, in course of time, this king, infatuated with his youth and beauty, entrusted to that minister his realm, from which all enemies had been eradicated, and became devoted to pleasure only. He remained continually in the harem instead of the judgment-hall; he listened to delightful songs in the womens' apartments, instead of hearkening to the voice of his well-wishers; in his thoughtlessness, he was devoted to latticed windows and not to the affairs of his kingdom, though the latter also were full of holes.

But the great minister Dírghadarsin continued unweariedly upholding the burden of his kingdom's cares, day and night. And a general rumour spread to the following effect, "Dírghadarsin has plunged in dissipation the sovereign, who is satisfied with the mere name of king, and so he manages now to enjoy himself all his master's power." Then the minister Dírghadarsin said of himself to his wife Medhávatí, "My dear, as the king is addicted to pleasure, and I do his work, a calumny has been circulated among the people against me, to the effect that I have devoured the realm. And a general rumour, though false, injures even great men in this world; was not Ráma compelled by a slanderous report to abandon his wife Sítá? So what course must I adopt in this emergency?" When the minister said this, his firm-souled wife Medhávatí, [322] who was rightly named, said to him; "Take leave of the king on the pretext of a pilgrimage to holy bathing-places; it is expedient, great-minded Sir, that you should go to a foreign land for a certain time. So you will be seen to be free from ambition, and the calumny against you will die out; and while you are absent, the king will bear the burden of the kingdom himself, and then this vicious tendency of his will gradually diminish, and when you return, you will be able to discharge your office of minister without blame."

When Dírghadarsin's wife said this to him, he said, "I will do so," and he went and said to the king Yasahketu in the course of conversation, "Give me leave to depart, king, I am going on a pilgrimage for some days, for my heart is set on that religious duty." When the king heard that, he said, "Do not do so! Cannot you, without going on pilgrimages, perform in your house noble religious duties, such as charity and so on, which will procure you heaven?" When the minister heard this, he said, "King, that purity which comes of wealth is sought by charity and so on, but holy bathing-places have an everlasting purity. And a wise man must visit them, while he is young; for otherwise how can he be sure of reaching them, as this body cannot be relied on?" While he was saying this, and the king was still trying to dissuade him, a warder entered, and said to the king, "King, the sun is plunging into the middle of the lake of heaven, so rise up, this is the hour appointed for you to bathe in, and it is rapidly passing away." When the king heard this, he immediately rose up to bathe, and the minister, whose heart was set on pilgrimage, bowed before him, and went home to his own house.

There he left his wife, whom he forbade to follow him, and managed cunningly to set out in secret, without even his servants suspecting his departure. And alone he wandered from country to country with resolute perseverance, and visited holy bathing-places, and at last he reached the land of Paundra. In a certain city in that country not far from the sea, he entered a temple of Siva, and sat down in a courtyard attached to it. There a merchant, named Nidhidatta, who had come to worship the god, saw him exhausted with the heat of the sun's rays, dusty with his long journey. The merchant, being a hospitable man, seeing that the traveller, who was in such a state, wore a Bráhmanical thread, and had auspicious marks, concluded that he was a distinguished Bráhman, and took him home to his own house. There he honoured him with a bath, food, and other refreshments in the most luxurious style, and when his fatigue was removed, he said to him, "Who are you, whence do you come, and where are you going?" And the Bráhman gave him this reserved answer; "I am a Bráhman of the name of Dírghadarsin; I have come here on pilgrimage from the land of Anga." Then the merchant prince Nidhidatta said to him, "I am about to go on a trading expedition to the Island of Gold; so you must live in my house, until I return; and then you will have recovered from the fatigue which you have incurred by roaming to holy places, and you can go home." When Dírghadarsin heard that, he said, "Why should I remain here? I will go with you, great merchant, if you like." The good man said, "So be it," and then the minister, who had long discarded the use of beds, spent that night in his house.

The next day he went with that merchant to the sea, and embarked on a ship laden with his merchandise. He travelled along in that ship, and beheld the awful and wonderful ocean, and in course of time reached the Isle of Gold. What had a man holding the office of prime minister to do with sea-voyages? But what will not men of honour do to prevent their fame from being sullied? So he remained some time in that island with that merchant Nidhidatta, who was engaged in buying and selling.

And as he was returning with him on the ship, he suddenly saw a wave rise up, and then a wishing-tree arise out of the sea; it was adorned with boughs glittering with gold, which were embellished with sprays of coral, and bore lovely fruits and flowers of jewels. And he beheld on its trunk a maiden, alluring on account of her wonderful beauty, reclining on a gem-bestudded couch. He reflected for a moment, "Dear me! What can this be?" And thereupon the maiden, who had a lyre in her hand, began to sing this song, "Whatever seed of works any man has sown in a former life, of that he, without doubt, eats the fruit; for even fate cannot alter what has been done in a previous state of existence." When the heavenly maiden had sung this song, she immediately plunged into that sea, with the wishing-tree, and the couch on which she was reclining. Then Dírghadarsin reflected, "I have to-day seen a wonderful sight; one would never have expected to find in the sea a tree, with a heavenly maiden singing on it, appearing and disappearing as soon as beheld. Or rather, this admirable treasure-house of the sea is ever the same; did not Lakshmí, and the moon, and the Párijáta tree, and other precious things come out of it?" But the steersman and the rest of the crew, perceiving that Dírghadarsin was astonished and puzzled, said to him, "This lovely woman always appears here in the same way, and sinks down again at once; but this sight is new to you."

This is what they said to the minister, but he still continued in a state of wonder, and so he reached in course of time on the ship, with that Nidhidatta, the coast for which they were making. There the merchant disembarked his wares, gladdening the hearts of his servants, and the minister went in high spirits with him to his house, which was full of mirth at his arrival. And after he had remained there a short time, he said to Nidhidatta, "Merchant prince, I have long reposed comfortably in your house, now I wish to return to my own land; I wish you all happiness." With these words he took leave of the merchant prince, who was sorely unwilling to let him go, and with his virtue for his only companion he set out thence, and having in course of time accomplished the long journey, he reached his own native land of Anga.

There the spies, who had been placed by king Yasahketu to watch for his return, saw him coming, before he entered the city, and informed the king; and then the king, who had been much afflicted by his absence, went out from the city to meet him; and came up to him and welcomed him with an embrace. Then the king conducted into the palace his minister, who was emaciated and begrimed with his long journey, and said to him, "Why did you leave me, bringing your mind to this cruel heartless step, and your body into this squalid state from its being deprived of unguents? [323] But who knows the way of the mighty god Fate, in that you suddenly fixed your mind on pilgrimage to holy waters and other sacred places? So tell me, what lands have you wandered through, and what novel sights have you seen?" Then Dírghadarsin described his journey to the Island of Gold, in all its stages, and so was led to tell the king of that maiden, the jewel of the three worlds, whom he had seen rise out of the sea, and sit on the wishing-tree singing. All this he narrated exactly as it took place.

The moment the king heard all this, he fell so deeply in love with her, that he considered his kingdom and life valueless without her. And taking his minister aside, he said to him, "I must certainly see that maiden, otherwise I cannot live. I will go by the way which you have described, after worshipping Fate. And you must not dissuade, and you must by no means follow me, for I will travel alone incognito, and in the meanwhile you must take care of my kingdom. Do not disobey my order, otherwise my death will lie at your door." Thus spake the king, and refused to hear his minister's answer, and then dismissed him to his own house to see his relations, who had long been wishing for his return. There, in the midst of great rejoicing Dírghadarsin remained despondent; how can good ministers be happy, when their lord's vices are incurable?

And the next night the king Yasahketu set out, disguised as an ascetic, having entrusted his kingdom to the care of that minister. And on the way, as he was going along, he saw a hermit, named Kusanábha, and he bowed before him. The hermit said to the king who was disguised as an ascetic, "Go on your way boldly; by going to sea in a ship with the merchant Lakshmídatta you shall obtain that maiden whom you desire." This speech delighted the king exceedingly, and bowing again before the hermit, he continued his journey; and after crossing many countries, rivers, and mountains, he reached the sea, which seemed to be full of eagerness to entertain him. Its eddies looked like eyes expanded to gaze at him, eyes of which waves were the curved brows, and which were white with shrill-sounding conchs for pupils. On the shore he met the merchant Lakshmídatta spoken of by the hermit, who was on the point of setting out for the Isle of Gold. The merchant prostrated himself before him, when he saw the signs of his royal birth, such as the discus-marked foot-print and so on; and the king embarked on the ship with him, and set out with him on the sea. And when the ship had reached the middle of the ocean, that maiden arose from the water, seated on the trunk of the wishing-tree, and while the king was gazing at her, as a partridge at the moonlight, she sang a song which the accompaniment of her lyre made more charming; "Whatever seed of works any man has sown in a former life, of that he, without doubt, eats the fruit, for even Fate cannot alter what has been done in a previous state of existence. So a man is helplessly borne along to experience precisely that lot which Fate has appointed for him, in that place and in that manner which Fate has decreed; of this there can be no doubt." When the king heard her singing this song, and thus setting forth the thing that must be, he was smitten with the arrow of love, and remained for some time motionless, gazing at her. Then he began, with bowed head, to praise the sea in the following words, "Hail, to thee, store-house of jewels, of unfathomable heart, since by concealing this lovely nymph thou hast cheated Vishnu out of Lakshmí. So I throw myself on thy protection, thou who canst not be sounded even by gods, the refuge of mountains [324] that retain their wings; grant me to obtain my desire." While he was uttering this, the maiden disappeared in the sea, with the tree, and when the king saw that, he flung himself into the sea after her, as if to cool the flames of love's fire.

When the merchant Lakshmídatta saw that unexpected sight, the good man thought the king had perished, and was so afflicted that he was on the point of committing suicide, but he was consoled by the following utterance, that came from the heavens, "Do not act rashly; he is not in danger, though he has plunged into the sea; this king, Yasahketu by name, has come, disguised as an ascetic, to obtain this very maiden, for she was his wife in a former state of existence, and as soon as he has won her, he shall return to his realm of Anga." Then the merchant continued his intended voyage, to accomplish his purposes.

But when king Yasahketu plunged into the sea, he suddenly beheld to his astonishment a splendid city. It gleamed with palaces that had bright pillars of precious stone, walls flashing with gold, and latticed windows of pearl. It was adorned with gardens in which were tanks with flights of steps composed of slabs of every kind of gem, and wishing-trees that granted every desire. He entered house after house in that city, which, though opulent, was uninhabited, but he could not find his beloved anywhere. Then, as he was looking about, he beheld a lofty jewelled palace, and going up to it he opened the door and went in. And when he had entered it, he beheld a solitary human form stretched out upon a gem-bestudded couch, with its whole length covered with a shawl. Wondering whether it could be that very lady, he uncovered its face with eager expectation, and saw his lady-love. Her beautiful moon-like countenance smiled, when the black robe fell from it like darkness; and she seemed like a night, illumined with moonlight, gone to visit Pátála in the day. At sight of her the king was in a state of ecstasy, like that which a man, travelling through a desert in the season of heat, experiences on beholding a river. She, for her part, opened her eyes, and when she saw that hero of auspicious form and bodily marks thus suddenly arrived, sprang from her couch in a state of excitement. She welcomed him, and with downcast countenance, seemed to honour him by flinging on his feet the full-blown lotuses of her wide-expanded eyes; and then she slowly said to him, "Who are you, and why have you come to this inaccessible lower region? And why, though your body is marked with the signs of royalty, have you undertaken the vow of an ascetic? Condescend to tell me this, distinguished Sir, if I have found favour in your sight." When the king had heard this speech of hers, he gave her this answer; "Fair one, I am the king of Anga, by name Yasahketu, and I heard from a friend on whom I can rely, that you were to be seen here every day in the sea. So I assumed this disguise, and abandoned my kingdom for your sake, and I have come here and followed you down through the sea. So tell me who you are." When he said this, she answered him with mixed feelings of shame, affection, and joy; "There is a fortunate king of the Vidyádharas named Mrigánkasena; know that I am his daughter, Mrigánkavatí by name. That father of mine, for some reason unknown to me, has left me alone in this city of his, and has gone somewhere or other with his subjects. So I, feeling melancholy in my solitary abode, rise up out of the sea on a moveable [325] wishing-tree, and sing of the decrees of Fate." When she had said this, the brave king, remembering the speech of the hermit, courted her so assiduously with speeches tender with love, that she was overpowered with affection, and promised to become his wife at once, but insisted on the following condition; "My husband, for four days in every month, the fourteenth and eighth of the white and black fortnights, I am not my own mistress; [326] and whithersoever I may go on those days, you must not question me on the subject nor forbid me, for there is a reason for it." [327] When the heavenly maiden had stated in these words the only condition on which she would consent to marry the king, he agreed to it, and married her by the Gándharva form of marriage.

And one day, while the king was living happily with Mrigánkavatí, she said to him, "You must stop here, while I go somewhere for a certain business, for to-day is the fourteenth day of the black fortnight of which I spoke to you. And while you are waiting here, my husband, you must not enter this crystal pavilion, lest you should fall into a lake there and go to the world of men." When she had said this, she took leave of him, and went out of that city, and the king took his sword and followed her secretly, determined to penetrate the mystery.

Then the king saw a terrible Rákshasa approaching, looking like Hades embodied in a human shape, with his cavernous mouth, black as night, opened wide. That Rákshasa uttered an appalling roar, and swooping down on Mrigánkavatí, put her in his mouth and swallowed her. When the mighty king saw that, he was at once, so to speak, on fire with excessive anger, and rushing forward with his great sword, black as a snake that has cast its slough, [328] drawn from the sheath, he cut off with it the head of the charging Rákshasa, the lips of which were firmly pressed together. Then the burning fire of the king's anger was quenched by the stream of blood that poured forth from the trunk of the Rákshasa, but not the fire of his grief at the loss of his beloved. Then the king was blinded with the darkness of bewilderment, and at a loss what to do, when suddenly Mrigánkavatí cleft asunder the body of that Rákshasa, which was dark as a cloud, and emerged alive and uninjured, illuminating all the horizon like a spotless moon. When the king saw his beloved thus delivered from danger, he rushed eagerly forward and embraced her, exclaiming, "Come! Come!" And he said to her, "My beloved, what does all this mean? Is it a dream or a delusion?" When the king asked the Vidyádharí this question, she remembered the truth, and said: "Listen, my husband! This is no delusion, nor is it a dream; but such was the curse imposed upon me by my father, a king of the Vidyádharas. For my father, who formerly lived in this city, though he had many sons, was so fond of me, that he would never take food when I was not present. But I, being devoted to the worship of Siva, used always to come to this uninhabited place on the fourteenth and eighth days of the two fortnights.

"And one fourteenth day I came here and worshipped Gaurí for a long time; and, as fate would have it, so ardent was my devotion that the day came to an end before my worship was finished. That day my father ate nothing and drank nothing, though he was hungry and thirsty, as he waited for me, but he was very angry with me. And when I returned in the evening with downcast countenance, conscious of my fault, his love for me was so completely overpowered by the force of Destiny, that he cursed me in the following words; 'As owing to your arrogance I was devoured to-day by hunger, so on the eighth and fourteenth days of the two fortnights of every month, and on those days only, a Rákshasa named Kritántasantrása shall swallow you, when you go to that place outside the city to worship Siva; and on every occasion you shall make your way through his heart and come out alive. But you shall not remember the curse, nor the pain of being swallowed; and you shall remain alone here.' [329] When my father had uttered this curse, I managed gradually to propitiate him, and after thinking a little he appointed this termination to my curse; 'When a king named Yasahketu, lord of the land of Anga, shall become your husband, and shall see you swallowed by the Rákshasa, and shall slay him, then you shall issue from his heart, and shall be delivered from your curse, and you shall call to mind your curse and the other circumstances, and all your supernatural sciences.'

"When he had appointed this end of my curse, he left me alone here, and went with his retinue to the mountain of Nishada in the world of men. And I remained here, thus engaged, bewildered by the curse. But that curse has now come to an end, and I remember all. So I will immediately go to my father on the Nishada mountain; the law, that governs us celestial beings, is, that when our curse is at an end we return to our own place. You are perfectly free to remain here or go to your kingdom, as you like." When she had said this, the king was sorry, and he made this request to her; "Fair one, do me the favour not to go for seven days. Let us in the meanwhile cheat the pain of parting by amusing ourselves here in the garden. After that you shall go to your father's abode, and I will return to mine." When he made this proposal, the fair one agreed to it. Then the king diverted himself with her for six days in the gardens, and in tanks, the lotus-eyes of which were full of tears, and that seemed to toss aloft their waves like hands, and in the cries of their swans and cranes to utter this plaintive appeal, "Do not leave us!" And on the seventh day he artfully decoyed his darling to that pavilion, where was the tank that served as a magic gate [330] conducting to the world of men; and throwing his arms round her neck, he plunged into that tank, and rose up with her from a tank in the garden of his own city. When the gardeners saw that he had arrived with his beloved, they were delighted, and they went and told his minister Dírghadarsin. And the minister came and fell at his feet, and seeing that he had brought with him the lady of his aspirations, he and the citizens escorted him into the palace. And he thought to himself, "Dear me! I wonder how the king has managed to obtain this celestial nymph, of whom I caught a transient glimpse in the ocean, as one sees in the heaven a lightning-flash. But the fact is, whatever lot is written for a man by the Disposer in the inscription on his forehead, infallibly befalls him, however improbable."

Such were the reflections of the prime minister; while the rest of his subjects were full of joy at the return of the king, and of astonishment at his having won the celestial nymph. But Mrigánkavatí, seeing that the king had returned to his own kingdom, longed, as the seven days were completed, to return to the home of the Vidyádharas. But the science of flying up into the air did not appear to her, though she called it to mind. Then she felt as one robbed of a treasure, and was in the deepest despondency. And the king said to her, "Why do you suddenly appear despondent, tell me, my darling?" Then the Vidyádharí answered him, "Because I remained so long, after I had been released from my curse, out of love for you, my science has abandoned me, and I have lost the power of returning to my heavenly home." When king Yasahketu heard this, he said, "Ha! I have now won this Vidyádharí," and so his rejoicing was complete.

When the minister Dírghadarsin saw this, he went home, and at night, when he was in bed, he suddenly died of a broken heart. And Yasahketu, after he had mourned for him, remained long bearing the burden of empire himself, with Mrigánkavatí for his consort.

When the Vetála, seated on the shoulder of king Trivikramasena, had told him this story on the way, he went on to say to him, "So tell me, king; why did the heart of that great minister suddenly break, when his master had thus succeeded so completely? Did his heart break through grief at not having won the nymph himself? Or was it because he longed for the sovereign power, and thus was disappointed at the king's return? And if you know this, king, and do not tell me on the spot, your merit will at once disappear, and your head will fly in pieces." When king Trivikramasena heard that, he said to the Vetála; "Neither of these two feelings actuated that excellent and virtuous minister. But he said to himself; 'This king neglected his kingdom out of devotion to mere human females, much more will he do so now, that he is attached to a heavenly nymph. So, though I have gone through much suffering, the disease has been aggravated by it, instead of being cured, as I had hoped.' It was under the influence of such reflections that the minister's heart broke." When the king had said this, that juggling Vetála returned to his own place, and the resolute king ran swiftly after him, to bring him back again by force.

Chapter LXXXVII

(Vetála 13.)

Then the king went back to the asoka-tree, [331] and taking the Vetála from it, placed him on his shoulder, and brought him along, and as he was going along with him, the Vetála again said to the king, "Listen, king, I will tell you a short story."

The story of Harisvámin, who first lost his wife, and then his life.

There is a city of the name of Váránasí, the abode of Siva. In it there lived a Bráhman, named Devasvámin, honoured by the king. And that rich Bráhman had a son named Harisvámin; and he had an exceedingly lovely wife, named Lávanyavatí. I think the Disposer must have made her after he had acquired skill by making Tilottamá and the other nymphs of heaven, for she was of priceless beauty and loveliness.

Now, one night Harisvámin fell asleep, as he was reposing with her in a palace cool with the rays of the moon. At that very moment a Vidyádhara prince, by name Madanavega, roaming about at will, came that way through the air. He saw that Lávanyavatí sleeping by the side of her husband, and her robe, that had slipped aside, revealed her exquisitely moulded limbs. His heart was captivated by her beauty; and blinded by love, he immediately swooped down, and taking her up in his arms asleep, flew off with her through the air.

Immediately her husband, the young man Harisvámin, woke up, and not seeing his beloved, he rose up in a state of distraction. He said to himself, "What can this mean? Where has she gone? I wonder if she is angry with me. Or has she hidden herself to find out my real feelings, and is making fun of me?" Distracted by many surmises of this kind, he wandered hither and thither that night, looking for her on the roof, and in the turrets of the palace. He even searched in the palace-garden, and when he could not find her anywhere, being scorched with the fire of grief, he sobbed and lamented, "Alas! my beloved with face like the moon's orb, fair as the moonlight; did this night grudge your existence, hating your charms that rival hers [332]? That very moon, that, vanquished by your beauty, seemed to be in fear, and comforted me with its rays cool as sandalwood, now that I am bereaved of you, seems to have seen its opportunity, and smites me with them, as if with burning coals, or arrows dipped in poison." While Harisvámin was uttering these laments, the night at last slowly passed away, not so his grief at his bereavement.

The next morning the sun dispelled with his rays the deep darkness that covered the world, but could not dispel the dense darkness of despondency that had settled on him. The sound of his bitter lamentations, that seemed to have been reinforced by wailing power bestowed on him by the chakravákas, whose period of separation was at an end with the night, was magnified a hundredfold. The young Bráhman, though his relations tried to comfort him, could not recover his self-command, now that he was bereaved of his beloved, but was all inflamed with the fire of separation. And he went from place to place, exclaiming with tears, "Here she stood, here she bathed, here she adorned herself, and here she amused herself."

But his friends and relations said to him, "She is not dead, so why do you kill yourself? If you remain alive, you will certainly recover her somewhere or other. So adopt a resolute tone, and go in search of your beloved; there is nothing in this world that a resolute man, who exerts himself, cannot obtain." When Harisvámin had been exhorted in these terms by his friends and relations, he managed at last, after some days, to recover his spirits by the aid of hope. And he said to himself, "I will give away all that I have to the Bráhmans, and visit all the holy waters, and wash away all my sins. For if I wipe out my sin, I may perhaps, in the course of my wanderings, find that beloved of mine." After going through these reflections suitable to the occasion, he got up and bathed, and performed all his customary avocations, and the next day he bestowed on the Bráhmans at a solemn sacrifice various meats and drinks, and gave away to them all his wealth without stint.

Then he left his country, with his Bráhman birth as his only fortune, and proceeded to go round to all the holy bathing-places in order to recover his beloved. And as he was roaming about, there came upon him the terrible lion of the hot season, with the blazing sun for mouth, and with a mane composed of his fiery rays. And the winds blew with excessive heat, as if warmed by the breath of sighs furnaced forth by travellers grieved at being separated from their wives. And the tanks, with their supply of water diminished by the heat, and their drying white mud, appeared to be shewing their broken hearts. And the trees by the roadside seemed to lament [333] on account of the departure of the glory of spring, making their wailing heard in the shrill moaning of their bark, [334] with leaves, as it were lips, parched with heat. At that season Harisvámin, wearied out with the heat of the sun, with bereavement, hunger and thirst, and continual travelling, disfigured, [335] emaciated and dirty, and pining for food, reached in the course of his wanderings, a certain village, and found in it the house of a Bráhman called Padmanábha, who was engaged in a sacrifice. And seeing that many Bráhmans were eating in his house, he stood leaning against the door-post, silent and motionless. And the good wife of that Bráhman named Padmanábha, seeing him in this position, felt pity for him, and reflected; "Alas! mighty is hunger! Whom will it not bring down? For here stands a man at the door, who appears to be a householder, desiring food, with downcast countenance; evidently come from a long journey, and with all his senses impaired by hunger. So is not he a man to whom food ought to be given?" Having gone through these reflections, the kind woman took up in her hands a vessel full of rice boiled in milk, with ghee and sugar, and brought it, and courteously presented it to him, and said; "Go and eat this somewhere on the bank of the lake, for this place is unfit to eat in, as it is filled with feasting Bráhmans."

He said, "I will do so," and took the vessel of rice, and placed it at no great distance under a banyan-tree on the edge of the lake; and he washed his hands and feet in the lake, and rinsed his mouth, and then came back in high spirits to eat the rice. But while he was thus engaged, a kite, holding a black cobra with its beak and claws, came from some place or other, and sat on that tree. And it so happened that poisonous saliva issued from the mouth of that dead snake, which the bird had captured and was carrying along. The saliva fell into the dish of rice which was placed underneath the tree, and Harisvámin, without observing it, came and ate up that rice. [336] As soon as in his hunger he had devoured all that food, he began to suffer terrible agonies produced by the poison. He exclaimed, "When fate has turned against a man, everything in this world turns also; accordingly this rice dressed with milk, ghee and sugar, has become poison to me."

Thus speaking, Harisvámin, tortured with the poison, tottered to the house of that Bráhman, who was engaged in the sacrifice, and said to his wife; "The rice, which you gave me, has poisoned me; so fetch me quickly a charmer who can counteract the operation of poison; otherwise you will be guilty of the death of a Bráhman." When Harisvámin had said this to the good woman, who was beside herself to think what it could all mean, his eyes closed, and he died.

Accordingly the Bráhman, who was engaged in a sacrifice, drove out of his house his wife, though she was innocent and hospitable, being enraged with her for the supposed murder of her guest. The good woman, for her part, having incurred groundless blame from her charitable deed, and so become branded with infamy, went to a holy bathing-place to perform penance.

Then there was a discussion before the superintendent of religion, as to which of the four parties, the kite, the snake, and the couple who gave the rice, were guilty of the murder of a Bráhman, but the question was not decided. [337]

"Now you, king Trivikramasena, must tell me, which was guilty of the murder of a Bráhman; and if you do not, you will incur the before-mentioned curse."

When the king heard this from the Vetála, he was forced by the curse to break silence, and he said, "No one of them could be guilty of the crime; certainly not the serpent, for how could he be guilty of anything, when he was the helpless prey of his enemy, who was devouring him? To come to the kite; what offence did he commit in bringing his natural food which he had happened to find, and eating it, when he was hungry? And how could either of the couple, that gave the food, be in fault, since they were both people exclusively devoted to righteousness, not likely to commit a crime? Therefore I think the guilt of slaying a Bráhman would attach to any person, who should be so foolish as, for want of sufficient reflection, to attribute it to either of them."

When the king had said this, the Vetála again left his shoulder, and went to his own place, and the resolute king again followed him.

Chapter LXXXVIII

(Vetála 14.)

Then king Trivikramasena went to the asoka-tree, and again got hold of the Vetála, and took him on his shoulder; and when the king had set out, the Vetála again said to him, "King, you are tired; so listen, I will tell you an interesting tale.

Story of the Merchant's daughter who fell in love with a thief.

There is a city of the name of Ayodhyá, which was the capital of Vishnu, when he was incarnate as Ráma, the destroyer of the Rákshasa race. In it there lived a mighty king, of the name of Víraketu, who defended this earth, as a rampart defends a city. During the reign of that king there lived in that city a great merchant, named Ratnadatta, who was the head of the mercantile community. And there was born to him, by his wife Nandayantí, a daughter named Ratnavatí, who was obtained by propitiating the deities. And that intelligent girl grew up in her father's house, and as her body grew, her innate qualities of beauty, gracefulness, and modesty developed also. And when she attained womanhood, not only great merchants, but even kings asked her in marriage from her father. But she disliked the male sex so much that she did not desire even Indra for a husband, and would not even hear of marriage, being determined to die, sooner than consent to it. That made her father secretly sorrow much, on account of his affection for her, and the report of her conduct spread all over the city of Ayodhyá.

At that time all the citizens were continually being plundered by thieves, so they assembled together, and made this complaint to king Víraketu; "Your Majesty, we are continually being robbed by thieves every night, and we cannot detect them, so let your Highness take the necessary steps." When the king had received this petition from the citizens, he stationed watchmen in plain clothes all round the city, in order to try and discover the thieves.

But they could not find them out, and the city went on being robbed; so one night the king himself went out to watch; and as he was roaming about armed, he saw in a certain part of the town a single individual going along the rampart. He shewed great dexterity in his movements, as he made his footfall perfectly noiseless, and he often looked behind him with eyes anxiously rolling. The king said to himself, "Without doubt this is the thief, who sallies out by himself and plunders my city;" so he went up to him. Then the thief, seeing the king, said to him, "Who are you," and the king answered him, "I am a thief." Then the thief said, "Bravo! you are my friend, as you belong to the same profession as myself; so come to my house, I will entertain you." When the king heard that, he consented, and went with him to his dwelling, which was in an underground cavern in a forest. It was luxuriously and magnificently furnished, illuminated by blazing lamps, and looked like a second Pátála, not governed by king Bali.

When the king had entered, and had taken a seat, the robber went into the inner rooms of his cave-dwelling. At that moment a female slave came and said to the king, "Great Sir, how came you to enter this mouth of death? This man is a notable thief; no doubt, when he comes out from those rooms, he will do you some injury: I assure you, he is treacherous; so leave this place at once." When the king heard this, he left the place at once, and went to his own palace and got ready his forces that very night.

And when his army was ready for battle, he came and blockaded the entrance of that robber's cave with his troops, who sounded all their martial instruments. [338] Then the brave robber, as his hold was blockaded, knew that his secret had been discovered, and he rushed out to fight, determined to die. And when he came out, he displayed superhuman prowess in battle; alone, armed with sword and shield, he cut off the trunks of elephants, he slashed off the legs of horses, and lopped off the heads of soldiers. When he had made this havoc among the soldiers, the king himself attacked him. And the king, who was a skilful swordsman, by a dexterous trick of fence forced his sword from his hand, and then the dagger which he drew; and as he was now disarmed, the king threw away his own weapon, and grappling with him, flung him on the earth, and captured him alive. And he brought him back as a prisoner to his own capital, with all his wealth. And he gave orders that he should be put to death by impalement next morning.

Now, when that robber was being conducted with beat of drum to the place of execution, that merchant's daughter Ratnavatí saw him from her palace. Though he was wounded, and his body was begrimed with dust, she was distracted with love as soon as she saw him, so she went and said to her father Ratnadatta, "I select as my husband this man here, who is being led off to execution, so ransom him from the king, my father; if you will not, I shall follow him to the other world." When her father heard this he said, "My daughter, what is this that you say? Before you would not accept suitors endowed with all virtues, equal to the god of love. How comes it that you are now in love with an infamous brigand chief?" Though her father used this argument, and others of the same kind with her, she remained fixed in her determination. Then the merchant went quickly to the king, and offered him all his wealth, if he would grant the robber his life. But the king would not make over to him, even for hundreds of crores of gold pieces, that thief who had robbed on such a gigantic scale, and whom he had captured at the risk of his own life. Then the father returned disappointed, and his daughter made up her mind to follow the thief to the other world, though her relations tried to dissuade her; so she bathed, and got into a palanquin, and went to the spot where his execution was taking place, followed by her father and mother and the people, all weeping.

In the meanwhile the robber had been impaled by the executioners, and as his life was ebbing away on the stake, he saw her coming there with her kinsfolk. And when he heard the whole story from the people, he wept for a moment, and then he laughed a little, and then died on the stake. Then the merchant's virtuous daughter had the thief's body taken down from the stake, and she ascended the funeral pyre with it. [339]

And at that very moment the holy Siva, who was invisibly present in the cemetery, spake from the air, "Faithful wife, I am pleased with thy devotedness to thy self-chosen husband, so crave a boon of me." When she heard that, she worshipped and prayed the god of gods to grant her the following boon, "Lord, may my father, who has now no sons, have a hundred, for otherwise, as he has no children but me, he would abandon his life." [340] When the good woman had said this, the god once more spake to her, saving, "Let thy father have a hundred sons! choose another boon; for such a steadfastly good woman, as thou art, deserves something more than this."

When she heard this, she said, "If the Lord is pleased with me, then let this husband of mine rise up alive, and be henceforth a well conducted man!" Thereupon Siva, invisible in the air, uttered these words, "Be it so; let thy husband rise up alive, and lead henceforth a life of virtue, and let king Víraketu be pleased with him!" And immediately the robber rose up alive with unwounded limbs.

Then the merchant Ratnadatta was delighted, and astonished at the same time; and with his daughter Ratnavatí and the bandit his son-in-law, and his delighted relations, he entered his own palace, and as he had obtained from the god the promise of sons, he held a feast suitable to his own joy on the occasion. And when king Víraketu heard what had taken place, he was pleased, and he immediately summoned that heroic thief, and made him commander of his army. And thereupon the heroic thief gave up his dishonest life, and married the merchant's daughter, and led a respectable life, honoured by the king.

When the Vetála, seated on the shoulder of king Trivikramasena, had told him this tale, he asked him the following question, menacing him with the before-mentioned curse; "Tell me, king, why that thief, when impaled, first wept and then laughed, when he saw the merchant's daughter come with her father." Then the king said; "He wept for sorrow that he had not been able to repay the merchant for his gratuitous kindness to him; and he laughed out of astonishment, as he said to himself, 'What! has this maiden, after rejecting kings who asked for her hand, fallen in love with me? In truth a woman's heart is an intricate labyrinth.'" When the king had said this, the mighty Vetála, by means of the magic power which he possessed, again left the king's shoulder and returned to his station on the tree, and the king once more went to fetch him.

Chapter LXXXIX

(Vetála 15.)

Then king Trivikramasena again went back to the asoka-tree and took the Vetála from it, and set out with him once more; and as the king was going along, the Vetála, perched on his shoulder, said to him; "Listen, king, I will tell you another story."

Story of the magic globule.

There was in the kingdom of Nepála a city named Sivapura, and in it there lived of old time a king rightly named Yasahketu. He devolved upon his minister, named Prajnáságara, the burden of his kingdom, and enjoyed himself in the society of his queen Chandraprabhá. And in course of time that king had born to him, by that queen, a daughter named Sasiprabhá, bright as the moon, the eye of the world.

Now in course of time she grew up to womanhood, and one day, in the month of spring, she went to a garden, with her attendants, to witness a festive procession. And in a certain part of that garden a Bráhman, of the name of Manahsvámin, the son of a rich man, who had come to see the procession, beheld her engaged in gathering flowers, raising her lithe arm, and displaying her graceful shape; and she looked charming when the grasp of her thumb and forefinger on the stalks of the flowers relaxed. When the young man Manahsvámin saw her, she at once robbed him of his heart, and he was bewildered by love and no longer master of his feelings. [341] He said to himself, "Can this be Rati come in person to gather the flowers accumulated by spring, in order to make arrows for the god of love? Or is it the presiding goddess of the wood, come to worship the spring?" While he was making these surmises, the princess caught sight of him. And as soon as she saw him, looking like a second god of love created with a body, she forgot her flowers, and her limbs, and her own personal identity.

While those two were thus overpowered by the passion of mutual love at first sight, a loud shout of alarm was raised, and they both looked with uplifted heads to see what it could mean. Then there came that way an elephant, rushing along with its elephant-hook hanging down, that driven furious by perceiving the smell of another elephant, [342] had broken its fastenings, and rushed out in a state of frenzy, breaking down the trees in its path, and had thrown its driver. The princess's attendants dispersed in terror, but Manahsvámin eagerly rushed forward, and took her up alone in his arms, and while she clung timidly to him, bewildered with fear, love, and shame, carried her to a distance, out of reach of the elephant. Then her attendants came up and praised that noble Bráhman, and conducted her back to her palace. But as she went, she frequently turned round to look at her deliverer. There she remained, thinking regretfully of that man who had saved her life, consumed day and night by the smouldering fire of love.

And Manahsvámin then left that garden, and seeing that the princess had entered her private apartments, he said to himself, in regretful longing, "I cannot remain without her, nay I cannot live without her: so my only resource in this difficulty is the cunning Múladeva, who is a master of magic arts." Having thus reflected, he managed to get through that day, and the next morning he went to visit that master of magic, Múladeva. And he saw that master, who was ever in the company of his friend Sasin, full of many marvellous magic ways, like the sky come down to earth in human shape. [343] And he humbly saluted him, and told him his desire; then the master laughed, and promised to accomplish it for him. Then that matchless deceiver Múladeva placed a magic globule [344] in his mouth, and transformed himself into an aged Bráhman; and he gave the Bráhman Manahsvámin a second globule to put in his mouth, and so made him assume the appearance of a beautiful maiden. And that prince of villains took him in this disguise to the judgment-hall of the king, the father of his lady-love, and said to him,"O king, I have only one son, and I asked for a maiden to be given him to wife, and brought her from a long distance; but now he has gone somewhere or other, and I am going to look for him; so keep this maiden safe for me until I bring back my son, for you keep safe under your protection the whole world." [345] When king Yasahketu heard this petition, he granted it, fearing a curse if he did not, and summoned his daughter Sasiprabhá, and said to her; "Daughter, keep this maiden in your palace, and let her sleep and take her meals with you." The princess agreed, and took Manahsvámin transformed into a maiden to her own private apartments; and then Múladeva, who had assumed the form of a Bráhman, went where he pleased, and Manahsvámin remained in the form of a maiden with his beloved. [346]

And in a few days the princess became quite fond of and intimate with her new attendant; so, one night when she was pining at being separated from the object of her affections, and tossing on her couch, Manahsvámin, who was on a bed near her, concealed under a female shape, said secretly to her, "My dear Sa[s']iprabhá, why are you pale of hue, and why do you grow thinner every day, and sorrow as one separated from the side of her beloved? Tell me, for why should you distrust loving modest attendants? From this time forth I will take no food until you tell me."

When the princess heard this, she sighed, and slowly told the following tale; "Why should I distrust you of all people? Listen, friend, I will tell you the cause. Once on a time I went to a spring garden to see a procession, and there I beheld a handsome young Bráhman, who seemed like the month of spring, having the loveliness of the moon free from dew, kindling love at sight, adorning the grove with play of light. And while my eager eyes, drinking in the nectarous rays of the moon of his countenance, began to emulate the partridge, there came there a mighty elephant broken loose from its bonds, roaring and distilling its ichor like rain, looking like a black rain-cloud appearing out of season. My attendants dispersed terrified at that elephant, but when I was bewildered with fear, that young Bráhman caught me up in his arms and carried me to a distance. Then contact with his body made me feel as if I were anointed with sandal-wood ointment, and bedewed with ambrosia, and I was in a state which I cannot describe. And in a moment my attendants re-assembled, and I was brought back reluctant to this my palace, and seemed to myself to have been cast down to earth from heaven. From that time forth I have often interviews in reveries with my beloved, that rescued me from death, and even when awake I seem to see him at my side. And when asleep I see him in dreams, coaxing me and dispelling my reserve with kisses and caresses. But, ill-fated wretch that I am, I cannot obtain him, for I am baffled by ignorance of his name and other particulars about him. So I am consumed, as you see, by the fire of separation from the lord of my life."

When Manahsvámin's ears had been filled with the nectar of this speech of the princess's, that Bráhman, who was present there in female form, rejoiced, and considered that his object was attained, and that the time had come for revealing himself, so he took out the globule from his mouth, and displayed himself in his true form, and said; "Rolling-eyed one, I am that very Bráhman, whom you bought with a look in the garden, and made your slave in the truest sense of the word. And from the immediate interruption of our acquaintance I derived that sorrow, of which the final result was my taking, as you see, the form of a maiden. Therefore, fair one, grant that the sorrow of separation, which both of us have endured, may not have been borne in vain, for Cupid cannot endure beyond this point." When the princess suddenly beheld her beloved in front of her, and heard him utter these words, she was at once filled with love, astonishment, and shame. So they eagerly went through the Gándharva ceremony of marriage. Then Manahsvámin lived happily in the palace, under two shapes; keeping the globule in his mouth during the day and so wearing a female shape, but at night taking it out, and assuming the form of a man.

Now, as days went on, the brother-in-law of king Yasahketu, named Mrigánkadatta, gave his own daughter, named Mrigánkavatí, in marriage to a young Bráhman, the son of the minister Prajnáságara: and with her he bestowed much wealth. And the princess Sasiprabhá was invited, on the occasion of her cousin's marriage, to her uncle's house, and went there accompanied by her ladies-in-waiting. And among them went the young Bráhman, Manahsvámin, wearing the attractive form of a young maiden of exquisite beauty.

Then that minister's son beheld him disguised in female form, and was deeply pierced with the shafts of the archer Love. And when he went to his house, accompanied by his bride, it seemed to him to be empty; for he was robbed of his heart by that seeming maiden. Then he continued to think of nothing but the beauty of that supposed maiden's face, and bitten by the great snake of fierce passion, he suddenly became distracted. The people, who were there, ceased from their rejoicing, and in their bewilderment asked what it meant, and his father Prajnáságara, hearing of it, came to him in haste. And when his father tried to comfort him, he woke up from his stupor and uttered what was in his mind, babbling deliriously. And that father of his was very much troubled, as he thought that the matter was one altogether beyond his power. Then the king heard of it, and came there in person. And he at once saw that the minister's son had been in a moment reduced by strong passion to the seventh [347] stage of love-sickness; so he said to his ministers; "How can I give him a maiden whom a Bráhman left in my care? And yet, if he does not obtain her, he will without doubt reach the last stage. If he dies, his father, who is my minister, will perish; and if he perishes, my kingdom is ruined, so tell me what I am to do in this matter."

When the king said this, all those ministers said, "They say that the special virtue of a king is the protection of the virtue of his subjects. Now the root of this protection is counsel, and counsel resides in counsellors. If the counsellor perishes, protection perishes in its root, and virtue is certain to be impaired. [348] Moreover guilt would be incurred by causing the death of this Bráhman minister and his son, so you must avoid doing that, otherwise there is a great chance of your infringing the law of virtue. Accordingly you must certainly give to the minister's son the maiden committed to your care by the first Bráhman, and if he returns after the lapse of some time, and is angry, steps can then be taken to put matters right."

When the ministers said this to the king, he agreed to give that man, who was palming himself off as a maiden, to the minister's son. And after fixing an auspicious moment, he brought Manahsvámin, in female form, from the palace of the princess; and he said to the king; "If, king, you are determined to give me, whom another committed to your care, to a person other than him for whom I was intended, I must, I suppose, acquiesce; you are a king, and justice and injustice are matters familiar to you. But I consent to the marriage on this condition only, that I am not to be considered as a wife until my husband has spent six months in visiting holy bathing-places, and returns home; if this condition is not agreed to, know that I will bite my own tongue in two, and so commit suicide."

When the young man, disguised in female form, had prescribed this condition, the king informed the minister's son of it, and he was consoled, and accepted the terms; and he quickly went through the ceremony of marriage, and placed in one house Mrigánkavatí his first wife, and his second supposed wife, carefully guarded, and, like a fool, went on a pilgrimage to holy bathing-places, to please the object of his affections.

And Manahsvámin, in female form, dwelt in the same house with Mrigánkavatí, as the partner of her bed and board. And one night, while he was living there in this way, Mrigánkavatí said to him secretly in the bed-chamber, while their attendants were sleeping outside, "My friend, I cannot sleep, tell me some tale." When the young man, disguised in female form, heard this, he told her the story, how in old time a royal sage, named Ida, of the race of the sun, assumed, in consequence of the curse of Gaurí, a female form that fascinated the whole world, and how he and Budha fell in love with one another at first sight, meeting one another in a shrubbery in the grounds of a temple, and were there united, and how Purúravas was the fruit of that union. When the artful creature had told this story, he went on to say, "So by the fiat of a deity or by charms and drugs, a man may sometimes become a woman, and vice versâ, and in this way even great ones do sometimes unite impelled by love."

When the tender fair one, who regretted her husband, who had left her as soon as the marriage had taken place, heard this, she said to her supposed rival, in whom she had come to confide by living with her, "This story makes my body tremble and my heart, as it were, sink; so tell me friend, what is the meaning of this." When the Bráhman, disguised in female form, heard this, he went on to say, "My friend, these are violent symptoms of love; I have felt them myself, I will not conceal it from you." When she said this, Mrigánkavatí went on slowly to say, "Friend, I love you as my life, so why should I not say what I think it is time to reveal? Could any one by any artifice be introduced into this palace?" When the pupil of that master-rogue heard this, he took her meaning and said to her, "If this is the state of affairs, then I have something to tell you. I have a boon from Vishnu, by which I can at pleasure become a man during the night, so I will now become one for your sake." So he took the globule out of his mouth, and displayed himself to her as a handsome man in the prime of youth. And so the Bráhman lived with the wife of the minister's son, becoming a woman in the day, and resuming his male form at night. But hearing in a few days that the son of the minister was on the point of returning, he took the precaution of eloping with her from that house during the night.

At this point in the story, it happened that his teacher, Múladeva, heard all the circumstances; so he again assumed the form of an old Bráhman, and accompanied by his friend Sasin, who had assumed the form of a young Bráhman, he went and respectfully said to king Yasahketu, "I have brought back my son; so give me my daughter-in-law." Then the king, who was afraid of being cursed, deliberated and said to him; "Bráhman, I do not know where your daughter-in-law has gone, so forgive me; as I am in fault, I will give you my own daughter for your son." When the king had said this to that prince of rogues, disguised in the form of an old Bráhman, who asserted his false claim with the sternness of assumed anger, he gave his daughter with all due ceremonies to his friend Sasin, who pretended to be the supposed Bráhman's son. Then Múladeva took the bride and bridegroom, who had been thus united, off to his own home, without showing any desire for the king's wealth.

And there Manahsvámin met them, and a fierce dispute took place between him and Sasin in the presence of that Múladeva. Manahsvámin said, "This Sasiprabhá should be given to me, for long ago, when she was a maiden, I married her by the favour of the master." Sasin said, "You fool, what have you to do with her? she is my wife, for her father bestowed her on me in the presence of the fire." So they went on wrangling about the princess, whom they had got hold of by means of magic, and their dispute was never decided. So tell me, king, to which of the two does that wife belong? Resolve my doubt; the conditions of non-compliance are those which I mentioned before."

When king Trivikramasena was thus addressed by the Vetála on his shoulder, he gave him this answer: "I consider that the princess is the lawful wife of Sasin, since she was openly given to him by her father in the lawful way. But Manahsvámin married her in an underhand way, like a thief, by the Gándharva rite; and a thief has no lawful title to the possessions of another."

When the Vetála heard this answer of the king's, he quickly left his shoulder, and went back to his own place, and the king hurried after him.

NOTE.

Oesterley tells us that in the Turkish Tútínámah (Rosen, II, p. 178,) a sorceress takes the place of Múladeva. She gives the young man a small seal in place of the pill or globule. He is then married to a son of the king's. Then the young man escapes with the princess, who in the day keeps the seal in her mouth and so appears as a man; then the sorceress goes in the form of a Bráhman to the king, who has to give her 10,000 gold pieces as he cannot give back her daughter. The story is No. 23 in the Persian Tútínámah, Iken, p. 97. Oesterley refers also to the story in the 7th Chapter of the Kathá Sarit Ságara; (Oesterley's Baitál Pachísí, pages 203-205). The tale in one way resembles the Greek fable of Cæneus, and also that of Tiresias. The story of Iphis and Ianthe is perhaps still more apposite. According to Sir Thomas Brown, (Vulgar Errors, Book III, ch. 17) hares are supposed by some to be both male and female. He mentions Tiresias and Empedocles as instances of "transexion." Benfey gives a number of stories of this kind in the 1st Volume of his Panchatantra, pp. 41-52. He traces them all back to a tendency of the Indo-Germanic race to look upon their deities as belonging to both sexes at once.