Chapter XC…

Chapter XC

(Vetála 16.)

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

Story of Jímútaváhana. [349]

There is in this earth a great mountain named Himavat, where all jewels are found, which is the origin of both Gaurí and Gangá, the two goddesses dear to Siva. Even heroes cannot reach its top; [350] it towers proudly above all other mountains; and as such its praises are sung in strains of sooth in the three worlds. On the ridge of that Himavat there is that city rightly named the Golden City, which gleams like a mass of the sun's rays deposited by him on earth.

Of old there lived in that splendid city a fortunate lord of the Vidyádharas, named Jímútaketu, who dwelt there like Indra on Meru. In his palace-garden there was a wishing-tree, which was an heirloom in his family, which was well known as the Granter of Desires, and not named so without reason. The king supplicated that divine tree, and obtained by its favour a son, who remembered his former birth, and was the incarnation of a portion of a Bodhisattva. He was a hero in munificence, of great courage, compassionate to all creatures, attentive to the instructions of his spiritual adviser, and his name was Jímútaváhana. And when he grew up to manhood, his father, the king, made him crown-prince, being impelled thereto by his excellent qualities, and the advice of the ministers.

And when Jímútaváhana was made crown-prince, the ministers of his father, desiring his welfare, came to him and said, "Prince, you must continually worship this wishing-tree invincible by all creatures, [351] which grants all our desires. For, as long as we have this, not even Indra could injure us, much less any other enemy." When Jímútaváhana heard this, he inly reflected, "Alas! our predecessors, though they possessed such a divine tree, never obtained from it any fruit worthy of it; some of them asked it for wealth and did nothing more; so the mean creatures made themselves and this noble tree contemptible. Well, I will make it inserve a design which I have in my mind."

After the noble prince had formed this resolution, he went to his father, and gained his goodwill by paying him all kinds of attentions, and said to him in private, as he was sitting at ease; "Father, you know that in this sea of mundane existence, all that we behold is unsubstantial, fleeting as the twinkling of the wave. Especially are the twilight, the dawn, and Fortune shortlived, disappearing as soon as revealed; where and when have they been seen to abide? Charity to one's neighbour is the only thing that is permanent in this cycle of change; it produces holiness and fame that bear witness for hundreds of yugas. So with what object, father, do we keep for ourselves such an unfailing wishing-tree, as all these phenomenal conditions are but momentary? Where, I ask, are those our predecessors who kept it so strenuously, exclaiming, 'It is mine, it is mine?' Where is it now to them? For which of them does it exist, and which of them exists for it? So, if you permit, father, I will employ this wishing-tree, that grants all desires, for attaining the matchless fruit of charity to one's neighbour."

His father gave him leave, saying, "So be it!" And Jímútaváhana went and said to the wishing-tree, "O god, thou didst fulfil all the cherished wishes of our predecessors, so fulfil this one solitary wish of mine! Enable me to behold this whole earth free from poverty; depart, and good luck attend thee; thou art bestowed by me on the world that desires wealth." When Jímútaváhana had said this with joined hands, a voice came forth from the tree, "Since thou hast relinquished me, I depart." And in a moment the wishing-tree flew up to heaven, and rained wealth on the earth so plenteously, that there was not one poor man left on it. Then the glory of that Jímútaváhana spread through the three worlds, on account of that ardent compassion of his for all creatures.

That made all his relations impatient with envy; and thinking that he and his father would be easy to conquer, as they were deprived of the calamity-averting tree which they had bestowed on the world, they put their heads together and formed a design, and then girded on their harness for war, to deprive Jímútaváhana and his father of their realm. When Jímútaváhana saw that, he said to his father, "Father, what other has might, when thou hast taken up arms? But what generous man desires to possess a realm, if he must do so by slaying his relations for the sake of this wicked perishable body? So of what use is sovereignty to us? We will depart to some other place, and practise virtue that brings happiness in both worlds. Let these miserable relations that covet our kingdom, joy their fill!" When Jímútaváhana said this, his father Jímútaketu answered him, "My son, I desire a realm for your sake only; if you, being penetrated with compassion, give it up, of what value is it to me, who am old?" When Jímútaváhana's father agreed to his proposal, he went with him and his mother to the Malaya mountain, abandoning his kingdom. There he made him a retreat in the valley of a brook, the stream of which was hidden by sandal-wood trees, and spent his time in waiting on his parents. And there he made a friend of the name of Mitrávasu, the son of Visvávasu a king of the Siddhas, who dwelt on that mountain.

Now, one day, as Jímútaváhana was roaming about, he went into a temple of the goddess Gaurí, that was situated in a garden, in order to worship in the presence of the image. And there he saw a beautiful maiden accompanied by her attendants, playing on the lyre, intent on pleasing the daughter of the mountain. [352] And the deer were listening to the sweet sound of the lyre in the musical performance, standing motionless, as if abashed at beholding the beauty of her eyes. [353] She had a black pupil in her white eye, and it seemed as if it strove to penetrate to the root of her ear. [354] She was thin and elegant in her waist, which appeared as if the Creator had compressed it in his grasp, when making her, and deeply impressed on it the marks of his fingers in the form of wrinkles. The moment Jímútaváhana saw that beauty, it seemed as if she entered by his eyes, and stole away his heart. And when the maiden saw him, adorning the garden, producing longing and disturbance of soul, looking as if he were the god of spring retired to the forest through disgust at the burning up of the body of the god of Love, she was overpowered with affection, and so bewildered, that her lyre, as if it had been a friend, became distracted and mute.

Then Jímútaváhana said to an attendant of hers, "What is your friend's auspicious name, and what family does she adorn?" When the attendant heard that, she said, "She is the sister of Mitrávasu, and the daughter of Visvávasu the king of the Siddhas, and her name is Malayavatí." When she had said this to Jímútaváhana, the discreet woman asked the son of the hermit, who had come with him, his name and descent, and then she made this brief remark to Malayavatí, smiling as she spoke, "My friend, why do you not welcome this prince of the Vidyádharas who has come here? For he is a guest worthy of being honoured by the whole world." When she said this, that daughter of the king of the Siddhas was silent, and her face was cast down through shame. Then her attendant said to Jímútaváhana, "The princess is bashful, permit me to shew you the proper courtesy in her place." So she alone gave him a garland with the arghya. Jímútaváhana, as soon as the garland was given to him, being full of love, took it, and threw it round the neck of Malayavatí. And she, looking at him with loving sidelong looks, placed, as it were, a garland of blue lotuses on him.

Thus they went through a sort of silent ceremony of mutual election, and then a maid came and said to that Siddha maiden, "Princess, your mother desires your presence, come at once." When the princess heard that, she withdrew regretfully and reluctantly from the face of her beloved her gaze, that seemed to be fastened to it with the arrows of love, and managed not without a struggle to return to her house. And Jímútaváhana, with his mind fixed on her, returned to his hermitage.

And when Malayavatí had seen her mother, she went at once and flung herself down on her bed, sick of separation from her beloved. Then her eyes were clouded, as it were by the smoke of the fire of love that burnt in her bosom, she shed floods of tears, and her body was tortured with heat; and though her attendants anointed her with sandal-wood unguent, and fanned her with the leaves of lotuses, she could not obtain any relief on the bed, in the lap of her attendant, or on the ground. Then the day retired somewhere with the glowing evening, and the moon ascending kissed the laughing forehead of the east, and though urged on by love she was too bashful to send a female messenger to her chosen one, or to adopt any of the measures that lovers usually take, but she seemed loth to live. And she was contracted in her heart, and she passed that night, which the moon made disagreeable to her, like a lotus which closes at night, and bewilderment hung round her, like a cloud of bees.

And in the meanwhile Jímútaváhana, who was tortured at parting with her, though lying on his bed, spent the night as one who had fallen into the hand of Cupid; though his glow of love was of recent birth, a pallid hue began to shew itself in him; and though shame made him dumb, he uttered the pain which love produced.

Next morning he returned with excessive longing to that temple of Gaurí, where he had seen the daughter of the king of the Siddhas. And while, distracted with the fire of passion, he was being consoled by the hermit's son, who had followed him there, Malayavatí also came there; for, as she could not bear separation, she had secretly gone out alone into a solitary place to abandon the body. And the girl, not seeing her lover, who was separated from her by a tree, thus prayed, with eyes full of tears, to the goddess Gaurí, "Goddess, though my devotion to thee has not made Jímútaváhana my husband in this life, let him be so in my next life!" As soon as she had said this, she made a noose with her upper garment, and fastened it to the branch of the asoka-tree in front of the temple of Gaurí. And she said "Prince Jímútaváhana, lord renowned over the whole world, how is it, that, though thou art compassionate, thou hast not delivered me?" When she had said this, she was proceeding to fasten the noose round her throat, but at that very moment a voice spoken by the goddess came from the air, "Daughter, do not act recklessly, for the Vidyádhara prince Jímútaváhana, the future emperor, shall be thy husband."

When the goddess said this, Jímútaváhana also heard it, and seeing his beloved, he went up to her, and his friend accompanied him. And his friend, the hermit's son, said to the young lady, "See, here is that very bridegroom whom the goddess has in reality bestowed upon you." And Jímútaváhana, uttering many tender loving speeches, removed with his own hand the noose from her neck. Then they seemed to have experienced, as it were, a sudden shower of nectar, and Malayavatí remained with bashful eye, drawing lines upon the ground. And at that moment, one of her companions, who was looking for her, suddenly came up to her, and said in joyful accents, "Friend, you are lucky, and you are blessed with good fortune in that you have obtained the very thing which you desired. For, this very day, prince Mitrávasu said to the great king, your father, in my hearing, 'Father, that Vidyádhara prince Jímútaváhana, the object of the world's reverence, the bestower of the wishing-tree, who has come here, should be complimented by us, as he is our guest; and we cannot find any other match as good as him; so let us pay him a compliment by bestowing on him this pearl of maidens Malayavatí.' The king approved, saying 'So be it', and your brother Mitrávasu has now gone to the hermitage of the illustrious prince on this very errand. And I know that your marriage will take place at once, so come back to your palace, and let this illustrious prince also return to his dwelling." When the princess's companion said this to her, she departed slowly from that place, rejoicing and regretful, frequently turning her head.

And Jímútaváhana also returned quickly to his hermitage, and heard from Mitrávasu, who came there, his commission, which fulfilled all his wishes, and welcomed it with joy. And as he remembered his former births, he gave him an account of one in which Mitrávasu was his friend, and Mitrávasu's sister his wife. [355] Then Mitrávasu was pleased, and informed the parents of Jímútaváhana, who were also delighted, and returned, to the joy of his own parents, having executed his mission successfully. And that very day he took Jímútaváhana to his own house, and he made preparations for the marriage festival with a magnificence worthy of his magic power, and on that very same auspicious day he celebrated the marriage of his sister to that Vidyádhara prince; and then Jímútaváhana, having obtained the desire of his heart, lived with his newly married wife Malayavatí. And once on a time, as he was roaming about out of curiosity with Mitrávasu on that Malaya mountain, he reached a wood on the shore of the sea. There he saw a great many heaps of bones, and he said to Mitrávasu, "What creatures are these whose bones are piled up here?" Then his brother-in-law Mitrávasu said to that compassionate man, "Listen, I will tell you the story of this in a few words. Long, long ago, Kadrú the mother of the snakes conquered Vinatá, the mother of Garuda, in a treacherous wager, and made her a slave. Through enmity caused thereby, the mighty Garuda, [356] though he had delivered his mother, began to eat the snakes the sons of Kadrú. He was thenceforth continually in the habit of entering Pátála, and some he smote, some he trampled, and some died of fright.

"When Vásuki, the king of the snakes, saw that, he feared that his race would be annihilated at one fell swoop, so he supplicated Garuda, and made a compact with him, saying, 'King of birds, I will send you one snake every day to this shore of the southern sea for your meal. But you must by no means enter Pátála, for what advantage will you gain by destroying the snakes at one blow?' When the king of the snakes said this, the mighty Garuda saw that the proposal was to his advantage, and agreed to it. And from that time forth, the king of birds eats every day, on the shore of the sea, a snake sent by Vásuki. So these are heaps of bones of snakes devoured by Garuda, that have gradually accumulated in course of time, and come to look like the peak of a mountain."

When Jímútaváhana, that treasure-house of courage and compassion, had heard, inly grieving, this story from the mouth of Mitrávasu, he thus answered him, "One cannot help grieving for king Vásuki, who, like a coward, offers up every day his subjects to their enemy with his own hand. As he has a thousand faces and a thousand mouths, why could he not say with one mouth to Garuda, 'Eat me first?' And how could he be so cowardly as to ask Garuda to destroy his race, and so heartless as to be able to listen continually unmoved to the lamentation of the Nága women? [357] And to think that Garuda, though the son of Kasyapa and a hero, and though sanctified by being the bearer of Krishna, should do such an evil deed! Alas the depths of delusion!" When the noble-hearted one had said this, he formed this wish in his heart, "May I obtain the one essential object in this world by the sacrifice of the unsubstantial body! May I be so fortunate as to save the life of one friendless terrified Nága by offering myself to Garuda!"

While Jímútaváhana was going through these reflections, a doorkeeper came from Mitrávasu's father to summon them, and Jímútaváhana sent Mitrávasu home, saying to him, "Go you on first, I will follow." And after he had gone, the compassionate man roamed about alone, intent on effecting the object he had in view, and he heard afar off a piteous sound of weeping. And he went on, and saw near a lofty rocky slab a young man of handsome appearance plunged in grief: an officer of some monarch seemed to have just brought him and left him there, and the young man was trying to induce by loving persuasions [358] an old woman, who was weeping there, to return.

And while Jímútaváhana was listening there in secret, melted with pity, eager to know who he could be, the old woman, overwhelmed with the weight of her grief, began to look again and again at the young man, and to lament his hard lot in the following words, "Alas Sankhachúda, you that were obtained by me by means of a hundred pangs! Alas, virtuous one! Alas! son, the only scion of our family, where shall I behold you again? Darling, when this moon of your face is withdrawn, your father will fall into the darkness of grief, and how will he live to old age? How will your body, that would suffer even from the touch of the sun's rays, be able to endure the agony of being devoured by Garuda? How comes it that Providence and the king of the snakes were able to find out you, the only son of ill-starred me, though the world of the snakes is wide?" When she thus lamented, the young man her son said to her, "I am afflicted enough, as it is, mother; why do you afflict me more? Return home; this is my last reverence to you, for I know it will soon be time for Garuda to arrive here." When the old woman heard that, she cast her sorrowful eyes all round the horizon, and cried aloud, "I am undone; who will deliver my son?"

In the meanwhile Jímútaváhana, that portion of a Bodhisattva, having heard and seen that, said to himself, being profoundly touched with pity, "I see, this is an unhappy snake, of the name of Sankhachúda, who has now been sent by king Vásuki, to serve as food for Garuda. And this is his aged mother, whose only son he is, and who has followed him here out of love, and is lamenting piteously from grief. So, if I cannot save this wretched Nága by offering up this exceedingly perishable body, alas! my birth will have been void of fruit."

When Jímútaváhana had gone through these reflections, he went joyfully up to the old woman, and said to her, "Mother, I will deliver your son." When the old woman heard that, she was alarmed and terrified, thinking that Garuda had come, and she cried out, "Eat me, Garuda, eat me!" Then Sankhachúda said, "Mother, do not be afraid, this is not Garuda. There is a great difference between this being who cheers one like the moon, and the terrible Garuda." When Sankhachúda said this, Jímútaváhana said, "Mother, I am a Vidyádhara, come to deliver your son; for I will give my body, disguised in clothes, to the hungry Garuda; and do you return home, taking your son with you."

When the old woman heard that, she said, "By no means, for you are my son in a still higher sense, because you have shewn such compassion for us at such a time." When Jímútaváhana heard that, he replied, "You two ought not to disappoint my wish in this matter." And when he persistently urged this, Sankhachúda said to him; "Of a truth, noble-hearted man, you have displayed your compassionate nature, but I cannot consent to save my body at the cost of yours; for who ought to save a common stone by the sacrifice of a gem? The world is full of people like myself, who feel pity only for themselves, but people like you, who are inclined to feel pity for the whole world, are few in number; besides, excellent man, I shall never find it in my heart to defile the pure race of Sankhapála, as a spot defiles the disk of the moon."

When Sankhachúda had in these words attempted to dissuade him, he said to his mother, "Mother, go back, and leave this terrible wilderness. Do you not see here this rock of execution, smeared with the clotted gore of snakes, awful as the luxurious couch of Death! But I will go to the shore of the sea, and worship the lord Gokarna, and quickly return, before Garuda comes here." When Sankhachúda had said this, he took a respectful leave of his sadly-wailing mother, and went to pay his devotions to Gokarna.

And Jímútaváhana made up his mind that, if Garuda arrived in the meantime, he would certainly be able to carry out his proposed self-sacrifice for the sake of another. And while he was thus reflecting, he saw the trees swaying with the wind of the wings of the approaching king of birds, and seeming, as it were, to utter a cry of dissuasion. So he came to the conclusion that the moment of Garuda's arrival was at hand, and determined to offer up his life for another, he ascended the rock of sacrifice. And the sea, churned by the wind, seemed with the eyes of its bright-flashing jewels to be gazing in astonishment at his extraordinary courage. Then Garuda came along, obscuring the heaven, and swooping down, struck the great-hearted hero with his beak, and carried him off from that slab of rock. And he quickly went off with him to a peak of the Malaya mountain, to eat him there; and Jímútaváhana's crest-jewel was torn from his head, and drops of blood fell from him, as he was carried through the air. And while Garuda was eating that moon of the Vidyádhara race, he said to himself; "May my body thus be offered in every birth for the benefit of others, and let me not enjoy heaven or liberation, if they are dissociated from the opportunity of benefiting my neighbour." And while he was saying this to himself, a rain of flowers fell from heaven.

In the meanwhile his crest-jewel, dripping with his blood, had fallen in front of his wife Malayavatí. When she saw it, she recognized it with much trepidation as her husband's crest-jewel, and as she was in the presence of her father-in-law and mother-in-law, she shewed it them with tears. And they, when they saw their son's crest-jewel, were at once beside themselves to think what it could mean. Then king Jímútaketu and queen Kanakavatí found out by their supernatural powers of meditation the real state of the case, and proceeded to go quickly with their daughter-in-law to the place where Garuda and Jímútaváhana were. In the meanwhile Sankhachúda returned from worshipping Gokarna, and saw, to his dismay, that that stone of sacrifice was wet with blood. Then the worthy fellow exclaimed with tears, "Alas! I am undone, guilty creature that I am! Undoubtedly that great-hearted one, in the fulness of his compassion, has given himself to Garuda in my stead. So I will find out to what place the enemy has carried him off in this moment. If I find him alive, I shall escape sinking in the mire of dishonour." While he said this, he went following up the track of the drops of blood, that he saw lying close to one another on the ground.

In the meanwhile Garuda, who was engaged in devouring Jímútaváhana, saw that he was pleased; so he immediately stopped, and said to himself; "Strange! This must be some matchless hero; for the great-hearted one rejoices even while I am devouring him, but does not lose his life. And on so much of his body as is not lacerated, he has all the hairs erect, as it were a coat of mail; and his look is lovingly fixed on me, as if I were his benefactor. So he cannot be a snake; he must be some saint; I will cease from devouring him, and question him." While Garuda was thus musing, Jímútaváhana said to him; "King of birds, why do you desist? There is flesh and blood in my body, and you are not satisfied as yet, so go on eating it." When the king of birds heard this, he asked him with much astonishment, "Great-souled one, you are not a snake, so tell me who you are." But Jímútaváhana answered Garuda, "In truth I am a Nága; what is the meaning of this question of yours? Do your kind, for who, that is not foolish, would act [359] contrary to the purpose he had undertaken?"

While he was giving this answer to Garuda, Sankhachúda came near, and called out to Garuda from a distance, "Do not do a rash and criminal deed, son of Vinatá. What delusion is this that possesses you? He is not a snake; lo! I am the snake designed for you." When Sankhachúda had said this, he came up quickly, and standing between those two, and seeing Garuda bewildered, he went on to say; "Why are you perplexed; do you not see that I have hoods and two tongues; and do you not observe the charming appearance of this Vidyádhara?" While Sankhachúda was saying this, the wife and parents of Jímútaváhana came there with speed. And his parents, seeing him mangled, immediately cried out, "Alas, son! Alas, Jímútaváhana! Alas, compassionate one who have given your life for others! How could you, son of Vinatá, do this thoughtless deed?" When Garuda heard this, he was grieved, and he said, "What! Have I in my delusion eaten an incarnation of a Bodhisattva? This is that very Jímútaváhana, who sacrifices his life for others, the renown of whose glory pervades all these three worlds? So, now that he is dead, the time has arrived for my wicked self to enter the fire. Does the fruit of the poison-tree of unrighteousness ever ripen sweet?" While Garuda was distracted with these reflections, Jímútaváhana, having beheld his family, fell down in the agony of his wounds, and died.

Then his parents, tortured with sorrow, lamented, and Sankhachúda again and again blamed his own negligence. But Jímútaváhana's wife, Malayavatí, looked towards the heaven, and in accents choked with tears thus reproached the goddess Ambiká, who before was pleased with her, and granted her a boon, "At that time, O goddess Gaurí, thou didst promise me that I should have for husband one destined to be paramount sovereign over all the kings of the Vidyádharas, so how comes it that thou hast now falsified thy promise to me?" When she said this, Gaurí became visible, and saying "Daughter, my speech was not false," she quickly sprinkled Jímútaváhana with nectar from her pitcher. [360] That made the successful hero Jímútaváhana at once rise up more splendid than before, with all his limbs free from wounds.

He rose up, and prostrated himself before the goddess, and then all prostrated themselves, and the goddess said to him, "My son, I am pleased with this sacrifice of thy body, so I now anoint thee with this hand of mine emperor over the Vidyádharas, and thou shalt hold the office for a kalpa." With these words Gaurí sprinkled Jímútaváhana with water from her pitcher, and after she had been worshipped, disappeared. And thereupon a heavenly rain of flowers fell on that spot, and the drums of the gods sounded joyously in the sky.

Then Garuda, bending low, said to Jímútaváhana, "Emperor, I am pleased with thee, as thou art an unparalleled hero, since thou, of soul matchlessly generous, hast done this wonderful deed, that excites the astonishment of the three worlds, and is inscribed on the walls of the egg of Brahmá. So give me an order, and receive from me whatever boon thou dost desire." When Garuda said this, the great-hearted hero said to him, "Thou must repent, and never again devour the snakes; and let these snakes, whom thou didst devour before, whose bones only remain, return to life." Thereupon Garuda said, "So be it; from this day forth I will never eat the snakes again; heaven forefend! As for those that I ate on former occasions, let them return to life."

Then all the snakes, that he had eaten before, whose bones alone remained, rose up unwounded, restored to life by the nectar of his boon. Then the gods, the snakes, and the hermit bands assembled there full of joy, and so the Malaya mountain earned the title of the three worlds. And then all the kings of the Vidyádharas heard by the favour of Gaurí the strange story of Jímútaváhana; and they immediately came and bowed at his feet, and after he had dismissed Garuda, they took him to the Himálayas, accompanied by his rejoicing relations and friends, a noble emperor whose great inauguration ceremony had been performed by Gaurí with her own hands. There Jímútaváhana, in the society of his mother and father, and of Mitrávasu and Malayavatí, and of Sankhachúda, who had gone to his own house, and returned again, long enjoyed the dignity of emperor of the Vidyádharas, rich in jewels, which had been gained by his marvellous and extraordinarily heroic action.

Having told this very noble and interesting tale, the Vetála proceeded to put another question to king Trivikramasena, "So tell me, which of those two was superior in fortitude, Sankhachúda or Jímútaváhana? And the conditions are those which I mentioned before." When king Trivikramasena heard this question of the Vetála's, he broke his silence, through fear of a curse, and said with calm composure, "This behaviour was nowise astonishing in Jímútaváhana, as he had acquired this virtue in many births; but Sankhachúda really deserves praise, for that, after he had escaped death, he ran after his enemy Garuda, who had found another self-offered victim [361] and had gone a long distance with him, and importunately offered him his body."

When that excellent Vetála had heard this speech of that king's, he left his shoulder and again went to his own place, and the king again pursued him as before.

NOTE.

Oesterley remarks that the substance of this story is told, in the eleventh chapter of the Vikra macharitam, of king Vikramáditya. A Rákshasa carried off so many persons from the city of Pala that the inhabitants agreed to give him one human being every day. The king takes the place of one of these victims, and the Rákshasa is so much affected by it, that he promises not to demand any more victims. A similar contest in generosity is found in the 2nd Tale of the Siddhi-kür, Jülg, p. 60, but the end of the story is quite different. (Oesterley's Baitál Pachísí, pp. 205-207.) The story in the Siddhi-kür is probably the 5th Tale in Sagas from the Far East; "How the Serpent-gods were propitiated."

Chapter XCI

(Vetála 17.)

Then the brave king Trivikramasena went back once more to the asoka-tree, and taking the Vetála from it, carried him off on his shoulder. And when he had set out, the Vetála said to him from his perch on his shoulder, "Listen, king; to cheer your toil, I will tell you the following tale."

Story of Unmádiní. [362]

There was a city of the name [363] of Kanakapura situated on the bank of the Ganges, in which the bounds of virtue were never transgressed, and which was inaccessible to the demon Kali. In it there was a king rightly named Yasodhana, who, like a rocky coast, protected the earth against the sea of calamity. When Destiny framed him, she seemed to blend together the moon and the sun, for, though he delighted the world, the heat of his valour was scorching, and the circle of his territory never waned. This king was unskilled [364] in slandering his neighbour, but skilled in the meaning of the Sástras, he shewed poverty in crime, not in treasure and military force. His subjects sang of him as one afraid only of sin, covetous only of glory, averse to the wives of others, all compact of valour, generosity, and love.

In that capital of that sovereign there was a great merchant, and he had an unmarried daughter, named Unmádiní. Whoever there beheld her, was at once driven mad by the wealth of her beauty, which was enough to bewilder even the god of love himself. And when she attained womanhood, her politic father, the merchant, went to king Yasodhana, and said to him, "King, I have a daughter to give in marriage, who is the pearl of the three worlds; I dare not give her away to any one else, without informing your Majesty. For to your Majesty belong all the jewels of the whole earth, so do me the favour of accepting or rejecting her."

When the king heard this report from the merchant, he sent off, with due politeness, his own Bráhmans, to see whether she had auspicious marks or not. The Bráhmans went and saw that matchless beauty of the three worlds, and were at once troubled and amazed, but when they had recovered their self-control, they reflected; "If the king gets hold of this maiden the kingdom is ruined, for his mind will be thrown off its balance by her, and he will not regard his kingdom, so we must not tell the king that she possesses auspicious marks." When they had deliberated to this effect, [365] they went to the king, and said falsely to him, "She has inauspicious marks." Accordingly the king declined to take that merchant's daughter as his wife.

Then, by the king's orders, the merchant, the father of the maiden Unmádiní, gave her in marriage to the commander of the king's forces, named Baladhara. And she lived happily with her husband in his house, but she thought that she had been dishonoured by the king's abandoning her on account of her supposed inauspicious marks.

And as time went on, the lion of spring came to that place, slaying the elephant of winter, that, with flowering jasmine-creepers for tusks, had ravaged the thick-clustering lotuses. And it sported in the wood, with luxuriant clusters of flowers for mane, and with mango-buds for claws. At that season king Yasodhana, mounted on an elephant, went out to see the high festival of spring in that city of his. And then a warning drum was beaten, to give notice to all matrons to retire, as it was apprehended that the sight of his beauty might prove their ruin.

When Unmádiní heard that drum, she shewed herself to the king on the roof of her palace, to revenge the insult he had offered her by refusing her. And when the king saw her, looking like a flame shooting up from the fire of love, when fanned by spring and the winds from the Malaya mountain, he was sorely troubled. And gazing on her beauty, that pierced deep into his heart, like a victorious dart of Cupid, he immediately swooned. His servants managed to bring him round, and when he had entered his palace, he found out from them, by questioning them, that this was the very beauty who had been formerly offered to him, and whom he had rejected. Then the king banished from his realm those who reported that she had inauspicious marks, and thought on her with longing, night after night, saying to himself, "Ah! how dull of soul and shameless is the moon, that he continues to rise, while her spotless face is there, a feast to the eyes of the world!" Thinking thus in his heart, the king, being slowly wasted by the smouldering fires of love, pined away day by day. But through shame he concealed the cause of his grief, and with difficulty was he induced to tell it to his confidential servants, who were led by external signs to question him. Then they said; "Why fret yourself? Why do you not take her to yourself, as she is at your command?" But the righteous sovereign would not consent to follow their advice.

Then Baladhara, the commander-in-chief, heard the tidings, and being truly devoted to him, he came and flung himself at the feet of his sovereign, and made the following petition to him, "King, you should look upon this female slave as your slave-girl, not as the wife of another; and I bestow her freely upon you, so deign to accept my wife. Or I will abandon her in the temple here, then, king, there will be no sin in your taking her to yourself, as there might be, if she were a matron." When the commander-in-chief persistently entreated the king to this effect, the king answered him with inward wrath, "How could I, being a king, do such an unrighteous deed? If I desert the path of right, who will remain loyal to his duty? And how can you, though devoted to me, urge me to commit a crime, which will bring momentary pleasure, [366] but cause great misery in the next world? And if you desert your lawful wife, I shall not allow your crime to go unpunished, for who in my position could tolerate such an outrage on morality? So death is for me the best course." With these words the king vetoed the proposal of the commander-in-chief, for men of noble character lose their lives sooner than abandon the path of virtue. And in the same way the resolute-minded monarch rejected the petition of his citizens, and of the country-people, who assembled, and entreated him to the same effect.

Accordingly, the king's body was gradually consumed by the fire of the grievous fever of love, and only his name and fame remained. [367] But the commander-in-chief could not bear the thought that the king's death had been brought about in this way, so he entered the fire; for the actions of devoted followers are inexplicable. [368]

When the Vetála, sitting on the shoulder of king Trivikramasena, had told this wonderful tale, he again said to him, "So tell me, king, which of these two was superior in loyalty, the general or the king; and remember, the previous condition still holds." When the Vetála said this, the king broke silence, and answered him, "Of these two the king was superior in loyalty." When the Vetála heard this, he said to him reproachfully, "Tell me, king, how can you make out that the general was not his superior? For, though he knew the charm of his wife's society by long familiarity, he offered such a fascinating woman to the king out of love for him; and when the king was dead, he burnt himself; but the king refused the offer of his wife without knowing anything about her."

When the Vetála said this to the king, the latter laughed, and said, "Admitting the truth of this, what is there astonishing in the fact, that the commander-in-chief, a man of good family, acted thus for his master's sake, out of regard for him? For servants are bound to preserve their masters even by the sacrifice of their lives. But kings are inflated with arrogance, uncontrollable as elephants, and when bent on enjoyment, they snap asunder the chain of the moral law. For their minds are overweening, and all discernment is washed out of them, when the waters of inauguration are poured over them, and is, as it were, swept away by the flood. And the breeze of the waving chowries fans away the atoms of the sense of scripture taught them by old men, as it fans away flies and mosquitoes. And the royal umbrella keeps off from them the rays of truth, as well as the rays of the sun; and their eyes, smitten by the gale of prosperity, do not see the right path. And so even kings, that have conquered the world, like Nahusha and others, have had their minds bewildered by Mára, and have been brought into calamity. But this king, though his umbrella was paramount in the earth, was not fascinated by Unmádiní, fickle as the goddess of Fortune; indeed, sooner than set his foot on the wrong path, he renounced life altogether; therefore him I consider the more self-controlled of the two."

When the Vetála heard this speech of the king's, he again rapidly quitted his shoulder by the might of his delusive power, and returned to his own place; and the king followed him swiftly, as before, to recover him: for how can great men leave off in the middle of an enterprise, which they have begun, even though it be very difficult?

NOTE.

Oesterley states that this tale is No. 26, in the Persian Tútínámah, in Iken, p. 109. The deliberations about carrying off the wife of the commander-in-chief are, in this form of the story, carried on in the presence of the counsellors only; and the king is the only one that dies. From the Persian Tútínámah the story has passed in a very similar form into the Turkish Tútínámah. Compare Malespíní, 1, No. 102, (Oesterley's Baitál Pachísí, pp. 207, 208.) The story, as told by Sivadása, will be found in Bezzenberger's Beiträge zur Kunde der Indo-germanischen Sprachen, Vol. IV, p. 360. Dr. Zachariæ, the author of the paper, gives a reference to the Rajataranginí, IV, 17-37, which Professor Bühler pointed out to him. He tells us that the story is the 14th in Jambhaladatta's recension. The story is also found in the parables of Buddhaghosha; in a form based upon the Ummadantíjátaka. Dr. Zachariæ gives the Pali text of this Játaka in an Appendix, and the corresponding Sanskrit version of the tale from the Játakamálá of Aryasúra. He also refers his readers to Upham's Mahávanso, pp. 212-213; Beal, Texts from the Buddhist canon, commonly known as Dhammapada, Section XXIII, Advantageous Service; Bigandet, The life or legend of Gaudama, the Buddha of the Burmese, pp. 220-221; and Mary Summer, Histoire du Bouddha Sákya-Mouni, (Paris, 1874,) p. 145.

In the Pali version the Bráhmans are so bewildered at the sight of the girl that they cannot eat, but put their rice on their heads &c. instead of putting it in their mouths; so she has them driven out by her servants. Out of revenge they tell the king that she is a kálakanni, which according to Childers means "a hag." In the Játakamálá they are too much bewildered to stand, much less to eat; but the report which they make is much the same as in our text, and made from the same motives.

Chapter XCII

(Vetála 18.)

Then in that cemetery, full of the flames of funeral pyres, as of demons, flesh-devouring, with lolling tongues of fire, the undaunted king Trivikramasena went back that same night to the asoka-tree.

And there he unexpectedly saw many corpses of similar appearance hanging upon the tree, and they all seemed to be possessed by Vetálas. The king said to himself, "Ah! what is the meaning of this? Is this deluding Vetála doing this now in order to waste my time? For I do not know which of these many corpses here I ought to take. If this night shall pass away without my accomplishing my object, I will enter the fire, I will not put up with disgrace." But the Vetála discovered the king's intention, and pleased with his courage, he withdrew that delusion. Then the king beheld only one Vetála on the tree in the corpse of a man, and he took it down, and put it on his shoulder, and once more started off with it. And as he trudged along, the Vetála again said to him, "King, your fortitude is wonderful: so listen to this my tale."

Story of the Bráhman's son who failed to acquire the magic power.

There is a city called Ujjayiní, inferior only to Bhogavatí and Amarávatí, which Siva, who was won by the toilsome asceticism of Gaurí, being in love with the matchless pre-eminence of its excellence, himself selected as his habitation. It is full of various enjoyments, to be attained only by distinguished well-doing; in that city stiffness and hardness is seen only in the bosoms of the ladies, curvature only in their eye-brows, [369] and fickleness only in their rolling eyes; darkness only in the nights; crookedness only in the ambiguous phrases of poets; madness only in elephants; and coldness only in pearls, sandal-wood juice, and the moon.

In that city there was a learned Bráhman, named Devasvámin, who had offered many sacrifices, and possessed great wealth, and who was highly honoured by the king, whose name was Chandraprabha. In time there was born to that Bráhman a son, named Chandrasvámin, and he, though he had studied the sciences, was, when he grew up, exclusively devoted to the vice of gambling. [370] Now once on a time that Bráhman's son, Chandrasvámin, entered a great gambling-hall to gamble. Calamities seemed to be continually watching that hall with tumbling dice for rolling eyes, like the black antelope in colour, and saying to themselves, "Whom shall we seize on here?" And the hall, full of the noise of the altercations of gamblers, seemed to utter this cry, "Who is there whose wealth I could not take away? I could impoverish even Kuvera the lord of Alaká." Then he entered the hall, and playing dice with gamblers, he lost his clothes and all, and then he lost borrowed money in addition. And when he was called upon to pay that impossible sum, he could not do it, so the keeper of the gambling-hall seized him and beat him with sticks. [371] And that Bráhman's son, when beaten with sticks all over his body, made himself motionless as a stone, and to all appearance dead, and remained in that state.

When he had remained there in that condition for two or three days, the proprietor of the gambling establishment got angry, and said, in the gambling-hall, to the gamblers, who frequented it; "This fellow has begun to try on the petrifaction dodge, so take the spiritless wretch and throw him into some blind well; but I will give you the money."

When the proprietor said this to the gamblers, they took up Chandrasvámin, and carried him to a distant wood to look for a well. There an old gambler said to the others, "This fellow is all but dead; so what is the good of throwing him into a well now? So let us leave him here, and say that we left him in a well." All approved his speech, and agreed to do as he recommended.

Then the gamblers left Chandrasvámin there and went their ways, and he rose up and entered an empty temple of Siva that stood near. There he recovered his strength a little, and reflected in his grief, "Alas! being over-confiding, I have been robbed by these gamblers by downright cheating, so, where can I go in this condition, naked, cudgelled, and begrimed with dust? What would my father, my relations, or my friends say of me, if they saw me? So I will remain here for the present, and at night I will go out, and see how I can make shift to get food, to satisfy my hunger." While he was going through these reflections in hunger and nakedness, the sun abated his heat, and abandoned his garment the sky, and went to the mountain of setting.

Thereupon there came there a Pásupata ascetic with his body smeared with ashes, with matted hair and a trident, looking like a second Siva. When he saw Chandrasvámin, he said to him, "Who are you?" Thereupon Chandrasvámin told him his story, and bowed before him, and the hermit when he heard it, said to him; "You have arrived at my hermitage, as an unexpected guest, exhausted with hunger; so rise up, bathe, and take a portion of the food I have obtained by begging." When the hermit said this to Chandrasvámin, he answered, "Reverend sir, I am a Bráhman; how can I eat a part of your alms?"

When the hospitable hermit who possessed magic powers, heard that, he entered his hut, and called to mind the science which produces whatever one desires, and the science appeared to him when he called it to mind, and said, "What shall I do for you?" And he gave it this order; "Provide entertainment for this guest." The science answered "I will;" and then Chandrasvámin beheld a golden city rise up, with a garden attached to it, and full of female attendants. And those females came out of that city, and approached the astonished Chandrasvámin, and said to him; "Rise up, good sir; come, eat, and forget your fatigue." Then they took him inside, and made him bathe, and anointed him; and they put splendid garments on him, and took him to another magnificent dwelling; and there the young man beheld a young woman who seemed their chief, who was beautiful in all her limbs, and appeared to have been made by the Creator out of curiosity to see what he could do. She rose up, eager to welcome him, and made him sit beside her on her throne, and he partook with her of heavenly food, and ate with much delight betel-nut, flavoured with five fruits.

And next morning he woke up, and saw only that temple of Siva there, and neither that city, nor that heavenly lady nor her attendants. Then the hermit came out of the hut smiling, and asked him how he had enjoyed himself in the night, and the discreet Chandrasvámin, in his despondency, said to the hermit, "By your favour, reverend sir, I spent the night happily enough; but now, without that heavenly lady, my life will depart." When the hermit heard that, being kind-hearted, he laughed and said to him, "Remain here, you shall have exactly the same experiences this night also." When the hermit said this, Chandrasvámin consented to stay, and by the favour of the hermit, he was provided by the same means with the same enjoyments every night.

And at last he understood that this was all produced by magic science, so, one day, impelled by destiny, he coaxed that mighty hermit and said to him, "If, reverend sir, you really take pity on me, who have fled to you for protection, bestow on me that science, whose power is so great." When he urged this request persistently, the hermit said to him, "You cannot attain this science; for it is attained under the water, and while the aspirant is muttering spells under the water, the science creates delusions to bewilder him, so that he does not attain success. For there he sees himself born again, and a boy, and then a youth, and then a young man, and married, and then he supposes that he has a son. And he is falsely deluded, supposing that one person is his friend and another his enemy, and he does not remember this birth, nor that he is engaged in a magic rite for acquiring science. But whoever, when he seems to have reached twenty-four years, is recalled to consciousness by the science of his instructor, and being firm of soul, remembers his real life, and knows that all he supposes himself to experience is the effect of illusion, and though he is under the influence of it, enters the fire, attains the science, and rising from the water, sees the real truth. But if the science is not attained by the pupil on whom it is bestowed, it is lost to the teacher also, on account of its having been communicated to an unfit person. You can attain all the results you desire by my possession of the science; why do you shew this persistence? Take care that my power is not lost, and that so your enjoyment is not lost also."

Though the hermit said this, Chandrasvámin persisted in saying to him, "I shall be able to do all that is required [372]; do not be anxious about that." Then the hermit consented to give him the science. What will not good men do for the sake of those that implore their aid? Then the Pásupata ascetic went to the bank of the river, and said to him, "My son, when, in repeating this charm, you behold that illusion, I will recall you to consciousness by my magic power, and you must enter the fire which you will see in your illusion. For I shall remain here all the time on the bank of the river to help you. When that prince of ascetics had said this, being himself pure, he duly communicated that charm to Chandrasvámin, who was purified and had rinsed his mouth with water. Then Chandrasvámin bowed low before his teacher, and plunged boldly into the river, while he remained on the bank. And while he was repeating over that charm in the water, he was at once bewildered by its deluding power, and cheated into forgetting the whole of that birth. And he imagined himself to be born in his own person in another town, as the son of a certain Bráhman, and he slowly grew up. And in his fancy he was invested with the Bráhmanical thread, and studied the prescribed sciences, and married a wife, and was absorbed in the joys and sorrows of married life, and in course of time had a son born to him, and he remained in that town engaged in various pursuits, enslaved by love for his son, devoted to his wife, with his parents and relations.

While he was thus living through in his fancy a life other than his real one, the hermit his teacher employed the charm, whose office it was to rouse him at the proper season. He was suddenly awakened from his reverie by the employment of that charm, and recollected himself and that hermit, and became aware that all that he was apparently going through was magic illusion, and he became eager to enter the fire, in order to gain the fruit, which was to be attained by the charm; but he was surrounded by his elders, friends, superiors and relations, who all tried to prevent him. Still, though they used all kinds of arguments to dissuade him, being desirous of heavenly enjoyment, he went with his relations to the bank of the river, on which a pyre was prepared. There he saw his aged parents and his wife ready to die with grief, and his young children crying; and in his bewilderment he said to himself; "Alas! my relations will all die, if I enter the fire, and I do not know if that promise of my teacher's is true or not. So shall I enter the fire? Or shall I not enter it? After all, how can that promise of my teacher's be false, as it is so precisely in accordance with all that has taken place? So, I will gladly enter the fire." When the Bráhman Chandrasvámin had gone through these reflections, he entered the fire.

And to his astonishment the fire felt as cool to him as snow. Then he rose up from the water of the river, the delusion having come to an end, and went to the bank. There he saw his teacher on the bank, and he prostrated himself at his feet, and when his teacher questioned him, he told him all his experiences, ending with the cool feel of the fire. Then his teacher said to him, "My son, I am afraid you have made some mistake in this incantation, otherwise how can the fire have become cool to you? This phenomenon in the process of acquiring this science is unprecedented." When Chandrasvámin heard this remark of his teacher's, he answered, "Reverend sir, I am sure that I made no mistake."

Then the teacher, in order to know for certain, called to mind that science, and it did not present itself to him or his pupil. So, as both of them had lost the science, they left that place despondent.

"When the Vetála had told this story, he once more put a question to king Trivikramasena, after mentioning the same condition as before; "King, resolve this doubt of mine; tell me, why was the science lost to both of them, though the incantation was performed in the prescribed way?" When the brave king heard this speech of the Vetála's, he gave him this answer; "I know, lord of magic, you are bent on wasting my time here, still I will answer. A man cannot obtain success even by performing correctly a difficult ceremony, unless his mind is firm, and abides in spotless courage, unhesitating and pure from wavering. But in that business the mind of that spiritless young Bráhman wavered, even when roused by his teacher, [373] so his charm did not attain success, and his teacher lost his mastery over the charm, because he had bestowed it on an undeserving aspirant."

When the king had said this, the mighty Vetála again left his shoulder and went back invisible to his own place, and the king went back to fetch him as before.

NOTE.

The above story closely resembles one quoted from the Turkish Tales in the 94th number of the Spectator.

A sultan of Egypt was directed by a great doctor in the law, who had the gift of working miracles, to place himself in a huge tub of water, which he accordingly did; and as he stood by the tub amidst a circle of his great men, the holy man bid him plunge his head into the water and draw it up again. The king accordingly thrust his head into the water, and at the same time found himself at the foot of a mountain on the sea-shore. The king immediately began to rage against his doctor for this piece of treachery and witchcraft; but at length, knowing it was in vain to be angry, he set himself to think on proper methods for getting a livelihood in this strange country. Accordingly he applied himself to some people, whom he saw at work in a neighbouring wood: these people conducted him to a town that stood at a little distance from the wood, where after some adventures, he married a woman of great beauty and fortune. He lived with this woman so long that he had by her seven sons and seven daughters. He was afterwards reduced to great want, and forced to think of plying in the streets as a porter for his livelihood. One day, as he was walking alone by the seaside, being seized with many melancholy reflections upon his former and his present state of life, which had raised a fit of devotion in him, he threw off his clothes in the desire to wash himself, according to the custom of the Muhammadans, before he said his prayers.

After his first plunge into the sea, he no sooner raised his head above the water, than he found himself standing by the side of the tub, with the great men of his court about him, and the holy man at his side. He immediately upbraided his teacher for having sent him on such a course of adventures, and betrayed him into so long a state of misery and servitude; but was wonderfully surprised when he heard that the state he talked of was only a dream and a delusion; that he had not stirred from the place where he then stood; and that he had only dipped his head into the water, and taken it out again. Oesterley compares the story of Devadatta in the 26th Taranga of this work.

Chapter XCIII

(Vetála 19.)

Then king Trivikramasena again went and took the Vetála from the asoka-tree, and putting him on his shoulder, set out with him; and as he was returning from the tree, the Vetála once more said to him, "Listen, king, I will tell you a delightful tale."

Story of the Thief's Son.

There is a city named Vakrolaka, equal to the city of the gods; in it there dwelt a king named Súryaprabha, equal to Indra. He, like Vishnu, rescued this earth, and bore it long time on his arm, gladdening all men by his frame ever ready to bear their burdens. [374] In the realm of that king tears were produced only by contact with smoke, there was no talk of death except in the case of the living death of starved lovers, and the only fines were the fine gold sticks in the hands of his warders. He was rich in all manner of wealth, and he had only one source of grief, namely, that, though he had many wives, no son was born to him.

Now, at this point of the story, there was a merchant, of the name of Dhanapála, in the great city of Támraliptí, the wealthiest of the wealthy. And he had born to him one daughter only, and her name was Dhanavatí, who was shewn by her beauty to be a Vidyádharí fallen by a curse. When she grew up to womanhood, the merchant died; and his relations seized his property, as the king did not interfere to protect it. Then the wife of that merchant, who was named Hiranyavatí, took her own jewels and ornaments, which she had carefully concealed, and left her house secretly at the beginning of night, with her daughter Dhanavatí, and fled, to escape from her husband's relations. And with difficulty did she get outside the town, leaning upon the hand of her daughter, for without her was the darkness of night, and within her the darkness of grief. And as she went along in the thick darkness outside the town, it chanced, so fate would have it, that she ran her shoulder against a thief impaled on a stake, whom she did not see. He was still alive, and his pain being aggravated by the blow he received from her shoulder, he said, "Alas! who has rubbed salt into my wounds?" The merchant's wife then and there said to him, "Who are you?" He answered her, "I am a detected thief impaled here, [375] and though I am impaled, my breath has not yet left my body, wicked man that I am. So tell me, lady, who you are and whither you are going in this manner." When the merchant's wife heard this, she told him her story; and at that moment the eastern quarter adorned her face with the outshining moon, as with a beauty-patch.

Then, all the horizon being lighted up, the thief saw the merchant's daughter, the maiden Dhanavatí, and said to her mother, "Listen to one request of mine; I will give you a thousand pieces of gold; come, give me this maiden daughter of yours to wife." She laughed, and said, "What do you want with her?" Then the thief replied, "I am now as good as dead, and I have no son; and you know, a sonless man does not inherit the worlds of bliss. But, if you agree to my proposal, whatever son she may give birth to by my appointment, whoever may be his father, will be the issue raised up to me. This is the reason why I ask for her, but do you accomplish that desire of mine." When the merchant's widow heard this, she consented to it out of avarice. And she brought water from somewhere or other, and poured it on the hand of that thief, and said, "I give you this my maiden daughter in marriage."

He then gave to her daughter the command aforesaid, and then said to the merchant's widow, "Go and dig at the foot of this banyan-tree, and take the gold you find there; and when I am dead, have my body burnt with the usual ceremonies, and throw my bones into some sacred water, and go with your daughter to the city of Vakrolaka. There the people are made happy by good government under king Súryaprabha, and you will be able to live as you like, free from anxiety, as you will not be persecuted." When the thief had said this, being thirsty, he drank some water which she brought; and his life came to an end, spent with the torture of impalement.

Then the merchant's widow went and took the gold from the foot of the banyan-tree, and went secretly with her daughter to the house of a friend of her husband's; and while she was there, she managed to get that thief's body duly burnt, and had his bones thrown into a sacred water, and all the other rites performed. And the next day she took that concealed wealth, and went off with her daughter, and travelling along reached in course of time that city Vakrolaka. There she bought a house from a great merchant named Vasudatta, and lived in it with her daughter Dhanavatí.

Now at that time there lived in that city a teacher of the name of Vishnusvámin. And he had a pupil, a very handsome Bráhman of the name of Manahsvámin. And he, though he was of high birth and well-educated, was so enslaved by the passions of youth that he fell in love with a hetæra of the name of Hansávalí. But she demanded a fee of five hundred gold dínárs, and he did not possess this sum, so he was in a state of perpetual despondency.

And one day that merchant's daughter Dhanavatí saw him from the top of her palace, such as I have described, with attenuated but handsome frame. Her heart was captivated by his beauty; so she called to mind the injunction of that thief her husband, and artfully said to her mother, who was near her; "Mother, behold the beauty and youth of this young Bráhman, how charming they are, raining nectar into the eyes of the whole world." When that merchant's widow heard this, she saw that her daughter was in love with the young Bráhman, and she thought thus in her mind; "My daughter is bound by the orders of her husband to choose some man, in order to raise up issue to her husband, so why should she not invite this one?" When she had gone through these reflections, she entrusted her wish to a confidential maid, and sent her to bring the Bráhman for her daughter.

The maid went and took that Bráhman aside, and communicated her mistress's wish to him, and that young and dissolute Bráhman said to her; "If they will give me five hundred gold dínárs for Hansávalí, I will go there for one night." When he said this to the maid, she went and communicated it to the merchant's widow, and she sent the money to him by her hand. When Manahsvámin had received the money, he went with the maid to the private apartments of the widow's daughter, Dhanavatí, who had been made over to him. Then he saw that expectant fair one, the ornament of the earth, as the partridge beholds the moonlight, and rejoiced; and after passing the night there, he went away secretly next morning.

And Dhanavatí, the merchant's daughter, became pregnant by him, and in due time she brought forth a son, whose auspicious marks foreshadowed his lofty destiny. She and her mother were much pleased at the birth of a son; and then Siva manifested himself to them in a dream by night, and said to them; "Take this boy, as he lies in his cradle, and leave him, with a thousand gold pieces, early in the morning, at the door of king Súryaprabha. In this way all will turn out well." The merchant's widow and the merchant's daughter, having received this command from Siva, woke up, and told one another their dream. And relying upon the god, they took the boy and the gold, and laid them together at the gate of king Súryaprabha's palace. [376]

In the meanwhile Siva thus commanded in a dream king Súryaprabha, who was tormented with anxiety to obtain a son; "Rise up, king, somebody has placed at the gate of your palace a handsome child and some gold, take him as he lies in his cradle." When Siva had said this to the king, he woke up in the morning, and at that moment the warders came in and told him the same, and so he went out himself, and seeing at the gate of the palace that boy with a heap of gold, and observing that he was of auspicious appearance, having his hands and feet marked with the line, the umbrella, the banner and other marks, he said, "Siva has given me a suitable child," and he himself took him up in his arms, and went into the palace with him. And he made a feast, and gave away an incalculable amount of wealth, so that only the word "poor" was without its proper wealth of signification. And king Súryaprabha spent twelve days in music, and dancing, and other amusements, and then he gave that son the name of Chandraprabha.

And gradually prince Chandraprabha increased in stature as well as in excellent character, delighting his dependants by both. And in course of time he grew up, and became capable of bearing the weight of the earth, winning over the subjects by his courage, his generosity, his learning, and other accomplishments. And his father, king Súryaprabha, seeing that he possessed these qualities, appointed him his successor in the kingdom, and being an old man, and having accomplished all his ends in life, he went to Váránasí. And while that son of his, distinguished for policy, was ruling the earth, he abandoned his body at Váránasí, in the performance of severe asceticism.

And that pious king Chandraprabha, hearing of the death of his father, lamented for him, and performed the usual ceremonies, and then said to his ministers, "How can I ever pay my debt to my father? However I will make one recompense to him with my own hand. I will take his bones and duly fling them into the Ganges, and I will go to Gayá, and offer an obsequial cake to all the ancestors, and I will diligently perform a pilgrimage to all sacred waters, as far as the eastern sea." When the king said this, his ministers said to him, "Your majesty, kings ought never to do these things, for sovereignty has many weak points, and cannot subsist a moment without being upheld. So you must pay this debt to your father by the instrumentality of another. What visiting of holy waters, other than the doing of your duty, is incumbent upon you? Kings, who are ever carefully guarded, have nothing to do with pilgrimage, which is exposed to many dangers." When king Chandraprabha heard this speech of his ministers', he answered them, "Away with doubts and hesitations! I must certainly go for my father's sake; and I must visit the sacred waters, while I am young and strong enough. Who knows what will take place hereafter, for the body perishes in a moment? And you must guard my kingdom until my return." When the ministers heard this resolve of the king's, they remained silent. So the king got ready all the requisites for the journey. Then, on an auspicious day, the king bathed, made offerings to the fire, gave complimentary presents to Bráhmans, and ascended a chariot to which the horses were yoked, subdued in spirit and wearing the dress of an ascetic, [377] and started on his pilgrimage. With difficulty did he induce the feudal chiefs, the Rájpúts, the citizens, and the country people, who followed him as far as the frontier, to return, much against their will; and so, throwing the burden of his realm upon his ministers, king Chandraprabha set out in the company of his private chaplain, attended by Bráhmans in chariots. He was diverted by beholding various garbs, and hearing various languages, and by the other distractions of travel, and so seeing on his way all kinds of countries, in course of time he reached the Ganges. And he gazed upon that river, which seemed with the ridges of its waves to be making a ladder for mortals to ascend into heaven by; and which might be said to imitate Ambiká, since it sprang from the mountain Himavat, and playfully pulled in its course the hair of Siva, and was worshipped by the divine Rishis and the Ganas. So he descended from his chariot, and bathed in that river, and threw into it in accordance with pious custom the bones of king Súryaprabha.

And after he had given gifts and performed the sráddha, he ascended the chariot, and set out, and in course of time reached Prayága [378] celebrated by rishis, where the meeting streams of the Ganges and Yamuná gleam for the welfare of men, like the line of flame and the line of smoke of the sacrificial butter blending together. There king Chandraprabha fasted, and performed with various pious actions, such as bathing, distribution of wealth, and so on, the solemn ceremony of the sráddha, and then he went on to Váránasí, which seemed by the silken banners of its temples, tossed up and down by gusts of wind, to cry out from afar, "Come and attain salvation."

In that city he fasted for three days, and then worshipped Siva with various meat-offerings, as became his own rank, and then set out for Gayá. As he travelled through the woods, the trees, which were bent down by the weight of their fruit, and in which the birds were sweetly singing, seemed at every step to be bowing before him and praising him at the same time; and the winds, throwing about the woodland flowers, seemed to honour him with posies. And so he crossed the forest districts and reached the sacred hill of Gayá. [379] And there he duly performed a sráddha, in which he bestowed many gifts on Bráhmans, and then he entered the Holy Wood. And while he was offering the sacrificial cake to his father in the well of Gayá, there rose out of it three human hands to take the cake. When the king saw this, he was bewildered, and said to his own Bráhmans; "What does this mean? Into which hand am I to put the cake?" They said to him, "King, this hand in which an iron spike is seen, is certainly the hand of a thief; and this second hand, which holds a colander, [380] is the hand of a Bráhman; and this third hand, which has the ring and the auspicious marks, is the hand of a king. So we do not know into which hand the sacrificial cake is to be put, or what all this means." When the Bráhmans said this to the king, he was unable to arrive at any certain decision.

When the Vetála, on the shoulder of the king, had told this wonderful tale, he said to king Trivikramasena, "Now into whose hand should the cake have been put? Let your Highness tell me that; and remember the previous condition is still binding on you."

When king Trivikramasena, who was well versed in law, heard this from the Vetála, he broke silence, and answered him; "The sacrificial cake should have been placed in the hand of the thief, for king Chandraprabha was his son, raised up to him by his appointment, and he was not the son of either of the other two. For though the Bráhman begot him, he cannot be considered his father, as he sold himself for money for that one night. However he might have been considered the son of king Súryaprabha, because he had the sacraments performed for him, and brought him up, if the king had not received his wealth for the purpose. For the gold, which was placed at the head of the child in the cradle, was the price paid to king Súryaprabha for bringing him up, and other services. Accordingly king Chandraprabha was the son, begotten by another man, of that thief, who received his mother with the pouring of water over the hands, who gave the order for his being begotten, and to whom all that wealth belonged; and he ought to have placed the sacrificial cake in the thief's hand; this is my opinion."

When the king said this, the Vetála left his shoulder, and went to his own place, and king Trivikramasena again went after him to bring him back.

NOTE.

It appears from the analysis which Oesterley gives of the Sanskrit original by Sivadása, that the Hindi version resembles more nearly the version in the text. In the Sanskrit original there is no touching of the thief; Dhanavatí of her own accord enters into a conversation with him. The advice to expose the child at the king's door is given by the grandmother, after hearing the daughter's dream. The king does not fetch the boy himself, but has him brought.

Chapter XCIV

(Vetála 20.)

Then king Trivikramasena went and took down that Vetála from the asoka-tree, and putting him on his shoulder, started off with him again. And when he had set out in silence, the Vetála spake to him from his shoulder; "King, what is the meaning of this persistency of yours? Go, enjoy the good of the night; it is not fitting that you should carry me to that wicked mendicant. However, if you are obstinately bent on it, so be it; but listen to this one story."

Story of the Bráhman boy, who offered himself up to save the life of the king.

There is a city called Chitrakúta, [381] rightly so named, where the established divisions of the castes never step across the strict line of demarcation. In it there lived a king, named Chandrávaloka, the crest-jewel of kings, who rained showers of nectar into the eyes of those devoted to him. Wise men praised him as the binding-post of the elephant of valour, the fountain-head of generosity, and the pleasure-pavilion of beauty. There was one supreme sorrow in the heart of that young prince, that, though he enjoyed all kinds of prosperity, he could not obtain a suitable wife.

Now, one day, the king, accompanied by mounted attendants, went out to a great forest to hunt, in order to dispel that sorrow. There he cleft with continual shafts the herds of wild swine, as the sun, shining in the dun sky, [382] disperses the darkness with his rays. Surpassing Arjuna in strength, he made the lions, impetuous in fight, and terrible with their yellow manes, repose upon beds of arrows. Like Indra in might, he stripped of their wings [383] the mountain-like Sarabhas, and laid them low with the blows of his darts hard as the thunder-bolt. In the ardour of the chase he felt a longing to penetrate into the centre of the wood alone, so he urged on his horse with a smart blow of his heel. The horse, being exceedingly excited by that blow of his heel, and by a stroke of the whip, cared neither for rough nor smooth, but darting on with a speed exceeding that of the wind, in a moment traversed ten yojanas, and carried the king, the functions of whose senses were quite paralysed, to another forest.

There the horse stopped, and the king, having lost his bearings, roamed about wearied, until he saw near him a broad lake, which seemed to make signs to him to approach with its lotuses, that, bent down towards him and then raised again by the wind, seemed like beckoning hands. [384] So he went up to it, and relieved his horse by taking off its saddle and letting it roll, and bathed and watered it, and then tied it up in the shade of a tree, and gave it a heap of grass. Then he bathed himself, and drank water, and so dispelled his fatigue, and then he let his eye wander hither and thither in the delightful environs of the lake. And in one part he saw, at the foot of an asoka-tree, a wonderfully beautiful hermit's daughter, accompanied by her friend. She wore garlands of flowers, and a dress of bark, which became her well. And she looked exceedingly charming on account of the elegant way in which her hair was plaited together after the hermit fashion. And the king, who had now fallen within the range of the arrows of love, said to himself; "Who can this be? Can it be Sávitrí come to bathe in the lake? Or can it be Gaurí, who has slipped away from the arms of Siva, and again betaken herself to asceticism? Or can it be the beauty of the moon that has taken upon herself a vow, as the moon has set, now that it is day? So I had better approach her quietly and find out." Having thus reflected, the king approached that maiden.

But when she saw him coming, her eyes were bewildered by his beauty, and her hand relaxed its grasp on the garland of flowers, which she had before begun to weave, and she said to herself; "Who is this that has found his way into such a wood as this? Is he a Siddha or a Vidyádhara? In truth his beauty might satisfy the eyes of the whole world." When these thoughts had passed through her mind, she rose up, and modestly looking askance at him she proceeded to go away, though her legs seemed to want all power of movement.

Then the polite and dexterous monarch approached her and said, "Fair one, I do not ask you to welcome and entertain a person seen for the first time, who has come from a distance, and desires no fruit other than that of beholding you; but how is your running away from him to be reconciled with the obligations of hermit life?" When the king said this, the lady's attendant, who was equally dexterous, sat down there, and entertained the king.

Then the eager king said to her with an affectionate manner, "Worthy lady, what auspicious family is adorned by this friend of yours? What are the ear-nectar-distilling syllables of her name? And why does she torture in this wilderness, with the discipline appropriate to ascetics, her body, which is soft as a flower?" When her friend heard this speech of the king's, she answered; "This is the maiden daughter of the great hermit Kanva, born to him by Menaká; she has been brought up in the hermitage, and her name is Indívaraprabhá. She has come here to bathe in this lake by permission of her father, and her father's hermitage is at no great distance from this place."

When she said this to the king, he was delighted, and he mounted his horse, and set out for the hermitage of the hermit Kanva, with the intention of asking him for that daughter of his. He left his horse outside the hermitage, and then he entered with modest humility its enclosure, which was full of hermits with matted hair, and coats of bark, thus resembling in appearance its trees. And in the middle of it he saw the hermit Kanva surrounded with hermits, delighting the eye with his brightness, like the moon surrounded with planets. So he went up to him, and worshipped him, embracing his feet. The wise hermit entertained him and dispelled his fatigue, and then lost no time in saying to him; "My son Chandrávaloka, listen to the good advice which I am about to give you. You know how all living creatures in the world fear death: so why do you slay without cause these poor deer? The Disposer appointed the weapon of the warrior for the protection of the terrified. So rule your subjects righteously, root up your enemies, and secure fleeting fortune and her gifts by the warlike training of horse, and elephant, and so on. Enjoy the delights of rule, give gifts, diffuse your fame throughout the world, but abandon the vice of hunting, the cruel sport of death. What is the profit of that mischievous hunting, in which slayer, victim, and horse [385] are all equally beside themselves? Have you have not heard what happened to Pándu?"

The intelligent king, Chandrávaloka, heard and accepted cheerfully this advice of the hermit Kanva, and then answered him, "Reverend Sir, I have been instructed by you; you have done me a great favour; I renounce hunting, let living creatures be henceforth free from alarm." When the hermit heard that, he said, "I am pleased with you for thus granting security to living creatures; so choose whatever boon you desire." When the hermit said this, the king, who knew his time, said to him, "If you are satisfied with me, then give me your daughter Indívaraprabhá." When the king made this request, the hermit bestowed on him his daughter, who had just returned from bathing, born from an Apsaras, a wife meet for him. Then the wives of the hermits adorned her, and the marriage was solemnized, and king Chandrávaloka mounted his horse and set out thence quickly, taking with him his wife, whom the ascetics followed as far as the limits of the hermitage with gushing tears. And as he went along, the sun, seeing that the action of that day had been prolonged, [386] sat down, as if wearied, on the peak of the mountain of setting. And in course of time appeared the gazelle-eyed nymph of night, overflowing with love, veiling her shape in a violet robe of darkness.

Just at that moment the king found on the road an asvattha-tree, on the bank of a lake, the water of which was as transparent as a good man's heart. And seeing that that spot was overshadowed with dense boughs and leaves, and was shady and grassy, he made up his mind that he would pass the night there. Then he dismounted from his horse, and gave it grass and water, and rested on the sandy bank of the lake, and drank water, and cooled himself in the breeze; and then he lay down with that hermit's daughter, under that tree, on a bed of flowers. And at that time the moon arose, and removing the mantle of darkness, seized and kissed the glowing face of the East. And all the quarters of the heaven were free from darkness, and gleamed, embraced and illuminated by the rays of the moon, so that there was no room for pride. [387] And so the beams of the moon entered the interstices in the bower of creepers, and lit up the space round the foot of the tree like jewel-lamps.

And the next morning the king left his bed, and after the morning prayer, he made ready to set out with his wife to rejoin his army. And then the moon, that had in the night robbed the cheeks of the lotuses of their beauty, lost its brightness, and slunk, as if in fear, to the hollows of the western mountain; for the sun, fiery-red with anger, as if desirous to slay it, lifted his curved sword in his outstretched fingers. [388] At that moment there suddenly came there a Bráhman demon, black as soot, with hair yellow as the lightning, looking like a thunder-cloud. He had made himself a wreath of entrails; he wore a sacrificial cord of hair; he was gnawing the flesh of a man's head, and drinking blood out of a skull. The monster, terrible with projecting tusks, uttered a horrible loud laugh, and vomiting fire with rage, menaced the king in the following words, "Villain! know that I am a Bráhman demon, Jválámukha by name, and this asvattha-tree my dwelling is not trespassed upon even by gods, but thou hast presumed to occupy and enjoy it with thy wife. So receive from me, returned from my nightly wanderings, the fruit of thy presumption. I, even I, O wicked one, will tear out and devour the heart of thee, whose mind love has overpowered, aye, and I will drink thy blood."

When the king heard this dreadful threat, and saw that his wife was terrified, knowing that the monster was invulnerable, he humbly said to him in his terror, "Pardon the sin which I have ignorantly committed against you, for I am a guest come to this your hermitage, imploring your protection. And I will give you what you desire, by bringing a human victim, whose flesh will glut your appetite; so be appeased, and dismiss your anger." When the Bráhman demon heard this speech of the king's, he was pacified, and said to himself, "So be it! That will do." Then he said to the king, "I will overlook the insult you have offered me on the following conditions. You must find a Bráhman boy, who, though seven years old and intelligent, is of so noble a character that he is ready to offer himself for your sake. And his mother and father must place him on the earth, and hold him firmly by the hands and feet, while he is being sacrificed. And when you have found such a human victim, you must yourself slay him with a sword-stroke, and so offer him up to me on the seventh day from this. If you comply with these conditions, well and good; but, if not, king, I will in a moment destroy you and all your court." When the king heard this, in his terror he agreed at once to the conditions proposed, and the Bráhman demon immediately disappeared.

Then king Chandrávaloka mounted his horse, and set out with Indívaraprabhá in quest of his army, in a state of the utmost despondency. He said to himself, "Alas! I, bewildered by hunting and love, have suddenly incurred destruction like Pándu; [389] fool that I am! For whence can I obtain for this Rákshasa a victim, such as he has described? So I will go in the meantime to my own town, and see what will happen." While thus reflecting, he met his own army, that had come in search of him, and with that and his wife he entered his city of Chitrakúta. Then the whole kingdom rejoiced, when they saw that he had obtained a suitable wife, but the king passed the rest of the day in suppressed sorrow.

The next day he communicated to his ministers in secret all that had taken place, and a discreet minister among them said to him, "Do not be downcast, king, for I will search for and bring you such a victim, for the earth contains many marvels."

When the minister had consoled the king in these words, he had made with the utmost rapidity a golden image of a seven-years-old child, and he adorned its ears with jewels, and placed it on a chariot, and had it carried about in the towns, villages, and stations of herdsmen. And while that image of a child was being carried about, the minister had the following proclamation continually made in front of it, with beat of drum; "If a Bráhman boy of seven years old will willingly offer himself to a Bráhman demon for the good of the community, and if his mother and father will permit the brave boy to offer himself, and will hold his hands and feet while he is being slain, the king will give to that boy, who is so eager to benefit his parents as to comply with these conditions, this image of gold and gems, together with a hundred villages."

Now it happened that a certain seven-years-old Bráhman boy, living on a royal grant to Bráhmans, who was of great courage and admirable character, heard this proclamation. Even in his childhood this boy had always taken pleasure in benefiting his fellow-men, as he had practised that virtue in a former life; in fact he seemed like the ripe result of the merits of the king's subjects incarnate in bodily form. So he came and said to the men who were making this proclamation, "I will offer myself up for your good; but first, I will go and inform my parents; then I will return to you." When he said this to them, they were delighted, and they let him go. So he went home, and folding his hands in an attitude of supplication, he said to his parents; "I wish to offer for the good of the community this perishable body of mine; so permit me to do so, and put an end to your poverty. For if I do so, the king will give me this image of myself, made of gold and gems, together with a hundred villages, and on receiving them, I will make them over to you. In this way I shall pay my debt to you, and at the same time benefit my fellow-men; and your poverty will be at an end, and you will have many sons to replace me."

As soon as he had said this, his parents answered him; "What is this that you say, son? Are you distracted with wind? Or are you planet-struck? Unless you are one of these, how could you talk in this wild way? Who would cause his son's death for the sake of wealth? What child would sacrifice its body?" When the boy heard this speech of his parents, he rejoined; "I do not speak from a disordered intellect; hear my speech, which is full of sense. This body, which is full of indescribable impurities, which is loathsome by its very birth, and the abode of pain, will soon perish [390] anyhow. So wise men say that the only solid and permanent thing in a fleeting universe is that merit which is acquired by means of this very frail and perishable body. [391] And what greater merit can there be than the benefiting of all creatures? So, if I do not show devotion to my parents, what fruit shall I reap from my body?" By this speech and others of the same kind the resolute boy induced his weeping parents to consent to his wish. And he went to the king's servants, and obtained from them that golden image, together with a grant of a hundred villages, and gave them to his parents. Then he made the king's servants precede him, and went quickly, accompanied by his parents, to the king in Chitrakúta. Then king Chandrávaloka, beholding arrived the boy, whose courage [392] was so perfect, and who thus resembled a bright protecting talisman, was exceedingly delighted. So he had him adorned with garlands, and anointed with unguents, and putting him on the back of an elephant, he took him with his parents to the abode of the Bráhman demon.

Then the chaplain drew a circle near the asvattha-tree, and performed the requisite rites, and made an oblation to the fire. And then the Bráhman demon Jválámukha appeared, uttering a loud laugh, and reciting the Vedas. His appearance was very terrible; he was drunk with a full draught of blood, yawning, and panting frequently; his eyes blazed, and he darkened the whole horizon with the shadow of his body. Then king Chandrávaloka, beholding him, bent before him, and said; "Adorable one, I have brought you this human sacrifice, and it is now the seventh day, gentle Sir, since I promised it you; so be propitious, receive this sacrifice, as is due." When the king made this request, the Bráhman demon looked at the Bráhman boy, licking the corners of his mouth with his tongue. [393]

At that moment the noble boy, in his joy, said to himself, "Let not the merit, which I acquire by this sacrifice of my body, gain for me heaven, or even a salvation which involves no benefits to others, but may I be privileged to offer up my body for the benefit of others in birth after birth!" While he was forming this aspiration, the heaven was suddenly filled with the chariots of the heavenly host, who rained flowers.

Then the boy was placed in front of the Bráhman demon, and his mother took hold of his hands and his father of his feet. Then the king drew his sword, and prepared to slay him; but at that moment the child laughed so loudly, that all there, the Bráhman demon included, abandoned the occupation in which they were engaged, and in their astonishment put their palms together, and bowing, looked at his face.

When the Vetála had told this entertaining and romantic tale, he once more put a question to king Trivikramasena; "So tell me, king, what was the reason that the boy laughed in such an awful moment as that of his own death? I feel great curiosity to know it, so, if you know, and do not tell me, your head shall split into a hundred pieces."

When the king heard this from the Vetála, he answered him, "Hear what was the meaning of that child's laugh. It is well known that a weak creature, when danger comes upon it, calls upon its father or mother to save its life. And if its father and mother be gone, it invokes the protection of the king who is appointed to succour the afflicted, and if it cannot obtain the aid of the king, it calls upon the deity under whose special protection it is. Now, in the case of that child, all those were present, and all behaved in exactly the opposite manner to what might have been expected of them. The child's parents held its hands and feet out of greed of gain, and the king was eager to slay it, to save his own life, and the Bráhman demon, its protecting deity, was ready to devour it. The child said to itself; 'To think that these should be thus deluded, being led so much astray for the sake of the body, which is perishable, loathsome within, and full of pain and disease. Why should they have such a strange longing for the continuance of the body, in a world in which Brahmá, Indra, Vishnu, Siva, and the other gods must certainly perish.' Accordingly the Bráhman boy laughed out of joy and wonder, joy at feeling that he had accomplished his object, and wonder at beholding the marvellous strangeness of their delusion."

When the king had said this, he ceased, and the Vetála immediately left his shoulder, and went back to his own place, disappearing by his magic power. But the king, without hesitating for a moment, rapidly pursued him; the hearts of great men, as of great seas, are firm and unshaken.

NOTE.

Oesterley (p. 210) tells us that a boy is in the same way sold to a king as a victim in the 32nd tale of the Turkish collection of tales, called "The Forty Viziers." When the king is about to rip up the child's body, the child laughs for the same reason as in our text. The cause of the sacrifice is however different. The king is to be healed by placing his feet in the body of a boy.

The promise of a golden image to any one who is willing to sacrifice his life is also found in the Bengali edition of the Sinhásana-dvátrinsati. A rich man makes a golden image, with an inscription on it to the effect that whoever is willing to sacrifice his life shall have it. Vikramáditya goes to the place disguised, and cuts off his head, but the goddess heals him, (Benfey's Panchatantra, Vol. I, p. 109.)

Chapter XCV

(Vetála 21.)

Then king Trivikramasena again went and took the Vetála from the asoka-tree, and carried him along on his shoulder. And as he was going along, the Vetála again said to the king, "Listen, king, I will tell you a story of violent attachment."

Story of Anangamanjarí, her husband Manivarman, and the Bráhman Kamalákara.

There is a city called Visálá, which is like a second city of Indra, made by the Creator on earth, for the sake of virtuous people who have fallen from heaven. In it there lived a fortunate king, named Padmanábha, who was a source of joy to good men, and excelled king Bali. In the reign of that king there lived in that city a great merchant, named Arthadatta, who surpassed in opulence the god of wealth. And to him there was born a daughter named Anangamanjarí, who was exhibited on earth by the Creator as a likeness of a heavenly nymph. And that merchant gave her to the son of a distinguished merchant, dwelling in Támraliptí, and named Manivarman. But as he was very fond of his daughter Anangamanjarí, because she was his only child, he would not let her leave his house, but kept her there with her husband. But Anangamanjarí's husband Manivarman was as distasteful to her, as a biting bitter medicine to a sick man. But that lovely one was dearer than life to her husband, as wealth hardly won and long hoarded is to a miser.

Now once on a time that Manivarman, longing to see his parents, went to his home in Támraliptí to visit them. After some days had passed, the hot season descended upon the land, impeding the journey of men absent from home with the sharp shafts of the sun's rays. The winds blew laden with the fragrance of the jasmine and trumpet-flower, and seemed like the hot [394] sighs of the cardinal points on account of the departure of spring. Lines of dust raised by the wind flew up to heaven, like messengers sent by the heated earth to hasten the approach of the clouds. The days passed slowly, like travellers exhausted by the severe heat, and longing for the shade of the trees. The nights, pale-gleaming with moonbeams, became exceedingly [395] reduced owing to the loss of the spring with all its happy meetings.

One day in that season, that merchant's daughter Anangamanjarí was sitting with her intimate friend in a lofty window of her house, white with sandal-wood ointment, and elegantly dressed in a thin garment of silk. While there, she saw a young Bráhman, named Kamalákara, the son of the king's chaplain, passing by, and he looked like the god of Love, risen from his ashes, going to find Rati. And when Kamalákara saw that lovely one overhead, like the orb of the moon, [396] he was full of joy, and became like a cluster of kumuda-flowers. The sight of those two young persons became to one another, by the mighty command of Cupid, a priceless [397] fascination of the mind. And the two were overcome by passion, which rooted up their modesty and carried away by a storm of love-frenzy, which flung their minds to a distance. And Kamalákara's companion, as soon as he saw that his friend was love-smitten, dragged him off, though with difficulty, to his own house.

As for Anangamanjarí, she enquired what his name was, and having no will of her own, slowly entered the house with that confidante of hers. There she was grievously afflicted with the fever of love, and thinking on her beloved, she rolled on the bed, and neither saw nor heard anything. After two or three days had passed, being ashamed and afraid, unable to bear the misery of separation, thin and pale, and despairing of union with her beloved, which seemed a thing impossible, she determined on suicide. So, one night, when her attendants were asleep, she went out, drawn as it were, by the moon, which sent its rays through the window, like fingers, and made for a tank at the foot of a tree in her own garden. There she approached an image of the goddess Chandí, her family deity, that had been set up with much magnificence by her father, and she bowed before the goddess, and praised her, and said, "Though I have not obtained Kamalákara for a husband in this life, let him be my husband in a future birth!" When the impassioned woman had uttered these words in front of the goddess, she made a noose with her upper garment, and fastened it to an asoka-tree.

In the meanwhile it happened that her confidante, who was sleeping in the same room, woke up, and not seeing her there, went to the garden to look for her. And seeing her there engaged in fastening a noose round her neck, she cried out, "Stop! stop!" and running up, she cut that noose which she had made. Anangamanjarí, when she saw that her confidante had come and cut the noose, fell on the ground in a state of great affliction. Her confidante comforted her, and asked her the cause of her grief, and she at once told her, and went on to say to her, "So you see, friend Málatiká, as I am under the authority of my parents and so on, and have little chance of being united to my beloved, death is my highest happiness." While Anangamanjarí was saying these words, she was exceedingly tortured with the fire of Love's arrows, and being overpowered with despair, she fainted away.

Her friend Málatiká exclaimed, "Alas! the command of Cupid is hard to resist, since it has reduced to this state this friend of mine, who was always laughing at other misguided women, who shewed a want of self-restraint. [398]" Lamenting in these words, she slowly brought Anangamanjarí round with cold water, fanning, and so on, and in order to allay her heat, she made her a bed of lotus-leaves, and placed on her heart a necklace cool as snow. Then Anangamanjarí, with her eyes gushing with tears, said to her friend, "Friend, the necklace and the other applications do not allay my internal heat. But do you by your cleverness accomplish something which will really allay it. Unite me to my beloved, if you wish to preserve my life." When she said this, Málatiká lovingly answered her, "My friend, the night is now almost at an end, but to-morrow I will make an arrangement with your beloved, and bring him to this very place. So in the meanwhile control yourself, and enter your house." When she said this, Anangamanjarí was pleased, and drawing the necklace from her neck, she gave it to her as a present. And she said to her, "Now go to your house, and early to-morrow go thence to the house of my beloved, and may you prosper!" Having dismissed her confidante in these words, she entered her own apartments.

And early next morning, her friend Málatiká went, without being seen by any one, to the house of Kamalákara; and searching about in the garden, she saw him at the foot of a tree. He was rolling about, burning with the fire of love, on a bed composed of lotus-leaves moistened with sandal-wood juice, and a confidential friend of his was trying to give him relief by fanning him with a plantain-leaf. She said to herself, "Is it possible that he has been reduced to this stage of love's malady by separation from her?" So she remained there in concealment, to find out the truth about it.

In the meanwhile that friend of Kamalákara's said to him, "Cast your eye, my friend, for a moment round this delightful garden, and cheer up your heart. Do not give way to despondency." When the young Bráhman heard this, he answered his friend, "My friend, my heart has been taken from me by Anangamanjarí the merchant's daughter, and my breast left empty; so how can I cheer up my heart. Moreover Love, finding me robbed of my heart, has made me a quiver for his arrows; so enable me to get hold of that girl, who stole it."

When the young Bráhman said that, Málatiká's doubts were removed, and she was delighted, and showed herself, and went up to him, and said, "Happy man, Anangamanjarí has sent me to you, and I hereby give you her message, the meaning of which is clear, 'What sort of conduct is this for a virtuous man, to enter a fair one's bosom by force, and after stealing away her heart, to go off without showing himself.' It is strange too, that though you have stolen the lady's heart, she now wishes to surrender to you herself and her life. For day and night she furnaces forth from her hot sighs, which appear like smoke rising from the fire of love in her burning heart. And her tear-drops, black with collyrium, fall frequently, looking like bees attracted by the fragrance of her lotus-like face. So if you like, I will say what will be for the good of both of you."

When Málatiká said this, Kamalákara answered her, "My good lady, this speech of yours, though it comforts me by shewing that my beloved loves me, terrifies me, as it tells that the fair one is in a state of unhappiness. So you are our only refuge in this matter; do as you think best." When Kamalákara said this, Málatiká answered, "I will to-night bring Anangamanjarí secretly into the garden belonging to her house, and you must take care to be outside. Then I will manage by some device of mine to let you in, and so you will be able to see one another in accordance with your wishes." When Málatiká had by these words delighted the young Bráhman, she went away, having accomplished her object, and delighted Anangamanjarí also.

Then the sun, in love with the twilight, departed somewhere or other, together with the day, and the heaven adorned itself, placing the moon on its western quarter, like a patch on the forehead. And the pure white kumuda-cluster laughed joyously with the cheerful faces of its opened flowers, as if to say, "Fortune has left the lotus-cluster and come to me." Thereupon the lover Kamalákara also adorned himself, and full of impatience, slowly approached the outside of the door that led into the garden of Anangamanjarí's house. Then Málatiká managed to bring into that garden Anangamanjarí, who had with difficulty got through the day. And she made her sit in the middle of it, in a bower of mango-trees, and went out, and brought in Kamalákara also. And when he entered, he beheld Anangamanjarí in the midst of dense-foliaged trees, as gladly as the traveller beholds the shade.

While he was advancing towards her, she saw him, and as the violence of her passion robbed her of shame, she eagerly ran forward, and threw her arms round his neck. She faltered out, "Where are you going? I have caught you," and immediately her breath was stopped by the weight of excessive joy, and she died. And she fell on the ground, like a creeper broken by the wind. Alas! strange is the course of love, that is terrible in its consequences. When Kamalákara beheld that misfortune, which was terrible as a thunder-stroke, he said, "Alas! what is this?" and fell senseless on the ground. In a moment he recovered consciousness; and then he took his beloved up in his arms, and embraced and kissed her, and lamented much. And then he was so violently oppressed by excessive weight of sorrow, that his heart burst asunder at once, with a crack. And when Málatiká was lamenting over their corpses, the night, seeing that both these lovers had met their end, came to an end, as if out of grief. And the next day, the relations of both, hearing from the gardeners what had happened, came there distracted with shame, wonder, grief, and bewilderment. And they remained for a long time doubtful what to do, with faces downcast from distress; bad women are a grievous affliction, and a source of calamity to their family.

At this moment Manivarman, the husband of Anangamanjarí, came, full of longing to see her, from his father's house in Támraliptí. When he reached his father-in-law's house, and heard what had taken place, he came running to that garden, with his eyes blinded with tears. There, beholding his wife lying dead by the side of another man, the passionate man at once yielded up his breath, that was heated with the fire of grief. Then the people there began to cry out, and to make an uproar, and all the citizens heard what had taken place, and came there in a state of astonishment.

Then the goddess Chandí, who was close at hand, having been called down into that garden long ago by the father of Anangamanjarí, was thus supplicated by her Ganas; "Goddess, this merchant Arthadatta, who has established an image of thee in his garden, has always been devoted to thee, so have mercy upon him in this his affliction." When the beloved of Siva, the refuge of the distressed, heard this prayer of her Ganas, she gave command that the three should return to life, free from passion. So they all, by her favour, immediately arose, as if awaking from sleep, free from the passion of love. Then all the people were full of joy, beholding that marvel; and Kamalákara went home, with his face downcast from shame; and Arthadatta, having recovered his daughter [399] Anangamanjarí, who looked thoroughly ashamed of herself, together with her husband, returned to his house in high spirits.

When the Vetála had told this story that night on the way, he again put a question to king Trivikramasena. He said, "King, tell me, which of those three, who were blinded by passion, was the most infatuated? And remember, the curse before-mentioned will take effect, if you know and do not say." When the king heard this question of the Vetála's, he answered him, "It seems to me that Manivarman was the most infatuated with passion of the three. For one can understand those two dying, as they were desperately in love with one another, and their amorous condition had been fully developed by lapse of time. But Manivarman was terribly infatuated, for when he saw his wife dead of love for another man, and the occasion called for indignation, he was so far from being angry that, in his great love, he died of grief." When the king had said this, the mighty Vetála again left his shoulder, and departed to his own place, and the king again went in pursuit of him.

NOTE.

Oesterley, page 217, gives a story which resembles this in its conclusion. A king finds a girl being carried off by robbers. He delivers her and places her in a temple, promising to bring her food. But on his way he meets a kuttiní, who conducts him to another girl, with whom he falls desperately in love, and so forgets the girl he rescued. She is found by a merchant. He takes her to his house and sets food before her. He then kills a rat, and boasts of his valour; (see page 16 of this volume.) This conduct, contrasted with that of the king, makes the girl die of disgust. The merchant kills himself. The king, not finding the first girl where he left her, commits suicide. The kuttiní considers that she has caused the death of three persons, and kills herself in a fit of remorse. The Vetála asks, "Which of these four deaths was the most extraordinary?" The king answers, "That of the kuttiní, for the others died of excess of passion."

Chapter XCVI

(Vetála 22.)

Then king Trivikramasena again fetched the Vetála from the top of the asoka-tree, and put him on his shoulder, and as he was going along, the Vetála said to him on the way, "King, you are good and brave, so hear this matchless tale."

Story of the four Bráhman brothers who resuscitated the tiger.

There lived once on the earth a king, named Dharanívaráha, who was lord of the town of Pátaliputra. [400] In his realm, which abounded in Bráhmans, there was a royal grant to Bráhmans named Brahmasthala; and on it there lived a Bráhman of the name of Vishnusvámin. He had a wife that was as well-suited to him as the oblation to the fire. And in course of time he had four sons by her. And when they had learnt the Vedas, and passed their childhood, Vishnusvámin went to heaven, and his wife followed him.

Then all his sons there, being in a miserable state, as they had no protectors, and having had all their property taken from them by their relations, deliberated together, and said, "We have no means of support here, so why should we not go hence to the house of our maternal grandfather in the village named Yajnasthala?" Having determined on this, they set out, living on alms, and after many days they reached the house of their maternal grandfather. Their grandfather was dead, but their mother's brothers gave them shelter and food, and they lived in their house, engaged in reading the Vedas. But after a time, as they were paupers, their uncles came to despise them, and neglected to supply them with food, clothes, and other necessaries.

Then their hearts were wounded by the manifest contempt shewn for them by their relations, and they brooded over it in secret, and then the eldest brother said to the rest; "Well! brothers, what are we to do? Destiny performs every thing, no man can do anything in this world at any place or time. For to-day, as I was wandering about in a state of distraction, I reached a cemetery; and in it I saw a man lying dead upon the ground, with all his limbs relaxed. And when I saw him, I envied his state, and I said to myself; 'Fortunate is this man, who is thus at rest, having got rid of his burden of grief.' Such was the reflection that then occurred to me; so I determined to die: and I tried to hang myself by means of a rope fastened to the branch of a tree. I became unconscious, but my breath did not leave my body; and while I was in this state, the rope broke, and I fell to the earth. And as soon as I recovered consciousness, I saw that some compassionate man was fanning me with his garment. He said to me, 'Friend, say, why do you allow yourself to be thus afflicted, though you are wise? For joy springs from good deeds, and pain from evil deeds, these are their only sources. If your agitation is due to pain, then perform good deeds; how can you be so foolish as to desire to incur the pains of hell by suicide?' With these words that man consoled me, and then departed somewhere or other, but I have come here, having abandoned my design of committing suicide. So, you see that, if Destiny is adverse, it is not even possible to die. Now I intend to go to some holy water, and there consume my body with austerities, in order that I may never again endure the misery of poverty."

When the eldest brother said this, his younger brothers said to him, "Sir, why are you, though wise, afflicted with pain merely because you are poor? Do you not know that riches pass away like an autumn cloud. Who can ever count on retaining Fortune or a fickle woman, though he carry them off and guard them carefully, for both are insincere in their affection and secretly hostile to their possessor? So a wise man must acquire by vigorous exertion some eminent accomplishment, which will enable him frequently to bind [401] and lead home by force riches which are like bounding deer." When the eldest brother was addressed in this language by his brothers, he at once recovered his self-control, and said, "What accomplishment of this kind should we acquire?" Then they all considered and said to one another, "We will search through the earth and acquire some magic power." So having adopted this resolution, and fixed upon a trysting-place at which to meet, the four separated, going east, west, north and south.

And in course of time they met again at the appointed spot, and asked one another what each had learned. Then one of them said, "I have learned this magic secret; if I find a bit of a bone of any animal, I can immediately produce on it the flesh of that animal." When the second heard this speech of his brother's, he said, "When the flesh of any animal has been superinduced upon a piece of bone, I know how to produce the skin and hair appropriate to that animal." Then the third said, "And when the hair and flesh and skin have been produced, I am able to create the limbs of the animal to which the bone belonged." And the fourth said, "When the animal has its limbs properly developed, I know how to endow it with life."

When they had said this to one another, the four brothers went into the forest to find a piece of bone, on which to display their skill. There it happened that they found a piece of a lion's bone, and they took it up without knowing to what animal it belonged. Then the first covered it with the appropriate flesh, and the second in the same way produced on it all the requisite skin and hair, and the third completed the animal by giving it all its appropriate limbs, and it became a lion, and then the fourth endowed it with life. Then it rose up a very terrible lion, furnished with a dense shaggy mane, having a mouth formidable with teeth, [402] and with hooked claws at the end of its paws. And charging the four authors of its being, it slew them on the spot, and then retired glutted to the forest. So those Bráhmans perished by making the fatal mistake of creating a lion: for who can give joy to his own soul by raising up a noisome beast?

So, if Fate be not propitious, an accomplishment, though painfully acquired, not only does not bring prosperity, but actually brings destruction. For the tree of valour only bears fruit, as a general rule, when the root, being uninjured, [403] is watered with the water of wisdom, and when it is surrounded with the trench of policy.

When the Vetála, sitting on the shoulder of the king, had told this tale on the way, that night, to king Trivikramasena, he went on to say to him, "King, which of these four was guilty in respect of the production of the lion, that slew them all? Tell me quickly, and remember that the old condition is still binding on you." When the king heard the Vetála say this, he said to himself, "This demon wishes me to break silence, and so to escape from me. Never mind, I will go and fetch him again." Having formed this resolution in his heart, he answered that Vetála, "That one among them, who gave life to the lion, is the guilty one. For they produced the flesh, the skin, the hair, and the limbs, by magic power, without knowing what kind of animal they were making: and therefore no guilt attaches to them on account of their ignorance. But the man, who, when he saw that the animal had a lion's shape, gave life to it, in order to display his skill, was guilty of the death of those Bráhmans."

When the mighty Vetála heard this speech of the king's, he again left his shoulder by magic power and went back to his own place, and the king again went in pursuit of him.

NOTE.

The story, as given in the Panchatantra (Benfey, Vol. II, p. 332), is somewhat different. Here we have four brothers of whom three possess all knowledge, but one only possesses common sense. The first brother joins together the bones of the lion, the second covers them with skin, flesh, and blood, the third is about to give the animal life, when the brother, who possesses common sense, says "If you raise him to life, he will kill us all." Finding that the third brother will not desist from his intention, he climbs up a tree and so saves his life, while his three brothers are torn to pieces.

In the Bahar-Danush (Scott) Vol. II, p. 290, the bones of a cow are joined together by being sprinkled with water. See Benfey, Vol. I, p. 489. (Oesterley's Baitál Pachísí, pp. 211-212.)

Chapter XCVII

(Vetála 23.)

Then the noble king Trivikramasena went back, and again took down that Vetála from the asoka-tree, and though the Vetála transformed himself in all possible ways, he put him on his shoulder and started off with him in silence, and then the Vetála said to him, "King, though the business in which you are engaged is not becoming to you, you exhibit in it undaunted perseverance; so listen, I will tell you a tale to dispel your fatigue."

Story of the Hermit who first wept and then danced.

There is in the land of Kalinga a city named Sobhávatí, like the city of Indra in heaven, the abode of those that act aright. It was ruled by a king named Pradyumna, whose sway was mighty, and who, like the god Pradyumna, was celebrated for his exceeding power and valour. The only detraction heard in his realm was that of the string from the bow, the only pressure that of the fingers on the cymbal, vice was only known in the name of the age, [404] and keenness only in the pursuit of knowledge.

In a certain part of that town there was a grant named Yajnasthala, given by that king, on which many Bráhmans were settled. There lived on it a very wealthy Bráhman who had mastered the Vedas, whose name was Yajnasoma. He maintained a sacrificial fire, and honoured guests, and the gods. After his youth was past, there was born to him by his wife, who was in every way a suitable match for him, an only son, the child of a hundred wishes. And that promising boy grew up in his father's house, and the Bráhmans duly named him Devasoma. And when he had attained the age of sixteen years, that boy, who captivated all by his knowledge, modesty, and other good qualities, suddenly died of a fever. Then Yajnasoma, together with his wife, remained lovingly embracing that dead boy, and lamenting over him, and refused for a long time to let him be taken away to be burnt.

Then the old men assembled and reproved that Bráhman in the following words, "Bráhman, are you not aware, though you know what is near and far, that the condition of this Fata Morgana of a world is frail as a bubble on water? Look at those kings who filled the earth with their armies, and enjoyed themselves in this world, deeming themselves immortal, lying on jewelled couches on the delightful summits of palaces, that resounded with the warbling of music, having their bodies anointed with sandal-wood ointment and other fragrant unguents, and begirt with beautiful women. Even these no one could save from being consumed by flesh-devouring flames, lying alone on the funeral pyre in the cemetery whither the dead are followed by weeping friends, and when their extremities had been shrivelled, from being at last devoured by the jackals: much less can any others escape this fate. So tell us, wise man, what mean you by embracing that corpse?" Many other speeches of this kind did they address to him.

At last with difficulty his relations got him to stop clinging to his dead son, and then, after the body had been laid out, they put it on a bier, and with loud lamentations carried it to the burning-place, accompanied by many people who shed tears on account of the calamity.

Now at that time there was dwelling in that cemetery an old Pásupata ascetic possessing supernatural power, who lived in a hut. His name was Vámasiva. His body was emaciated with age and excessive asceticism, and bound round with veins, as if for fear that it would break. He was covered all over with hair white with ashes, his matted locks were yellow as lightning, and he looked like a second Siva. When that hermit heard in the distance the lamentation of those people outside his hut, he said to the pupil that lived with him, "Rise up! go and find out the meaning of this confused noise outside in the cemetery, such as I never heard before, and come back quickly, and tell me." Now this pupil was one who had taken a vow of living on the products of begging; he was a fool, and a rogue, and an egoist, puffed up with contemplation, magical powers, and other things of the kind, and at this time he was annoyed because his teacher had rebuked him. So, when his teacher gave him this order, he answered him, "I will not go; go yourself, for my time for begging is fast slipping away." When the teacher heard that, he said, "Out on you, fool, devoted to your belly! Only half one watch of the day has passed: how can it be your time for begging now?" When the wicked pupil heard that, he was angry, and said to his teacher; "Out on you, you decrepit old creature! I am no longer your pupil, and you are no longer my teacher. I will go elsewhere, carry this vessel yourself." When he had said this, he put down in front of him his stick and water-vessel, and got up and went away.

Then the hermit left his hut, laughing as he went, and came to the place where the young Bráhman had been brought to be burned. And when the hermit saw him, with the people lamenting for the flower of his youth, being afflicted with old age, and possessed of magical powers, he determined to enter his body. So he quickly went aside, and first wept aloud, and immediately afterwards he danced with appropriate gesticulations. [405] Then the ascetic, longing to be young again, abandoned his own body, and at once entered by magic power that young Bráhman's body. And immediately the young Bráhman on the pyre, which was ready prepared, returned to life, and rose up with a yawn. When his relations and all the people saw that, they raised a loud shout of "Hurrah! he is alive! he is alive!"

Then that ascetic, who was a mighty sorcerer, and had thus entered the young Bráhman's body, not intending to abandon his vow, told them all the following falsehood; "Just now, when I went to the other world, Siva himself restored my life to me, telling me that I must take upon me the vow of a Pásupata ascetic. And I must this moment go into a solitary place and support this vow, otherwise I cannot live, so depart you, and I also will depart." Saying this to all those present, the resolute votary, bewildered with mixed feelings of joy and grief, dismissed them to their own homes. And he himself went, and threw that former body of his into a ravine; and so that great magician, who had taken the vow, having become young, went away to another place.

When the Vetála had told this story that night on the way, he again said to king Trivikramasena, "Tell me, king, why did that mighty magician, when entering another body, first weep, and then dance? I have a great desire to know this."

When that king, who was a chief of sages, heard this question of the Vetála's, fearing the curse, he broke silence, and gave him this answer, "Hear what the feelings of that ascetic were. He was grieved because he thought that he was just going to abandon that body, which had grown up with him through many years, by living in which he had acquired magic power, and which his parents had fondled, when he was a child, so he wept violently; for affection for one's body is a deeply rooted feeling. But he danced for joy, because he thought that he was about to enter a new body, and that by means of that he would acquire greater magic power; for to whom is not youth pleasing."

When the Vetála, who was inside that corpse, heard this speech of the king's, he left his shoulder and went back to that asoka-tree; but that exceedingly undaunted monarch again ran after him, to recover him; for the resolution of determined men surpasses in firmness the mighty mountains, and remains unshaken even at the end of a kalpa.

Chapter XCVIII

(Vetála 24.)

Then the brave king Trivikramasena, disregarding the awful night, which in that terrible cemetery assumed the appearance of a Rákshasí, being black with darkness, and having the flames of the funeral pyres for fiery eyes, again went to the asoka-tree, and took from it the Vetála, and put him on his shoulder.

And while he was going along with him, as before, the Vetála again said to that king, "O king, I am tired out with going backwards and forwards, though you are not: so I will put to you one difficult question, and mind you listen to me."

Story of the father that married the daughter and the son that married the mother.

There was in the Dekkan a king of a small province, who was named Dharma; he was the chief of virtuous men, but he had many relations who aspired to supplant him. He had a wife named Chandravatí, who came from the land of Málava; she was of high lineage, and the most virtuous of women. And that king had born to him by that wife one daughter, who was not without cause named Lávanyavatí. [406]

And when that daughter had attained a marriageable age, king Dharma was ejected from his throne by his relations, who banded together and divided his realm. Then he fled from his kingdom at night with his wife and that daughter, taking with him a large number of valuable jewels, and he deliberately set out for Málava the dwelling-place of his father-in-law. And in the course of that same night he reached the Vindhya forest with his wife and daughter. And when he entered it, the night, that had escorted him thus far, took leave of him with drops of dew by way of tears. And the sun ascended the eastern mountain, stretching forth its first rays, like a warning hand, to dissuade him from entering that brigand-haunted wood. Then he travelled on through it with his wife and daughter, having his feet wounded with sharp points of kusa-grass, and he reached a village of the Bhillas. It was full of men that robbed their neighbours of life and property, and shunned by the virtuous, like the strong city of Death.

Then beholding the king from a distance with his dress and ornaments, many Savaras, armed with various weapons, ran to plunder him. When king Dharma saw that, he said to his daughter and wife, "The barbarians will seize on you first, so enter the wood in this direction." When the king said this to them, queen Chandravatí and her daughter Lávanyavatí, in their terror, plunged into the middle of the wood. And the brave king, armed with sword and shield, killed many of the Savaras, who came towards him, raining arrows. Then the chief summoned the whole village, and falling on the king, who stood there alone, they slashed his shield to pieces and killed him; and then the host of bandits departed with his ornaments. And queen Chandravatí, concealed in a thicket of the wood, saw from a distance her husband slain: so in her bewilderment she fled with her daughter, and they entered another dense forest a long distance off. There they found that the shadows of the trees, afflicted by the heat of midday, had laid themselves at their cool roots, imitating travellers. So, tired and sad, the queen sat down weeping with her daughter, in a spot on the bank of a lotus-lake, under the shade of an asoka-tree.

In the meanwhile a chief, who lived near, came to that forest on horseback, with his son, to hunt. He was named Chandasinha, and when he saw their footsteps imprinted in the dust, he said to his son Sinhaparákrama, "We will follow up these lovely and auspicious tracks, and if we find the ladies to whom they belong, you shall choose whichever you please of them." When Chandasinha said this, his son Sinhaparákrama said to him, "I should like to have for a wife the one that has these small feet, for I know that she will be young and suited to me. But this one with large feet, being older than the other, will just suit you. When Chandasinha heard this speech of his son's, he said to him, "What is this that you say? Your mother has only recently gone to heaven, and now that I have lost so good a wife, how can I desire another?" When Chandasinha's son heard that, he said to him, "Father, do not say so, for the home of a householder is empty without a wife. Moreover, have you not heard the stanza composed by Múladeva? 'Who, that is not a fool, enters that house in which there is no shapely love eagerly awaiting his return, which, though called a house, is really a prison without chains.' So, father, my death will lie at your door, if you do not take as your wife that companion of the lady whom I have chosen."

When Chandasinha heard this speech of his son's, he approved it, and went on slowly with him, tracking up their footsteps. And he reached that spot near the lake, and saw that dark queen Chandravatí, adorned with many strings of pearls, sitting in the shade of a tree. She looked like the midnight sky in the middle of the day, and her daughter Lávanyavatí, like the pure white moonlight, seemed to illumine her. And he and his son eagerly approached her, and she, when she saw him, rose up terrified, thinking that he was a bandit.

But the queen's daughter said to her, "Mother, do not be afraid, these are not bandits, these two gentle-looking well-dressed persons are certainly some nobles come here to hunt." However the queen still continued to hesitate; and then Chandasinha got down from his horse and said to the two ladies, "Do not be alarmed; we have come here to see you out of love; so take confidence [407] and tell us fearlessly who you are, since you seem like Rati and Príti fled to this wood in sorrow at Cupid's having been consumed by the flames of Siva's fiery eye. And how did you two come to enter this unpeopled wood? For these forms of yours are fitted to dwell in a gem-adorned palace. And our minds are tortured to think how your feet, that deserve to be supported by the lap of beautiful women, can have traversed this ground full of thorns. And, strange to say, the dust raised by the wind, falling on your faces, makes our faces lose their brightness from despondency. [408] And the furious heat of the beams of the fierce-rayed sun, as it plays on your flower-soft bodies, burns us. So tell us your story; for our hearts are afflicted; we cannot bear to see you thus abiding in a forest full of wild beasts."

When Chandasinha said this, the queen sighed, and full of shame and grief, slowly told him her story. Then Chandasinha, seeing that she had no protector, comforted her and her daughter, and coaxed them with kind words into becoming members of his family. And he and his son put the queen and her daughter on their horses, and conducted them to their rich palace in Vittapapurí. And the queen, being helpless, submitted to his will, as if she had been born again in a second life. What is an unprotected woman, fallen into calamity in a foreign land, to do? Then Sinhaparákrama, the son of Chandasinha, made Chandravatí his wife, on account of the smallness of her feet. And Chandasinha made her daughter, the princess Lávanyavatí, his wife, on account of the largeness of her feet. For they made this agreement originally, when they saw the two tracks of the small footsteps and the large footsteps: and who ever swerves from his plighted word?

So, from the mistake about the feet, the daughter became the wife of the father, and the mother the wife of the son, and so the daughter became the mother-in-law of her own mother, and the mother became the daughter-in-law of her own daughter. And in course of time, both of them had by those husbands sons and daughters, and they also had sons and daughters in due course of time. So Chandasinha and Sinhaparákrama lived in their city, having obtained as wives Lávanyavatí and Chandravatí.

When the Vetála had told this story on the way at night, he again put a question to king Trivikramasena; "Now, king, about the children who were in course of time born to the mother and daughter by the son and the father in those two lines--what relationship did they bear to one another? Tell me if you know. And the curse before threatened will descend on you, if you know and do not tell."

When the king heard this question of the Vetála's, he turned the matter over and over again in his mind, but he could not find out, so he went on his way in silence. Then the Vetála in the dead man's body, perched on the top of his shoulder, laughed to himself, and reflected; "Ha! Ha! The king does not know how to answer this puzzling question, so he is glad, and silently goes on his way with very nimble feet. Now I cannot manage to deceive this treasure-house of valour any further; [409] and this is not enough to make that mendicant stop playing tricks with me. So I will now deceive that villain, and by an artifice bestow the success, which he has earned, upon this king, whom a glorious future awaits."

When the Vetála had gone through these reflections, he said to the king, "King, though you have been worried with so many journeys to and fro in this cemetery terrible with black night, you seem quite happy, and you do not shew the least irresolution. I am pleased with this wonderful courage that you shew. [410] So now carry off this body, for I am going out of it; and listen to this advice which I give you for your welfare, and act on it. That wicked mendicant, for whom you have fetched this human corpse, will immediately summon me into it, and honour me. And wishing to offer you up as a victim, the rascal will say to you, 'King, prostrate yourself on the ground in such a way that eight limbs will touch it.' Then, great king, you must say to that ascetic, [411] 'Shew me first how to do it, and then I will do exactly as you do.' Then he will fling himself on the ground, and shew you how to perform the prostration, and that moment you must cut off his head with the sword. Then you will obtain that prize which he desires, the sovereignty of the Vidyádharas; enjoy this earth by sacrificing him! But otherwise that mendicant will offer you up as a victim; it was to prevent this that I threw obstacles in your way for such a long time here. So depart; may you prosper!" When the Vetála had said this, he went out of that human corpse, that was on the king's shoulder.

Then the king was led by the speech of the Vetála, who was pleased with him, to look upon the ascetic Kshántisíla as his enemy, but he went to him in high spirits, where he sat under that banyan-tree, and took with him that human corpse.

Chapter XCIX

(Vetála 25.)

Then king Trivikramasena came up to that mendicant Kshántisíla, carrying that corpse on his shoulder. And he saw that ascetic, alone at the foot of a tree, in the cemetery that was terrible with a night of the black fortnight, eagerly awaiting his arrival. He was in a circle made with the yellow powder of bones, the ground within which was smeared with blood, and which had pitchers full of blood placed in the direction of the cardinal points. [412] It was richly illuminated with candles of human fat, [413] and near it was a fire fed with oblations, it was full of all the necessary preparations for a sacrifice, and in it the ascetic was engaged in worshipping his favourite deity.

So the king came up to him, and the mendicant, seeing that he had brought the corpse, rose up delighted, and said, praising him; "Great king, you have conferred on me a favour difficult to accomplish. To think that one like you should undertake this enterprise in such a place and at such a time! Indeed they say with truth that you are the best of all noble kings, being a man of unbending courage, [414] since you forward the interests of another with such utter disregard of self. And wise men say that the greatness of great ones consists in this very thing, that they swerve not from what they have engaged to do, even though their lives are in danger."

With these words the mendicant, thinking he had gained his end, took the corpse down from the shoulder of that king. And he bathed it, and anointed it, and threw a garland round it, and placed it within that circle. And he smeared his limbs with ashes, and put on a sacrificial thread of hair, and clothed himself in the garments of the dead, and thus equipped he continued for a time in meditation. Then the mendicant summoned that mighty Vetála by the power of spells, and made him enter the corpse; and proceeded to worship him. He offered to him an argha of white human teeth in a skull by way of an argha-vessel; and he presented to him flowers and fragrant unguents; and he gratified him with the savoury reek of human eyes, [415] and made an offering to him of human flesh. And when he had finished his worship, he said to the king, who was at his side, "King, fall on the ground, and do obeisance with all your eight limbs to this high sovereign of spells who has appeared here, in order that this bestower of boons may grant you the accomplishment of your heart's desire."

When the king heard that, he called to mind the words of the Vetála, and said to the mendicant, "I do not know how to do it, reverend sir; do you shew me first, and then I will do exactly as you." Then the mendicant threw himself on the ground, to shew the king what he was to do, and then the king cut off his head with a stroke of his sword. And he tore and dragged [416] the lotus of his heart out of his inside, and offered his heart and head as two lotuses to that Vetála.

Then the delighted hosts of goblins uttered shouts of applause on every side, and the Vetála said to the king from inside the corpse, "King, the sovereignty of the Vidyádharas, which this mendicant was aiming at, shall fall to your lot after you have finished the enjoyment of your earthly sway. Since I have given you much annoyance, choose whatever boon you desire." When the Vetála said this, the king said to him, "Since you are pleased with me, every boon that I could desire is obtained; nevertheless, as your words cannot be uttered in vain, I crave this boon of you:--may these first twenty-four questions and answers, charming with their various tales, and this conclusion, the twenty-fifth of the series, be all famous and honoured on the earth!" When the king made this request to the Vetála, the latter replied, "So be it! and now listen, king; I am going to mention a peculiar excellence which it shall possess. This string of tales, consisting of the twenty-four first, and this final concluding tale, shall become, under the title of the Twenty-five Tales of a Vampire, famous and honoured on the earth, as conducing to prosperity! Whosoever shall read respectfully even a sloka of it, or whosoever shall hear it read, even they two shall immediately be freed from their curse. And Yakshas, and Vetálas, and Kushmándas, and witches, and Rákshasas, and other creatures of the kind shall have no power where this shall be recited." When the Vetála had said this, he left that human corpse, and went by his supernatural deluding power to the habitation he desired.

Then Siva, being pleased, appeared, accompanied by all the gods, to that king, visibly manifest, and said to him, as he bowed before him; "Bravo! my son, for that thou hast to-day slain this hypocritical ascetic, who was so ardently in love with the imperial sovereignty over the Vidyádharas! I originally created thee out of a portion of myself, as Vikramáditya, in order that thou mightest destroy the Asuras, that had become incarnate in the form of Mlechchhas. And now thou hast again been created by me as a heroic king of the name of Trivikramasena, in order that thou mightest overcome an audacious evildoer. So thou shalt bring under thy sway the earth with the islands and the realms below, and shalt soon become supreme ruler over the Vidyádharas. And after thou hast long enjoyed heavenly pleasures, thou shalt become melancholy, and shalt of thy own will abandon them, and shalt at last without fail be united with me. Now receive from me this sword named Invincible, by means of which thou shalt duly obtain all this." When the god Siva had said this to the king, he gave him that splendid sword, and disappeared after he had been worshipped by him with devout speeches and flowers. Then king Trivikramasena, seeing that the whole business was finished, and as the night had come to an end, entered his own city Pratishthána. There he was honoured by his rejoicing subjects, who in course of time came to hear of his exploits during the night, and he spent the whole of that day in bathing, giving gifts, in worshipping Siva, in dancing, singing, music, and other enjoyments of the kind. And in a few days that king, by the power of the sword of Siva, came to enjoy the earth, that was cleared of all enemies, together with the islands and the lower regions; and then by the appointment of Siva he obtained the high imperial sovereignty over the Vidyádharas, and after enjoying it long, at last became united with the blessed one, so attaining all his ends.

(Here ends the Vetálapanchavinsati.)

When [417] that minister Vikramakesarin, meeting in the way the successful [418] prince Mrigánkadatta, after he had been long separated from him by a curse, had told him all this, he went on to say to him, "So, prince, after that old Bráhman had told me in that village this story, called the Twenty-five Tales of a Vampire, he went on to say to me, 'Well, my son, did not that heroic king Trivikramasena obtain from the favour of a Vetála the thing that he desired? So do you also receive from me this spell, and laying aside your state of despondency, win over a chief among the Vetálas, in order that you may obtain reunion with prince Mrigánkadatta. For nothing is unattainable by those who possess endurance; who, my son, will not fail, if he allows his endurance to break down? So do what I recommend you to do out of affection; for you kindly delivered me from the pain of the bite of a poisonous serpent.' When the Bráhman said this, I received from him the spell with the practice to be employed with it, and then, king, I took leave of him, and went to Ujjayiní. There I got hold of a corpse in the cemetery at night, and I washed it, and performed all the other necessary processes with regard to it, and I summoned a Vetála into it by means of that spell, and duly worshipped him. And to satisfy his hunger, I gave him human flesh to eat; and being greedy for the flesh of men, he ate that up quickly, and then said to me; 'I am not satisfied with this; give me some more.' And as he would not wait any time, I cut off my own flesh, [419] and gave it to him to please him: and that made that prince of magicians exceedingly pleased with me. Then he said to me, 'My friend, I am much pleased now with this intrepid valour of thine, so become whole in thy limbs as thou wast before, and crave from me whatever boon thou desirest.' When the Vetála said this to me, I answered him then and there: 'Convey me, god, to that place where my master Mrigánkadatta is; there is no other boon which I desire more than this.' Then the mighty Vetála said to me; 'Then quickly get up on my shoulder, that I may carry thee rapidly to that master of thine.' When the Vetála said this, I consented, and eagerly climbed up on his shoulder, and then the Vetála, that was inside that human corpse, rapidly set out through the air, carrying me with him. And he has brought me here to-day, king, and when that mighty Vetála saw you on the way, he brought me down from the air, and thus I have been made to reach the sole of your foot. And I have to-day been reunited with my master, and the Vetála has departed, having accomplished what was required of him. This, O bestower of honour, [420] is my great adventure, since I was separated from you by the curse of the Nága."

When Mrigánkadatta, as he was going to Ujjayiní to win his beloved, had heard, on the way, from his minister Vikramakesarin, this account of his adventures since he had been separated from him, that prince rejoiced, as he had in course of time found some of his ministers, who were separated from him by the curse of Párávatáksha, and as he augured therefrom success in all that he had in hand.

NOTE.

Properly speaking, there are 24 instead of 25 stories in this version of the Vetála Panchavinsati. The same appears to be the case with the redaction ascribed to Sivadása, according to Oesterley, and with the Tamul version. The 24th tale in Oesterley's translation is simply a repetition of the 22nd.

Chapter C

Honour to the vanquisher of obstacles, [421] round whose knees, when he is dancing at night, there winds a garland of stars, which appears as if it had fallen from the globes on his forehead!

Then, the story being ended, the delighted Mrigánkadatta rose up from the middle of the path, and set out again for Ujjayiní for which he had long ago started in order to find Sasánkavatí, with a party of eight, including himself, having recovered Vikramakesarin, accompanied by Gunákara, and Vimalabuddhi, and Vichitrakatha, and Bhímaparákrama, and Prachandasakti, and the Bráhman Srutadhi, and he kept looking out for those of his companions separated from him by the curse of the Nága, whom he had not yet recovered.

And in course of time, he reached a treeless desert, all the water in which had been dried up by the heat, and which was full of sand heated by the fierce blaze of the sun. And as the prince was traversing it, he said to his ministers, "Observe how long, terrible, and difficult to cross is this great desert; for it has in it no refuge, it is pathless and abandoned by men; and the blaze of its fire of grief seems to ascend in these sandy mirages; its rough and dishevelled locks are represented by the dry rustling blades of grass; and its thorns make it appear to have its hair standing on end through fear of the lions, tigers, and other noisome beasts; and it laments in the cries of its deer exhausted by the heat and longing for water. So we must cross this terrible desert as quickly as we can."

When Mrigánkadatta had said this, he quickly crossed that desert with his ministers, who were afflicted with hunger and thirst. And he beheld in front of him a great lake filled with pellucid and cold water, looking like streams that had flowed down from the moon after it had been melted with the heat of the sun. It was so broad that it filled the whole horizon, and it looked like a jewel-mirror made by the Fortune of the three worlds, in order to behold in it the reflection of herself. That lake resembled the Mahábhárata, for in it the Dhártaráshtras [422] were making a disturbance, and many Arjuna trees were reflected; [423] and it was refreshing and sweet to the taste; it was like the churned sea of doom, for its precious fluid was drunk by the blue-necked jays that assembled near it, [424] and Vishnu might have resorted to it to find the goddess of Beauty: [425] it resembled an earthly Pátála, for its profound cool depths were never reached by the rays of the sun, and it was an unfailing receptacle of lotuses. [426]

And on the western shore of that lake the prince and his ministers saw a great and wonderful tree. Its numerous far-reaching boughs, agitated by the wind, appeared like arms, and the cloud-stream that clung to its head was like the Ganges, so that it resembled Siva dancing. With its lofty top, that pierced the sky, it seemed to be standing erect out of curiosity to see the beauty of the garden Nandana. It was adorned with fruit of heavenly flavour, that clung to its branches, and so it looked like the wishing-tree of heaven, with goblets of nectar suspended on it by the gods. It waved its shoots like finger-tips, and seemed with the voices of its birds to say again and again, "Let no one question me in any way!"

While prince Mrigánkadatta was looking at that tree, his ministers, worn out with hunger and thirst, ran towards it, and the moment they saw those fruits on it, they climbed up to eat them, and immediately they lost their human form, and were all six suddenly turned into fruits. Then Mrigánkadatta was bewildered at not seeing those friends of his, and he called on every one of them there by name. But when they gave no answer, and could not be seen anywhere, the prince exclaimed in a voice agonized with despair, "Alas! I am undone!" and fell on the ground in a swoon. And the Bráhman Srutadhi, who had not climbed up the tree, was the only one left at his side.

So the Bráhman Srutadhi at once said to him by way of consolation, "Why, my sovereign, do you lose your firmness, and despair, though you have learned wisdom? For it is the man, who is not distracted in calamity, that obtains prosperity. Did you not find those ministers, after they had been separated from you by the curse of the Nága? In like manner shall you again recover them, and get back the others also, and moreover you shall soon be united with Sasánkavatí." When Srutadhi said this to the prince, he answered him; "How can this be? The truth is that all this train of events was arranged for our ruin by the Disposer. If it was not so arranged, how came the Vetála to appear in the night, and Bhímaparákrama to do as he did, and how came it to pass that I heard about Sasánkavatí through the conversation that took place between them, and that I set out from Ayodhyá to fetch her? How came it to pass also that we were all separated from one another in the Vindhya forest by the curse of the Nága, and that some of us were in course of time reunited, and that this second separation has now taken place and with it the ruin of all my plans? It all tallies together, my friend. The fact is they have been devoured in that tree by a demon, and without them what is Sasánkavatí to me, or what is my life worth to me? So away with delusions?" When Mrigánkadatta had said this, he rose up to throw himself into the lake out of sorrow, although Srutadhi tried to prevent him.

At that moment a bodiless voice came from the air, "My son, do not act rashly, for all will end well for thee. The god Ganesa himself dwells in this tree, and he has been to-day insulted by thy ministers unwittingly. For they, king, being pinched with hunger, climbed up into the tree in which he dwells, to pick its fruits, in a state of impurity, having neither rinsed their mouths nor washed their hands and feet; so the moment that they touched the fruits, they became fruits themselves. For Ganesa inflicted on them this curse, 'Let them become that on which their minds are fixed?' Moreover, thy four other ministers, who, the moment they arrived here, climbed up the tree in the same way, were turned into fruits by the god. Therefore do thou propitiate this Ganesa with ascetic practices, and by his favour thou shalt attain all thy objects."

When Mrigánkadatta had been thus addressed by the voice from the air, that seemed to rain nectar into his ears, hope again sprang up in his bosom, and he gave up all idea of suicide. So he bathed in the lake, and worshipped Ganesa, who dwelt in that tree, without taking food, and joining his palms in an attitude of supplication, praised him in the following words; "Hail thou elephant-faced lord, who art, as it were, worshipped by the earth, that with its plains, rocks, and woods, bows under the crushing weight of thy tumultuous dance! Hail thou that hast the twin lotuses of thy feet worshipped by the three worlds, with the gods, Asuras, and men, that dwell in them; thou, whose body is in shape like a pitcher for the abundant storing of various splendid successes! Hail, thou, the flame of whose might blazes forth like twelve fierce suns rising at once; thou that wast a premature day of doom to the race of the Daityas, whom Siva, Vishnu, and Indra found hard to conquer! Hail, thou that wardest off calamity from thy votaries! Hail, thou that diffusest a blaze of flame with thy hand, while it glitters with thy mighty axe, that seems anxious to illuminate thee in sport! I fly for refuge to thee, O Ganesa, that wast worshipped even by Gaurí, in order that her husband might successfully accomplish his undertaking in the conquest of Tripura; honour to thee!" When Mrigánkadatta had in these words praised Ganesa, he spent that night fasting, on a bed of kusa-grass under that tree. In the same way that prince spent eleven nights, being engaged in propitiating Ganesa, the king of impediments; and Srutadhi remained in attendance on him.

And on the night of the twelfth day Ganesa said to him in a dream, "My son, I am pleased with thee; thy ministers shall be released from their curse, and thou shalt recover them; and with them thou shalt go and win Sasánkavatí in due course; and thou shalt return to thy own city, and rule the whole earth." After Mrigánkadatta had been thus informed in a dream by the god Ganesa, he woke up, when the night came to an end, and told Srutadhi the vision that he had seen. Srutadhi congratulated him on it; and then, in the morning, the prince bathed and worshipped Ganesa, and proceeded to walk round the tree in which the god dwelt, with his right hand towards it, [427] and while he was thus engaged, all his ten ministers came down from the tree, having been released from the form of fruits, and fell at his feet. Besides the six who were mentioned before, there were Vyághrasena and Sthúlabáhu, and Meghabala, and the fourth Dridhamushti.

Then the prince, having recovered all those ministers at the same instant, with eye, with gestures, [428] and with voice agitated by the workings of joy, looked at his ministers, one by one, again and again, exceedingly lovingly, and embraced them, and then spoke to them; having successfully attained his object. And they, beholding with tears in their eyes their master, who, after the asceticism which he had gone through, was slender as a new moon, and having been told the true explanation of the whole by Srutadhi, felicitated themselves on having truly a protecting lord.

Then Mrigánkadatta, having attained good hope of accomplishing his enterprise, joyfully broke his fast with those ministers, who had performed all necessary ablutions in the tank.

Chapter CI

Then Mrigánkadatta, refreshed by breaking his fast, sat down with those ministers of his on the bank of that lake. Then he courteously asked those four ministers, whom he had recovered that day, for an account of their adventures during the time that he was separated from them. Thereupon that one of them, who was called Vyághrasena, said to him, "Listen, prince, I now proceed to relate our adventures. When I was carried to a distance from you by the curse of the Nága Párávatáksha, I lost my senses, and in that state I wandered through the forest by night. At last I recovered consciousness, but the darkness, which enveloped me, prevented me from seeing where the cardinal points lay, and what path I ought to take. At last the night, that grief made long, [429] came to an end; and in course of time the sun arose, that mighty god, and revealed all the quarters of the heaven. Then I said to myself 'Alas! Where can that master of mine be gone? And how will he manage to exist here alone separated from us? And how am I to recover him? Where shall I look for him? What course shall I adopt? I had better go to Ujjayiní; for I may perhaps find him there; for he must go there, to find Sasánkavatí.' With such hopes I set out slowly for Ujjayiní, threading that difficult forest that resembled calamity, scorched by the rays of the sun, that resembled showers of fiery powder.

"And at last, somehow or other, I reached a lake, with full-blown lotuses for expanded eyes, that seemed to hold converse with me by means of the sweet cries of its swans and other water-birds; it stretched forth its ripples like hands; its surface was calm and broad; [430] the very sight of it took away all grief; and so in all points it resembled a good man. I bathed in it, and ate lotus-fibres, and drank water; and while I was lingering on its bank, I saw these three arrive there, Dridhamushti, and Sthúlabáhu, and Meghabala. And when we met, we asked one another for tidings of you. And as none of us knew anything about you, and we suspected the worst, we made up our minds to abandon the body, being unable to endure separation from you.

"And at that moment a hermit-boy came to bathe in that lake; his name was Mahátapas, and he was the son of Dírghatapas. He had matted hair, he diffused a brightness of his own, and he seemed like the god of Fire, blazing with mighty flame, having become incarnate in the body of a Bráhman, in order to consume once more the Khándava forest; [431] he was clothed in the skin of a black antelope, he had an ascetic's water-vessel in his left hand, and on his right wrist he bore a rosary of Aksha-seeds by way of a bracelet; the perfumed earth that he used in bathing was stuck on the horns of the deer that came with him, and he was accompanied by some other hermit-boys like himself. The moment he saw us about to throw ourselves into the lake, he came towards us; for the good are easily melted with compassion, and shew causeless friendship to all. And he said to us, 'You ought not to commit a crime characteristic of cowards, for poltroons, with their minds blinded with grief, fall into the gulfs of calamity, but resolute men, having eyes enlightened by discernment, behold the right path, and do not fall into the pit, but assuredly attain their goal. And you, being men of auspicious appearance, will no doubt attain prosperity; so tell me, what is your grief? For it grieves my heart to see you thus.'

"When the hermit-boy had said this, I at once told him the whole of our adventure from the beginning; then that boy, who could read the future, [432] and his companions, exhorted us with various speeches, and diverted our minds from suicide. Then the hermit-boy, after he had bathed, took us to his father's hermitage, which was at no great distance, to entertain us.

"There that hermit's son bestowed on us the arghya, and made us sit down in a place, in which even the trees seemed to have entered on a course of penance, for they stood aloft on platforms of earth, and lifted on high their branches like arms, and drank in the rays of the sun. And then he went and asked all the trees in the hermitage, one after another, for alms. And in a moment his alms-vessel was filled with fruits, that of themselves dropped from the trees; and he came back with it to us. And he gave us those fruits of heavenly flavour, and when we had eaten them, we became, as it were, satisfied with nectar.

"And when the day came to an end, and the sun descended into the sea, and the sky was filled with stars, as if with spray flung up by his fall, and the moon, having put on a white bark-robe of moonlight, had gone to the ascetic grove on the top of the eastern mountain, [433] as if desiring to withdraw from the world on account of the fall of the sun, we went to see the hermits, who had finished all their duties, and were sitting together in a certain part of the hermitage. We bowed before them, and sat down, and those great sages welcomed us, and with kindly words at once asked us whence we came. Then that hermit-boy told them our history until the time of our entering the hermitage. Then a wise hermit there, of the name of Kanva, said to us, 'Come, why have you allowed yourselves to become so dispirited, being, as you are, men of valour? For it is the part of a brave man to display unbroken firmness in calamity, and freedom from arrogance in success, and never to abandon fortitude. And great men attain the title of great by struggling through great difficulties by the aid of resolution, and accomplishing great things. In illustration of this, listen to this story of Sundarasena, and hear how he endured hardship for the sake of Mandáravatí?' When the hermit Kanva had said this, he began, in the hearing of us and of all the hermits, to tell the following tale."

Story of Sundarasena and Mandáravatí.

There is a country named Nishada, that adorns the face of the northern quarter; in it there was of old a city of the name of Alaká. In this city the people were always happy in abundance of all things, [434] and the only things that never enjoyed repose were the jewel-lamps. In it there lived a king of the name of Mahásena, and not without reason was he so named, for his enemies were all consumed by the wonderful and terrible fire of his valour, which resembled that of the god of war. That king had a prime minister named Gunapálita, who was like a second Sesha, for he was a mine of valour, and could bear up, like that serpent, the weight of the earth. The king, having destroyed his enemies, laid upon him the weight of his kingdom and devoted himself to pleasure; and then he had a son born to him by his queen Sasiprabhá, named Sundarasena. Even when he was a child, he was no child in good qualities, and the goddesses of valour and beauty chose him for their self-elected husband.

That prince had five heroic ministers, equal in age and accomplishments, who had grown up with him from their childhood, Chandaprabha, and Bhímabhuja, and Vyághraparákrama, and the heroic Vikramasakti, and the fifth was Dridhabuddhi. And they were all men of great courage, endowed with strength and wisdom, well-born, and devoted to their master, and they even understood the cries of birds. [435] And the prince lived with them in his father's house without a suitable wife, being unmarried, though he was grown up. And that heroic Sundarasena and his ministers reflected, "Courage invincible in assault, and wealth won by his own arm, and a wife equal to him in beauty become a hero on this earth. Otherwise, what is the use of this beauty?"

And one day the prince went out of the town to hunt, accompanied by his soldiers, and by those five companions, and as he was going out, a certain famous female mendicant named Kátyáyaní, bold from the maturity of her age, who had just returned from a distant foreign country, saw him, and said to herself, when she beheld his superhuman beauty, "Is this the Moon without Rohiní or the god of Love without Rati?" But when she asked his attendants, and found out that it was the prince, she was astonished, and praised the marvellousness of the creation of the Disposer. [436] Then she cried out to the prince from a distance with a shrill and far reaching voice, "Be victorious, O prince," and so saying she bowed before him. But at that moment the mind of the prince was wholly occupied by a conversation which he had begun with his ministers, and he went on without hearing the female ascetic. But she was angry, and called out to him in such a loud voice that he could not help hearing her, "Ho! prince! why do you not listen to the blessing of such a one as I am? What king or prince is there on the earth that does not honour me? [437] But if your youth and other advantages render you so proud now, it is certain that, if you obtain for a wife that ornament of the world, the maiden Mandáravatí, the daughter of the king of Hansadvípa, you will be too much puffed up with arrogance to listen to the speech of Siva, [438] the great Indra, and other gods, much less to the words of wretched men."

When the ascetic had said this, Sundarasena, being full of curiosity, called her to him, and bent before her and propitiated her. And being anxious to question her, he sent her under the care of his servants to rest in the house of his minister Vikramasakti. Then the prince went off, and after he had enjoyed the sport of hunting, he returned to his palace, and said his daily prayers, and took his food, and then he sent for the ascetic, and put the following question to her, "Reverend mother, who is this maiden named Mandáravatí, that you spoke of to-day? Tell me, for I feel great curiosity about her."

When the ascetic heard this, she said to him, "Listen, I will tell you the whole story. I am in the habit of wandering about the whole of this earth and the islands, for the sake of visiting sacred bathing-places and other holy spots. And in the course of my travels I happened to visit Hansadvípa. There I saw the daughter of king Mandáradeva, a suitable match for the sons of gods, not to be beheld by those who have done evil works; she bears the name of Mandáravatí, and has a form as charming as the presiding goddess of the garden of the gods; the sight of her kindles love, and she seems like another moon all composed of nectar, created by the Disposer. There is no other beauty on the earth equal to hers; [439] only you, prince, I think, emulate her wealth of loveliness. As for those who have not seen her, their eyes are useless, and they have been born in vain."

When the prince heard this from the mouth of the female ascetic, he said, "Mother, how are we to get a sight of her beauty, which is so surpassing?" When the female ascetic heard this speech of his, she said, "I took such interest in her on that occasion that I painted a picture of her on canvas; and I have it with me in a bag; if you feel any curiosity about it, look at it." When she had said this, she took the picture of the lady out of the bag, and shewed it to the gratified prince. And Sundarasena, when he beheld that maiden, who, though she was present there only in a picture, seemed to be of romantic beauty, and like a flowing forth of joy, immediately felt his limbs covered all over with hairs erect from horripilation, as if he had been pierced with the dense arrows of the god of the flowery bow. [440] He remained motionless, hearing nothing, speaking nothing, seeing nothing; and with his whole heart fixed on her, was for a long time as if painted in a picture.

When the prince's ministers saw that, they said to that female ascetic, "Reverend mother, paint prince Sundarasena on this piece of canvas, and let us have a specimen of your skill in catching likenesses." The moment she heard that, she painted the prince on canvas. And when they saw that it was a striking likeness, all, who were present there, said, "The reverend lady's likenesses exactly resemble the originals, for when one looks at this picture, one thinks that one sees the prince himself; so the beauty of the princess Mandáravatí is sure to be such as it is represented in the picture."

When the ministers had said this, prince Sundarasena took the two pictures, and being pleased, honoured that female ascetic. And he dismissed with appropriate honours that dweller in a lonely spot. And he entered the inner part of the palace, carrying with him the picture of his beloved. He flung himself on a bed and said to himself "Can this be my charmer's face, or a moon that has purged away the spot that defiles its beauty?" [441] In this way he remained examining Mandáravatí, limb by limb, though he had only her painted form before him: and in this state he continued every day, abstaining from meat and drink; and so in the course of a few days he was completely exhausted by the pain of love's fever.

When his parents, Sasiprabhá and Mahásena, found that out, they came of their own accord and asked his friends the cause of his indisposition. And his companions told them the whole story, as it had happened, how the daughter of the king of Hansadvípa had come to be the cause of his complaint. Then Mahásena said to Sundarasena, "My son, why do you so improperly conceal this attachment of yours? For Mandáravatí is a pearl of maidens, and she will be a good match for you. Besides, her father Mandáradeva is a great friend of mine. So why do you torment yourself about a matter of this kind, which is quite becoming, and can be easily arranged by an ambassador?" When king Mahásena had said this, he deliberated, and sent off an ambassador named Surathadeva to Hansadvípa, to ask for the daughter of king Mandáradeva. And he put into his hand the portrait of Sundarasena, executed on canvas by that female ascetic, which shewed how wonderfully handsome he was.

The ambassador travelled quickly, and reached the city of king Mahendráditya on the shore of the sea, named Sasánkapura. There he embarked on a ship, and after some days he reached the palace of king Mandáradeva in Hansadvípa. He was announced by the wardens and entered the palace, and saw that king, and after he had in due form delivered to him the present, he said to him, "Great monarch, king Mahásena sends you this message, 'Give your daughter to my son Sundarasena; for a female ascetic, of the name of Kátyáyaní, made a portrait of her, and brought it here, and shewed it to my son, as the picture of a pearl of maidens. And as Sundarasena's beauty so nearly resembled hers, I felt a desire to have his form painted on canvas also, and herewith I send the picture. Look at it. Moreover, my son, who is of such astonishing beauty, does not wish to be married, unless he can find a wife that resembles him, and nobody but your daughter is a match for him in appearance.' This is the message the king entrusted to me, when he put this portrait into my hand; look at it, king, let the spring-flower creeper be united to the spring."

When the king heard this speech of the ambassador's, he was delighted, and he sent for his daughter Mandáravatí and the queen her mother. And in their company he opened and looked at that portrait, and immediately he ceased to cherish the proud thought, that there was no fitting match for his daughter on the earth. And he said, "My daughter's beauty will not have been created in vain, if she is united to this prince. She does not look her best without him, nor is he complete without her; what is the lotus-bed without the swan, and what is the swan without the lotus-bed?"

When the king said this, and the queen expressed her complete approbation of it, Mandáravatí suddenly became bewildered with love. She remained with her wide expanded eyes immoveably fixed on the picture, as if possessed, as if asleep, (though she was wide awake,) as if herself a painting. Then Mandáradeva, seeing his daughter in that state, consented to give her in marriage, and he honoured that ambassador.

And on the next day the king sent off his counter-ambassador, who was a Bráhman named Kumáradatta, to king Mahásena. And he said to the two ambassadors, "Go quickly to that king Mahásena, the lord of Alaká, and say to him from me, 'I give you my daughter out of friendship; so tell me, will your son come here, or shall I send my daughter to you?'" When the two ambassadors had received this message from the king, they immediately started off together on the sea in a ship; and they reached Sasánkapura, and thence they travelled by land, and reached that opulent city of Alaká, which seemed like the original Alaká. [442] They went to the king's palace, and entered it with the usual courtesies, and saw king Mahásena who welcomed them. And they told that king the answer which Mandáradeva entrusted to them; and when the king heard it, he was pleased, and shewed both of them great honour.

Then the king found out the star, under which the princess was born, from her father's ambassador; and he asked his astrologers when a favourable time would arrive for the marriage of his son. And they answered that an auspicious time would present itself in three months for bridegroom and bride, on the fifth day of the white fortnight of the month Kártika. And so the king of Alaká informed Mandáradeva that the marriage ought to take place on that day, and that he would send his son, and this he wrote in a letter, and committed it to the care of the ambassador Kumáradatta, and another ambassador of his own named Chandrasvámin. So the ambassadors departed, and gave the letter as they were directed, and told the king of Hansadvípa all that had taken place. The king approved, and after honouring Chandrasvámin, the ambassador of Mahásena, he sent him back to his master. And he returned to Alaká, and reported that the business was satisfactorily settled; and then all on both sides remained eagerly expecting the auspicious day.

And in the meanwhile Mandáravatí in Hansadvípa, who had long ago fallen in love with the prince from seeing his picture, thought that the auspicious day for the marriage was a long way off, and felt unable to endure so much delay; and being affectionate, she became desperately enamoured, and was grievously tormented with the fire of love. And in the eager longing of her heart for Sundarasena, even the anointing with sandal-wood ointment became a shower of hot coals on her body, and a bed of lotus-leaves was to her a bed of hot sand, and the rays of the moon seemed like the scorching points of flame of a forest conflagration. She remained silent, avoiding food, adopting a vow of loneliness; and when her confidante questioned her in her anxiety, she was at last, with difficulty, induced to make the following avowal; "My friend, my marriage is far off, and I cannot bear to wait for the time, separated from my intended husband, the son of the king of Alaká. Distant is the time, and the place, and various is the course of Fate; so who knows what will happen to any one here in the meantime? So I had better die." Saying this, Mandáravatí, being sick with separation, passed immediately into a miserable state.

When her father and mother heard that from the mouth of her confidante, and saw her in such a condition, they deliberated with the ministers, and came to the following conclusion, "That king Mahásena, the sovereign of Alaká, is on good terms with us, and the princess Mandáravatí is unable to endure the delay here, so why should we feel any delicacy about it? Happen what will, let us send her to Alaká, for when she is near her beloved, she will be able patiently to endure the delay." When king Mandáradeva had gone through these deliberations, he comforted his daughter Mandáravatí, and made her embark on a ship with wealth and attendants, and after her mother had recited a prayer for her good fortune, he sent her off from Hansadvípa by sea on an auspicious day, to travel to Alaká, in order that she might be married there; and he sent with her a minister of his own, named Vinítamati.

And after the princess, travelling in a ship on the ocean, had left Hansadvípa some days' sail behind her, there suddenly rose up against her a roaring cloud, as it were a bandit, showering raindrops like arrows, that sang terribly in the whistling wind. And the gale, like mighty fate, in a moment dragged her ship to a distance, and smote it, and broke it in pieces. And those attendants were drowned, and among them Vinítamati; and all her treasure was whelmed in the ocean.

But the sea lifted up the princess with a wave, as it were with an arm, and flung her up alive in a forest on the shore, near the scene of the shipwreck. To think that she should have fallen into the sea, and that a towering wave should have landed her in a forest! Behold now, how nothing is impossible to Destiny! Then she, in such a situation, terrified and confused, seeing that she was alone in a solitary wood, was again plunged in a sea, but this time it was the sea of grief. She exclaimed, "Where have I arrived? Surely it is a very different place from that for which I set out! Where too are those attendants of mine? Where is Vinítamati? Why has this suddenly happened to me? Where shall I go, ill-starred as I am? Alas! I am undone! What shall I do? Cursed Fate, why did you rescue me from the sea? Ah! father! Ah, mother! Ah, husband, son of the king of Alaká! Look; I am perishing before I reach you; why do you not deliver me?" While uttering these and similar exclamations, Mandáravatí wept copiously with tears that resembled the pearls of a broken necklace.

And at that very time a hermit, named Matanga, came there from his hermitage, which was not far off, to bathe in the sea. That sage, who was accompanied by his daughter, named Yamuná, who had observed a vow of virginity from her childhood, heard the sound of Mandáravatí's weeping. And with his daughter he approached her kindly, and he saw her, looking like a doe separated from a herd of deer, casting her sorrowing eyes in every direction. And the great sage said to her with an affectionate voice, "Who are you, and how did you get into this wood, and why do you weep?" Then Mandáravatí, seeing that he was a compassionate man, slowly recovered herself, and told him her story, with face dejected from shame.

Then the hermit Matanga, after meditating, said to her, "Princess, cease to despair; recover your composure! Though you are delicate of body as a sirísha-flower, the calamity of sorrow afflicts you; do misfortunes ever consider whether their victim is tender or not? But you shall soon obtain the husband you desire; so come to this hermitage of mine, which is at no great distance from this place; and remain there with this daughter of mine as in your own house." When the great hermit had comforted her with these words, he bathed, and accompanied by his daughter, led Mandáravatí to his hermitage. There she remained leading an ascetic life, longing to meet her husband, delighting herself with waiting upon that sage, accompanied by his daughter.

And in the meanwhile Sundarasena, who was emaciated with long expectation, remained killing the time in Alaká, continually counting the days, eager for his marriage with Mandáravatí, and his friend Chandaprabha and the rest were trying to console him. And in course of time, as the auspicious day drew nigh, his father, the king, made preparations for his journey to Hansadvípa. And after prayers had been offered for a prosperous journey, prince Sundarasena started from his home on an auspicious day, shaking the earth with his armies.

And as he was marching along with his ministers, he reached in course of time, to his delight, that city Sasánkapura, which adorned the shore of the sea. There king Mahendráditya, hearing of his approach, came to meet him, bowing humbly, and the prince entered the city with his followers, and mounted on an elephant, he reached the palace of the king. And as he went along, the splendour of his beauty fluttered the hearts of the ladies of the city, as the hurricane flutters the lotus-bed. In the palace, king Mahendráditya shewed him every attention, and promised to accompany him: and so he rested there that day. And he spent the night in such thoughts as these, "Shall I ever get across the sea, and win that blushing bride?"

And next morning he left his army in that very city, and went with king Mahendráditya to the shore of the sea. There he and his ministers, together with that king, embarked on a large ship, that was well supplied with food and water. And the prince made the small retinue, that he could not help taking, embark on a second ship. Then the ship was let go, and its flag fluttered in the wind, and those two kings, who were in it, shaped their course towards the south-western quarter.

And after two or three days had passed, as they were sailing on the sea, there suddenly arose a great hurricane. And the ranges of forest on the shores of the sea shook to and fro, as if in astonishment at the unprecedented character of the gale. And the waters of the sea, inverted by the wind, were turned upside down, again and again, as affections are by lapse of time. And an offering of jewels was made to the sea accompanied by a loud cry of woe; and the pilots let loose the sail and relaxed their efforts at the same time; and all excitedly flung out very heavy stones on all sides, fastened by chains, and flung away their hopes of life at the same time; and the two vessels, driven to and fro by the waves, as elephants by elephant-drivers, [443] wandered about in the sea, as if in the mêlée of a battle.

Then Sundarasena, beholding that, was moved from his seat, as if from his self-command, [444] and said to king Mahendráditya, "It is through my demerits in former births that this day of doom has suddenly come upon you. So I cannot endure to witness it; I will fling myself into the sea." When the prince had said this, he quickly girt his upper garment round his loins, and flung himself then and there into the sea. And when his five friends, Chandaprabha and the others, saw that, they too flung themselves in, and Mahendráditya did the same. And while, having recovered their presence of mind, they were swimming across the ocean, they all went in different directions, being separated by the force of the waves. And immediately the wind fell, and the sea became hushed and calm, and bore the semblance of a good man whose wrath is appeased. [445]

And in the meanwhile Sundarasena, with whom was Dridhabuddhi, found a ship that had been driven from somewhere or other by the wind, and with that minister of his as his only companion he climbed up on it, as it were on a second swing of incertitude oscillating between rescue and destruction. Then, having lost all courage, he drifted, not knowing his bearings, looking on the whole world as made of water, confiding in his god: and the ship, which was wafted along by a gentle and favourable breeze, as if by a deity, carried him to the shore in three days. There it stuck fast, and he and his companion sprang to shore and to a hope of life at the same moment.

And when there, he recovered breath, and said to Dridhabuddhi; "I have escaped even from the sea, from the infernal regions, though I went below; but since I have not been able to do so without causing the death of my ministers Vikramasakti, and Vyághraparákrama, and Chandaprabha and Bhímabhuja, such fine fellows as they were, and also of king Mahendráditya, who became without cause so good a friend to me,--of all these,--how can I now live with honour?" When he said this, his minister Dridhabuddhi said to him, "Prince, recover your composure; I am persuaded that we shall have good fortune; for they may perhaps make their way across the sea, as we have done. Who can discern the mysterious way of Destiny?"

While Dridhabuddhi was saying this and other things of the same kind, two hermits came there to bathe. The good men, seeing that the prince was despondent, came up to him, and asked him his story, and said kindly to him; "Wise sir, even the gods are not able to alter the mighty influence of actions in a previous state of existence, that bestow joy and sorrow. So a resolute man, who wishes to take leave of sorrow, should practise right doing; for right doing is the true remedy for it, not regrets, nor emaciation of the body. So abandon despondency, and preserve your body by resolute endurance; as long as the body is preserved, what object of human endeavour cannot be attained? Moreover, you possess auspicious marks; you are certain to enjoy prosperity." Saying this the hermits consoled him, and took him to their hermitage.

And prince Sundarasena remained waiting there for some days, accompanied by Dridhabuddhi.

And in the meanwhile his ministers Bhímabhuja and Vikramasakti, having swum across the sea, reached the shore in a separate place. And hoping that perhaps the prince might have escaped from the sea like themselves, they entered that great forest, and searched for him bewildered with grief. And his other two ministers, Chandaprabha and Vyághraparákrama, and king Mahendráditya, in the same way escaped from the sea, and sorrowfully sought for Sundarasena, and when they did not find him, were afflicted; and at last they found their ship unharmed and went to Sasánkapura. Then those two ministers, and the army that had been left in that city, hearing what had happened, [446] went weeping to their own city Alaká. And when they arrived without the prince, lamenting their loss, the citizens wept, and one universal wail was heard in the city. When king Mahásena and his queen heard that news of their son, they were in such a state that they would have died, if it were not that their allotted term of life had not yet expired. And when the king and the queen were bent on suicide, the ministers dissuaded them with various speeches, which gave them reasons for entertaining hope. Then the king remained in a temple of Svayambhú [447] outside the town, engaged in asceticism with his attendants, enquiring for news of his son.

And in the meanwhile king Mandáradeva, in Hansadvípa, heard the news of the shipwreck of his daughter, and of that of his proposed son-in-law. And he also came to know that his son-in-law's two ministers had arrived in Alaká, and that king Mahásena there was keeping himself alive by hope, being engaged in practising austerities. Then that king also, who was afflicted by grief for the loss of his daughter, and was only prevented by his ministers from committing suicide, entrusted to them the care of his kingdom, and with the queen Kandarpasená went to the city of Alaká to visit king Mahásena, who was his partner in misfortune. And he made up his mind that he would do whatever that king did, as soon as he had trustworthy intelligence with regard to the fate of his son. And so he came to king Mahásena, who was still more grieved when he heard of the fate of Mandáravatí, and sorrowed in sympathy with him. Then that king of Hansadvípa remained practising austerities with the king of Alaká, restraining his senses, eating little, sleeping on darbha-grass.

When they had been all scattered in this way in different directions by the Disposer, as leaves by a wind, it happened that Sundarasena set forth from the hermitage in which he was, and reached that hermitage of Matanga, in which Mandáravatí was staying. There he beheld a lake of clear water, the bank of which was thickly planted with trees bent down with the weight of many ripe fruits of various flavours. As he was weary, he bathed in that lake, and ate sweet fruits, and then walked on with Dridhabuddhi, and reached a forest stream. And going along its bank, he saw some hermit maidens engaged in gathering flowers near a temple containing a Linga. And in the midst of them he beheld one hermit maiden, who seemed to be the peerless beauty of the world, illuminating the whole wood with her loveliness, as if with moonlight, making all the regions full of blown blue lilies with her glance, and sowing with her foot-falls a thicket of lotuses in the forest.

Then the prince said to Dridhabuddhi, "Who can this be? Can she be a nymph of heaven worthy of being gazed upon by the hundred-eyed Indra; or is she the presiding goddess of the forest with her shoot-like fingers clinging to the flowers? Surely the Creator framed this very wonderful form of hers after he had perfected his skill by continual practice in creating many nymphs of heaven. And lo! she exactly resembles in appearance my beloved Mandáravatí, whose beauty I beheld in a picture. Why should she not be the lady herself? But how can this be? She is in Hansadvípa far away from this heart of the forest. So I cannot [448] conceive who this fair one is, and whence she comes, and how she comes to be here." And Dridhabuddhi, when he saw that fair maid, said to the prince, "She must be whom you suppose her to be, otherwise how could her ornaments, though made of forest flowers, thus resemble a necklace, a zone, a string of bells, and the other ornaments usually worn? Moreover, this beauty and delicacy are not produced in a forest; so you may be certain that she is some heavenly nymph, or some princess, not the daughter of a hermit. Let us rise up and stand here [449] a moment to find out." When Dridhabuddhi had said this, they both of them stood there concealed by a tree.

And in the meanwhile those hermit maidens, having gathered their flowers, went down into that river with that lovely girl to bathe. And while they were amusing themselves by splashing about in it, it happened that an alligator came and seized that lovely girl. When those maidens saw that, they were bewildered, and they cried out in their sorrow, "Help, help, ye woodland deities! For here is Mandáravatí, while bathing in the river, suddenly and unexpectedly seized by an alligator, and perishing." When Sundarasena heard that, he thought to himself, "Can this really be that beloved of mine?" and rushing forward he quickly killed that alligator with his dagger. And when she fell from the monster's mouth, as it were from the mouth of death, he carried her up on the bank, and comforted her.

And she, for her part, having got over her fear, and seeing that he was a charming person, said to herself, "Who is this great-hearted one that my good fortune has brought here to save my life? Wonderful to say, he bears a close resemblance to that lover of mine whom I saw in a picture, the high-born son of the king of Alaká. Can he possibly be that very man? But out on my evil thought! Heaven forefend! May such a man never be an exile from his native land! So it is not fitting for me now to remain in the society of a strange man. Accordingly, I will leave this place: may prosperity be the lot of this great-souled one!" After going through these reflections, Mandáravatí said to those companions of hers, "First take a respectful leave of this noble gentleman, and then come with me; we will now depart."

When prince Sundarasena, whose doubts were before unsatisfied, heard this, he conceived great confidence from merely hearing his own name, and he questioned one of her companions, saying to her, "Auspicious one, whose daughter and of what condition is this friend of yours? Tell me, for I feel a great desire to know." When he questioned the hermit maiden in these words, she said to him, "This is the princess Mandáravatí, the daughter of king Mandáradeva, the sovereign of Hansadvípa. She was being conducted to the city of Alaká to be married to prince Sundarasena, when her ship was wrecked in the sea, and the waves flung her up upon the shore: and the hermit Matanga found her there and brought her to his hermitage."

When she said this, Sundarasena's friend Dridhabuddhi, dancing like one bewildered with joy and despondency, said to the prince, "I congratulate you on having now been successful in obtaining the princess Mandáravatí; for is not this that very lady of whom we were thinking?" When he had said this, her companions the hermit maidens questioned him, and he told them his story; and they gladdened with it that friend of theirs. Then Mandáravatí exclaimed, "Ah, my husband," and fell weeping at the feet of that Sundarasena. He, for his part, embraced her and wept, and while they were weeping there, even stocks and herbs wept, melted with compassion.

Then the hermit Matanga, having been informed of all this by those hermit maidens, came there quickly, accompanied by Yamuná. He comforted that Sundarasena, who prostrated himself at his feet, and took him with Mandáravatí to his own hermitage. And that day he refreshed him by entertaining him, and made him feel happy; and the next day the great hermit said to that prince, "My son, I must to-day go for a certain affair to Svetadvípa, so you must go with Mandáravatí to Alaká; there you must marry this princess and cherish her; for I have adopted her as my daughter, and I give her to you. And you shall rule the earth for a long time with her; and you shall soon recover all those ministers of yours." When the hermit had said this to the prince and his betrothed, he took leave of them, and went away through the air with his daughter Yamuná, who was equal to himself in power.

Then Sundarasena, with Mandáravatí, and accompanied by Dridhabuddhi, set out from that hermitage. And when he reached the shore of the sea, he saw coming near him a light ship under the command of a young merchant. And in order to accomplish his journey more easily, he asked the young merchant who was the owner of that ship, through Dridhabuddhi, hailing him from a distance, to give him a passage in it. The wicked merchant, who beheld Mandáravatí, and was at once distracted with love, consented, and brought his ship near the shore. Then Sundarasena first placed his beloved on board the ship, and was preparing to get on board himself from the bank where he stood, when the wicked merchant, coveting his neighbour's wife, made a sign to the steersman, and so set the ship in motion. And the ship, on board of which the princess was crying piteously, rapidly disappeared from the view of Sundarasena, who stood gazing at it.

And he fell on the ground crying out, "Alas! I am robbed by thieves," and wept for a long time, and then Dridhabuddhi said to him, "Rise up! Abandon despondency! this is not a course befitting a hero. Come along! Let us go in that direction to look for that thief: for even in the most grievous hour of calamity the wise do not take leave of their fortitude." When Sundarasena had been thus exhorted by Dridhabuddhi, he was at last induced to rise up from the shore of the sea and set out.

And he went on his way weeping, and crying out, "Alas, queen! Alas, Mandáravatí!" continually scorched by the fire of separation, fasting, accompanied only by the weeping Dridhabuddhi; and almost beside himself with distraction he entered a great wood. And when in it, he paid no attention to the wise counsels of his friend, but ran hither and thither, thinking only of his beloved. When he saw the creepers in full bloom, he said, "Can this be my beloved come here, adorned with blown flowers, having escaped from that merchant-robber?" When he saw the beautiful lotuses, he said, "Can she have dived into a tank in her fear, and is she lifting up her face with long-lashed eyes and looking at me?" And when he heard the cuckoos singing concealed by the leafy creepers, he said, "Is the sweet-voiced fair one here addressing me?" Thus raving at every step, he wandered about for a long time, scorched by the moon, as if it were the sun; and so to him the night was the same as the day.

And at last the prince with Dridhabuddhi emerged from that wood, though with difficulty, and having lost his way, reached a great wilderness. It was perilous with fierce rhinoceroses, dangerous as being inhabited by lions, and so was as formidable [450] as an army, and moreover it was beset by a host of bandits. When the prince entered this wilderness, which was refugeless, and full of many misfortunes, like misery, he was set upon with uplifted weapons, by some Pulindas, who happened to be on the look out for human victims to offer to Durgá, by order of Vindhyaketu the king of the Pulindas, who lived in that region. When the prince was tormented with five fires, of misfortune, exile, the grief of separation, that affront from a base man, fasting, and the fatigue of the journey; alas! Fate created a sixth fire in the form of an attack of bandits, as if in order to exhaust his self-command.

And when many of the bandits rushed towards him to seize him, showering arrows, he, with only one companion to help him, killed them with his dagger. When king Vindhyaketu discovered that, he sent forward another force, and Sundarasena, being skilled in fighting, killed a great many bandits belonging to that force also. At last he and his companion fainted from the exhaustion of their wounds; and then those Savaras bound them, and took them and threw them into prison. The prison was full of multitudes of vermin, filthy with cobwebs, and it was evident that snakes frequented it, as they had dropped there the skins that clung to their throats. The dust in it rose as high as the ancle, [451] it was honey-combed with the holes and galleries of mice, and full of many terrified and miserable men that had been thrown into it. In that place, which seemed the very birthplace of hells, they saw those two ministers Bhímabhuja and Vikramasakti, who, like themselves, had entered that wilderness after escaping from the sea, in order to look for their master, and had been already bound and thrown into prison. They recognised the prince and fell weeping at his feet, and he recognised them, and embraced them, bathed in tears.

Then their woes were increased a hundredfold by seeing one another; but the other prisoners there said to them, in order to console them, "Enough of grief! Can we avoid the effect of acts done in a previous state of existence? Do you not see that the death of all of us together is imminent? For we have been collected here by this king of the Pulindas, in order that he may offer us up to Durgá on the coming fourteenth day of the month. So why should you grieve? The way of Fate, that sports with living beings, is strange; as she has given you misfortune, she may in the same way give you prosperity." When the other prisoners had said this to them, they remained there bound with them; it is terrible to see how little respect calamities shew even for the great.

And when the fourteenth day arrived, they were all taken thence by the orders of the king to the temple of Durgá to be sacrificed. It seemed like the mouth of death, the flame of the lamp being its lolling tongue, the range of bells being its row of teeth, to which the heads of men clung. [452] Then Sundarasena, when he saw that goddess, bowed before her, and praised her with mind humbled by devotion, and uttered this prayer, "O thou goddess that didst quell the oppression of the Asuras with thy blood-streaming trident, which mangled haughty Daityas, thou that givest security to thy votaries, look upon me, goddess, that am burned up with the forest-fire of grief, with a favourable nectar-shedding eye, and refresh me. Honour to thee!"

While the prince was saying this, Vindhyaketu, that king of the Pulindas, came there to worship the goddess Durgá. The moment the prince saw the king of the Bhillas, he recognised him, and being bowed down with shame, said of his own accord to his friends, "Ha! this is that very Vindhyaketu, the chief of the Pulindas, who comes to my father's court to pay him homage, and is the lord of this vast wilderness. Whatever may happen, we must not say anything here, for it is better for a man of honour to die, than to make known who he is under such circumstances."

While the prince was saying this to his ministers, king Vindhyaketu said to his servants, "Come now, shew me this heroic human victim, who killed so many of my warriors when he was being captured." As soon as his servants heard this, they brought Sundarasena, smeared with clotted blood, and defiled with wounds, into the presence of that king. When the king of the Bhillas saw him, he half recognised him, and being terrified, said to him, "Tell me, who are you, and whence do you come?" Sundarasena answered the king of the Bhillas, "What does it matter who I am, or whence I come? Do what you are about to do."

Then Vindhyaketu recognised him completely by his voice, and exclaiming excitedly, "Alas! Alas!" fell on the ground. Then he embraced the prince, and said, "Alas, great king Mahásena, see what a fitting return I, villain that I am, have now made for your numerous benefits, in that I have here reduced to such a state your son, whom you value as your life, prince Sundarasena, who has come here from somewhere or other!" This and many other such laments he uttered in such a way that all there began to shed tears. But the delighted companions of Sundarasena comforted the Bhilla king, saying to him, "Is not this much that you recognised the prince before any misfortune had happened? What could you have done after the event had taken place? So why do you despond in the midst of this joy?"

Then the king fell at the feet of Sundarasena, and lovingly honoured him, and Sundarasena got him to set all the human victims free. And after he had shown him all due respect, he took him to his village and his friends with him, and proceeded to bandage his wounds and administer medicines to him; and he said to him, "Tell me, prince, what brought you to this place, for I have a great desire to know." Then Sundarasena related to him all his adventures. And that prince of the Savaras, being astonished, said to him, "What a wonderful chain of events! That you should have set out to marry Mandaravatí, and that you should then have been wrecked [453] in the sea, and that this should have led to your reaching the hermitage of Matanga, and to your meeting your beloved there, and that this merchant, in whom you confided, should have carried her off from you, and that you should have entered the wilderness, and have been imprisoned for sacrifice, and recognised by me and delivered from that death--how strangely does all this hang together! Therefore honour by all means to mysteriously working Destiny! And you must not feel anxious about your beloved, for, as Destiny has done all this, she will also do you that other service soon."

While the king of the Pulindas was saying this, his commander-in-chief came quickly in a state of high delight, and entering said to him, "King, a certain merchant entered this wilderness with his followers, and he had with him much wealth and a very beautiful lady, a very gem of women; and when I heard of this, I went with an army, and seized him and his followers, with the wealth and the lady, and I have them here outside." When Sundarasena and Vindhyaketu heard this, they said to themselves "Can these be that merchant and Mandáravatí?" And they said, "Let the merchant and the lady be brought in here at once," and thereupon the commander-in-chief brought in that merchant and that lady. When Dridhabuddhi saw them, he exclaimed, "Here is that very princess Mandáravatí, and here is that villain of a merchant. Alas, princess! How came you to be reduced to this state, like a creeper scorched by the heat, with your bud-like lip dried up, and with your flower-ornaments stripped off?" While Dridhabuddhi was uttering this exclamation, Sundarasena rushed forward, and eagerly threw his arms round the neck of his beloved. Then the two lovers wept for a long time, as if to wash off from one another, by the water of a shower of tears, the defilement of separation.

Then Vindhyaketu, having consoled them both, said to that merchant, "How came you to carry off the wife of one who confided in you?" Then the merchant said, with a voice trembling with fear, "I have fruitlessly done this to my own destruction, but this holy saint was preserved by her own unapproachable splendour; I was no more able to touch her, than if she had been a flame of fire; and I did intend, villain that I was, to take her to my own country, and after her anger had been allayed, and she had been reconciled to me, to marry her." When the merchant had said this, the king ordered him to be put to death on the spot; but Sundarasena saved him from execution; however he had his abundant wealth confiscated, a heavier loss than that of life; for those that have lost their wealth die daily, not so those that have lost their breath.

So Sundarasena had that merchant set at liberty, and the wretched creature went where he would, pleased at having escaped with life; and king Vindhyaketu took Mandáravatí, and went with her and Sundarasena to the palace of his own queen. There he gave orders to his queen, and had Mandáravatí honoured with a bath, with clothes and with unguents, and after Sundarasena had been in the same way bathed and adorned, he made him sit down on a splendid throne, and honoured him with gifts, pearls, musk, and so on. And on account of the reunion of that couple, the king made a great feast, at which all the Savara women danced delighted.

Then, the next day, Sundarasena said to the king, "My wounds are healed, and my object is attained, so I will now go hence to my own city; and, please, send off at once to my father a messenger with a letter, to tell the whole story, and announce my arrival." [454] When the Savara chief heard this, he sent off a messenger with a letter, and gave him the message which the prince suggested.

And just as the letter-carrier was reaching the city of Alaká, it happened that king Mahásena and his queen, afflicted because they heard no tidings of Sundarasena, were preparing to enter the fire in front of a temple of Siva, surrounded by all the citizens, who were lamenting their approaching loss. Then the Savara, who was bearing the letter, beholding king Mahásena, came running up proclaiming who he was, stained with dust, bow in hand, with his hair tied up in a knot behind with a creeper, black himself, and wearing a loin-cincture of vilva-leaves. That letter-carrier of the king of the Bhillas said, "King, you are blessed with good fortune to-day, as your son Sundarasena has come with Mandáravatí, having escaped from the sea; for he has arrived at the court of my master Vindhyaketu, and is on his way to this place with him, and has sent me on before." Having said this, and thus discharged his confidential commission, the letter-carrier of the Bhilla king laid the letter at the monarch's feet. Then all the people there, being delighted, raised a shout of joy; and the letter was read out, and the whole of the wonderful circumstances became known; and king Mahásena recompensed the letter-carrier, and abandoned his grief, and made great rejoicings, and entered his palace with all his retainers. And the next day, being impatient, he set out to meet his son, whose arrival he expected, accompanied by the king of Hansadvípa. And his force of four arms marched along with him, innumerable, so that the earth trembled, dreading insupportable weight.

In the meanwhile Sundarasena set out from that village of the Bhillas for his own home, with Mandáravatí. And he was accompanied by his friends Vikramasakti and Bhímabhuja, whom he found in the prison, and Dridhabuddhi too was with him. He himself rode on a horse swift as the wind, by the side of Vindhyaketu, and seemed by the hosts of Pulindas that followed him, to be exhibiting the earth as belonging to that race. And as he was marching along, in a few days he beheld on the road his father coming to meet him, with his retinue and his connections. Then he got down from his horse, and the people beheld him with joy, and he and his friends went up and fell at the feet of his father. His father, when he beheld his son looking like the full moon, felt like the sea which surges up with throbbings of joy, and overflows its bounds, and could not contain himself for happiness. [455] And when he saw Mandáravatí, his daughter-in-law, bowing at his feet, he considered himself and his family prosperous, and rejoiced. And the king welcomed Dridhabuddhi and the other two ministers of his son, who bowed at his feet, and he received Vindhyaketu with still warmer welcome.

Then Sundarasena bowed before his father-in-law Mandáradeva, whom his father introduced to him, and rejoiced exceedingly; and beholding his ministers Chandaprabha and Vyághraparákrama, who had arrived before, clinging to his feet, he considered that all his wishes were accomplished. And immediately king Mahendráditya, who was delighted at hearing what had happened, came there from Sasánkapura out of affection. Then prince Sundarasena, mounted on a splendid horse, escorting his beloved, as Nadakúvara did Rambhá, went with all those to his own home, the city of Alaká, the dwelling-place of all felicities, abounding in virtuous men. And accompanied by his beloved he entered the palace of his father, being sprinkled, as he passed through the city, by the wives of the citizens, who were all crowding to the windows, with the blue lotuses of their eyes. And in the palace he bowed at the feet of his mother, whose eyes were full of tears of joy, and then spent that day in rejoicings, in which all his relations and servants took part.

And the next day, in the long desired hour fixed by the astrologers, the prince received the hand of Mandáravatí, who was bestowed on him by her father. And his father-in-law, king Mandáradeva, as he had no son, bestowed on him many priceless jewels, in his joy, and the reversion of his kingdom after his own death. And his father, king Mahásena, without exhausting the earth, made a great feast, in a style suitable to his desires and means, in which all prisoners were released, and a rain of gold was seen. [456] And having beheld Sundarasena prosperous by his union with Mandáravatí, and having taken part in his wedding festivities, in which all the women danced to song, and having been honoured by king Mahásena, king Mandáradeva returned to his own territory, and the king of Sasánkapura returned to that city, and Vindhyaketu, the lord of the great wilderness, returned to his domain.

And after some days had elapsed, king Mahásena, perceiving that his son Sundarasena was virtuous and beloved by the subjects, established him in his throne, and went himself to the forest. And prince Sundarasena, having thus obtained the kingdom, and having conquered all his enemies by the might of his arm, ruled with those ministers the whole earth, and found his joy in the possession of Mandáravatí ever increasing.

When the minister Vyághrasena had told this story on the bank of the lake to Mrigánkadatta, he went on to say to him, "This wonderful tale, prince, did the hermit Kanva relate to us in the hermitage, and at the end of the tale the compassionate man said to us, to comfort us, 'So, my sons, those who endure with resolute hearts terrible misfortunes hard to struggle through, attain in this way the objects they most desire; but those others, whose energies are paralysed by loss of courage, fail. Therefore abandon this despondency, and go on your way. Your master also, prince Mrigánkadatta, shall recover all his ministers, and shall long rule the earth, after having been united with Sasánkavatí.' When that great hermit had said this to us, we plucked up courage, and spent the night there, and then set out from that hermitage, and in course of time reached this wood, travel-worn. And while here, being tortured with excessive thirst and hunger, we climbed up this tree sacred to Ganesa, to get fruits, and we were ourselves turned into fruits, and we have now, prince, been released from our fruit-transformation by your austerities. Such have been the adventures of us four, during our separation from you [457] brought about by the curse of the Nága; and now that our curse is expired, advance, united with us all, towards the attainment of your object."

When Mrigánkadatta had heard all this from his minister Vyághrasena, he conceived hopes of obtaining Sasánkavatí, and so passed that night there.