not to leave the palace for a while, and forthwith walked into the
private apartments of the women. Happening first to meet the queen
dowager, he said to her, ‘Go, without losing a minute, O my mother,
and look at Padmavati’s left leg, and see if there is a mark or
not, and what sort of a mark!’ Presently she returned, and coming
to the king said, ‘Son, I find thy daughter lying upon her bed,
and complaining that she has met with an accident; and, indeed,
Padmavati must be in great pain. I found that some sharp instrument
with three points had wounded her. The girl says that a nail hurt
her, but I never yet heard of a nail making three holes. However, we
must all hasten, or there will be erysipelas, tumefaction, gangrene,
mortification, amputation, and perhaps death in the house,’ concluded
the old queen, hurrying away in the pleasing anticipation of these
ghastly consequences.
For a moment King Dantawat’s heart was ready to break. But he was
accustomed to master his feelings; he speedily applied the reins
of reflection to the wild steed of passion. He thought to himself,
‘the affairs of one’s household, the intentions of one’s heart, and
whatever one’s losses may be, should not be disclosed to any one.
Since Padmavati is a witch, she is no longer my daughter. I will
verily go forth and consult the spiritual preceptor.’
With these words the king went outside, where the guru was still
sitting upon his black hide, making marks with his trident on the
floor. Having requested that the pupil might be sent away, and having
cleared the room, he said to the jogi, ‘O holy man! what punishment
for the heinous crime of witchcraft is awarded to a woman in the
Dharma-Shastra?’[71]
[71] The Hindu scriptures.
‘Great king!’ replied the devotee, ‘in the Dharma-Shastra it is
thus written: “If a Brahman, a cow, a woman, a child, or any other
person whatsoever, who may be dependent on us, should be guilty
of a perfidious act, their punishment is that they be banished the
country.” However much they may deserve death, we must not spill
their blood, as Lakshmi[72] flies in horror from the deed.’
[72] The Goddess of Prosperity.
Hearing these words the Raja dismissed the guru with many thanks and
large presents. He waited till nightfall and then ordered a band of
trusty men to seize Padmavati without alarming the household, and to
carry her into a distant jungle full of fiends, tigers, and bears,
and there to abandon her.
[Illustration: Mounting their horses, followed the party.]
In the meantime, the ascetic and his pupil, hurrying to the cemetery,
resumed their proper dresses; they then went to the old nurse’s
house, rewarded her hospitality till she wept bitterly, girt on
their weapons, and mounting their horses, followed the party which
issued from the gate of King Dantawat’s palace. And it may easily be
believed that they found little difficulty in persuading the poor
girl to exchange her chance in the wild jungle for the prospect of
becoming Vajramukut’s wife—lawfully wedded—at Benares. She did not
even ask if she was to have a rival in the house,—a question which
women, you know, never neglect to put under usual circumstances.
After some days the two pilgrims of one love arrived at the house of
their fathers, and to all, both great and small, excess in joy came.
‘Now, Raja Vikram!’ said the Baital, ‘you have not spoken much;
doubtless you are engrossed by the interest of a story wherein a man
beats a woman at her own weapon—deceit. But I warn you that you will
assuredly fall into Narak (the infernal regions) if you do not make
up your mind upon and explain this matter. Who was the most to blame
amongst these four? the lover,[73] the lover’s friend, the girl, or
the father?’
[73] In the original the lover is not blamed; this would be the
Hindu view of the matter; we might be tempted to think of the old
injunction not to seethe a kid in the mother’s milk.
‘For my part I think Padmavati was the worst, _she_ being at the
bottom of all their troubles,’ cried Dharma Dhwaj. The king said
something about young people and the two senses of seeing and
hearing, but his son’s sentiment was so sympathetic that he at
once pardoned the interruption. At length, determined to do justice
despite himself, Vikram said, ‘Raja Dantawat is the person most at
fault.’
‘In what way was he at fault?’ asked the Baital curiously.
King Vikram gave him this reply: ‘The Prince Vajramukut being
tempted of the love-god was insane, and therefore not responsible
for his actions. The minister’s son performed his master’s business
obediently, without considering causes or asking questions—a very
excellent quality in a dependant who is merely required to do as he
is bid. With respect to the young woman, I have only to say that she
was a young woman, and thereby of necessity a possible murderess. But
the Raja, a prince, a man of a certain age and experience, a father
of eight! He ought never to have been deceived by so shallow a trick,
nor should he, without reflection, have banished his daughter from
the country.’
‘Gramercy to you!’ cried the Vampire, bursting into a discordant
shout of laughter, ‘I now return to my tree. By my tail! I never yet
heard a Raja so readily condemn a Raja.’
With these words he slipped out of the cloth, leaving it to hang
empty over the great king’s shoulder.
Vikram stood for a moment, fixed to the spot with blank dismay.
Presently, recovering himself, he retraced his steps, followed by
his son, ascended the siras-tree, tore down the Baital, packed him up
as before, and again set out upon his way.
Soon afterwards a voice sounded behind the warrior king’s back, and
began to tell another true story.
THE VAMPIRE’S SECOND STORY.
OF THE RELATIVE VILLANY OF MEN AND WOMEN.
In the great city of Bhogavati dwelt, once upon a time, a young
prince, concerning whom I may say that he strikingly resembled this
amiable son of your majesty.
Raja Vikram was silent, nor did he acknowledge the Baital’s indirect
compliment. He hated flattery, but he liked, when flattered, to
be flattered in his own person; a feature in their royal patron’s
character which the Nine Gems of Science had turned to their own
account.
Now the young prince Raja Ram (continued the tale teller) had an old
father, concerning whom I may say that he was exceedingly unlike your
Rajaship, both as a man and as a parent. He was fond of hunting,
dicing, sleeping by day, drinking at night, and eating perpetual
tonics, while he delighted in the idleness of watching nautch girls,
and the vanity of falling in love. But he was adored by his children
because he took the trouble to win their hearts. He did not lay it
down as a law of heaven that his offspring would assuredly go to
Patala if they neglected the duty of bestowing upon him without
cause all their affections, as your moral, virtuous, and highly
respectable fathers are only too apt—. Aïe! aïe!
These sounds issued from the Vampire’s lips as the warrior king,
speechless with wrath, passed his hand behind his back, and viciously
twisted up a pinch of the speaker’s skin. This caused the Vampire to
cry aloud, more however, it would appear, in derision than in real
suffering, for he presently proceeded with the same subject.
Fathers, great king, may be divided into three kinds; and be it
said aside, that mothers are the same. Firstly, we have the parent
of many ideas, amusing, pleasant, of course poor, and the idol of
his children. Secondly, there is the parent with one idea and a
half. This sort of man would, in your place, say to himself, ‘That
demon-fellow speaks a manner of truth. I am not above learning from
him, despite his position in life. I will carry out his theory,
just to see how far it goes;’ and so saying, he wends his way home,
and treats his young ones with prodigious kindness for a time, but
it is not lasting. Thirdly, there is the real one-idea’d type of
parent—yourself, O warrior king Vikram, an admirable example. You
learn in youth what you are taught: for instance, the blessed precept
that the green stick is of the trees of Paradise; and in age you
practise what you have learned. You cannot teach yourselves anything
before your beards sprout, and when they grow stiff you cannot be
taught by others. If any one attempt to change your opinions you cry,
What is new is not true,
What is true is not new,
and you rudely pull his hand from the subject. Yet have you your uses
like other things of earth. In life you are good working camels for
the mill-track, and when you die your ashes are not worse compost
than those of the wise.
Your Rajaship will observe (continued the Vampire, as Vikram began
to show symptoms of ungovernable anger) that I have been concise in
treating this digression. Had I not been so, it would have led me far
indeed from my tale. Now to return.
When the old king became air mixed with air, the young king, though
he found hardly ten pieces of silver in the paternal treasury and
legacies for thousands of golden ounces, yet mourned his loss with
the deepest grief. He easily explained to himself the reckless
emptiness of the royal coffers as a proof of his dear kind parent’s
goodness, because he loved him.
But the old man had left behind him, as he could not carry it
off with him, a treasure more valuable than gold and silver: one
Churaman, a parrot, who knew the world, and who besides discoursed in
the most correct Sanskrit. By sage counsel and wise guidance this
admirable bird soon repaired his young master’s shattered fortunes.
One day the prince said, ‘Parrot, thou knowest everything: tell me
where there is a mate fit for me. The shastras inform us, respecting
the choice of a wife, “She who is not descended from his paternal
or maternal ancestors within the sixth degree is eligible by a high
caste man for nuptials. In taking a wife let him studiously avoid the
following families, be they ever so great, or ever so rich in kine,
goats, sheep, gold, or grain: the family which has omitted prescribed
acts of devotion; that which has produced no male children; that
in which the Veda (scripture) has not been read; that which has
thick hair on the body; and that in which members have been subject
to hereditary disease. Let a person choose for his wife a girl
whose person has no defect; who has an agreeable name; who walks
gracefully, like a young elephant; whose hair and teeth are moderate
in quantity and in size; and whose body is of exquisite softness.”’
‘Great king,’ responded the parrot Churaman, ‘there is in the country
of Magadh a Raja, Magadheshwar by name, and he has a daughter called
Chandravati. You will marry her; she is very learned, and, what is
better far, very fair. She is of yellow colour, with a nose like the
flower of the sesamum; her legs are taper, like the plantain-tree;
her eyes are large, like the principal leaf of the lotus; her
eyebrows stretch towards her ears; her lips are red, like the young
leaves of the mango-tree; her face is like the full moon; her voice
is like the sound of the cuckoo; her arms reach to her knees; her
throat is like the pigeon’s; her flanks are thin, like those of the
lion; her hair hangs in curls only down to her waist; her teeth
are like the seeds of the pomegranate; and her gait is that of the
drunken elephant or the goose.’
On hearing the parrot’s speech, the king sent for an astrologer,
and asked him, ‘Whom shall I marry?’ The wise man, having consulted
his art, replied, ‘Chandravati is the name of the maiden, and your
marriage with her will certainly take place.’ Thereupon the young
Raja, though he had never seen his future queen, became incontinently
enamoured of her. He summoned a Brahman, and sent him to King
Magadheshwar, saying, ‘If you arrange satisfactorily this affair of
our marriage we will reward you amply’—a promise which lent wings to
the priest.
Now it so happened that this talented and beautiful princess had
a jay,[74] whose name was Madan-manjari or Love-garland. She also
possessed encyclopædic knowledge after her degree, and, like the
parrot, she spoke excellent Sanskrit.
[74] In the original a ‘maina’—the Gracula religiosa.
Be it briefly said, O warrior king—for you think that I am talking
fables—that in the days of old, men had the art of making birds
discourse in human language. The invention is attributed to a great
philosopher, who split their tongues, and after many generations
produced a selected race born with those members split. He altered
the shapes of their skulls by fixing ligatures behind the occiput,
which caused the sinciput to protrude, their eyes to become
prominent, and their brains to master the art of expressing thoughts
in words.
But this wonderful discovery, like those of great philosophers
generally, had in it a terrible practical flaw. The birds beginning
to speak, spoke wisely and so well, they told the truth so
persistently, they rebuked their brethren of the featherless skins
so openly, they flattered them so little and they counselled them so
much, that mankind presently grew tired of hearing them discourse.
Thus the art gradually fell into desuetude, and now it is numbered
with the things that were.
One day the charming Princess Chandravati was sitting in confidential
conversation with her jay. The dialogue was not remarkable, for
maidens in all ages seldom consult their confidantes or speculate
upon the secrets of futurity, or ask to have dreams interpreted,
except upon one subject. At last the princess said, for perhaps the
hundredth time that month, ‘Where, O jay, is there a husband worthy
of me?’
‘Princess,’ replied Madan-manjari, ‘I am happy at length to be able
as willing to satisfy your just curiosity. For just it is, though the
delicacy of our sex——’
‘Now, no preaching!’ said the maiden; ‘or thou shalt have salt
instead of sugar for supper.’
Jays, your Rajaship, are fond of sugar. So the confidante retained a
quantity of good advice which she was about to produce, and replied,
‘I now see clearly the ways of Fortune. Raja Ram, king of Bhogavati,
is to be thy husband. He shall be happy in thee and thou in him, for
he is young and handsome, rich and generous, good-tempered, not too
clever, and without a chance of being an invalid.’
Thereupon the princess, although she had never seen her future
husband, at once began to love him. In fact, though neither had set
eyes upon the other, both were mutually in love.
‘How can that be, sire?’ asked the young Dharma Dhwaj of his father.
‘I always thought that——’
The great Vikram interrupted his son, and bade him not to ask silly
questions. Thus he expected to neutralise the evil effects of the
Baital’s doctrine touching the amiability of parents unlike himself.
Now, as both these young people (resumed the Baital) were of
princely family and well to do in the world, the course of their
love was unusually smooth. When the Brahman sent by Raja Ram had
reached Magadh, and had delivered his king’s homage to the Raja
Magadheshwar, the latter received him with, distinction, and agreed
to his proposal. The beautiful princess’s father sent for a Brahman
of his own, and charging him with nuptial gifts and the customary
presents, sent him back to Bhogavati in company with the other
envoy, and gave him this order, ‘Greet Raja Ram, on my behalf, and
after placing the tilak or mark upon his forehead, return here with
all speed. When you come back I will get all things ready for the
marriage.’
Raja Ram, on receiving the deputation, was greatly pleased, and
after generously rewarding the Brahmans and making all the necessary
preparations, he set out in state for the land of Magadha, to claim
his betrothed.
In due season the ceremony took place with feasting and bands of
music, fireworks and illuminations, rehearsals of scripture, songs,
entertainments, processions, and abundant noise. And hardly had the
turmeric disappeared from the beautiful hands and feet of the bride,
when the bridegroom took an affectionate leave of his new parents—he
had not lived long in the house—and receiving the dowry and the
bridal gifts, set out for his own country.
Chandravati was dejected by leaving her mother, and therefore she
was allowed to carry with her the jay, Madan-manjari. She soon told
her husband the wonderful way in which she had first heard his name,
and he related to her the advantage which he had derived from
confabulation with Churaman, his parrot.
‘Then why do we not put these precious creatures into one cage,
after marrying them according to the rites of the angelic marriage
(Gandharva-lagana)?’ said the charming queen. Like most brides, she
was highly pleased to find an opportunity of making a match.
‘Ay! why not, love? Surely they cannot live happy in what the world
calls single blessedness,’ replied the young king. As bridegrooms
sometimes are for a short time, he was very warm upon the subject of
matrimony.
Thereupon, without consulting the parties chiefly concerned in their
scheme, the master and mistress, after being comfortably settled at
the end of their journey, caused a large cage to be brought, and put
into it both their favourites.
Upon which Churaman the parrot leaned his head on one side and
directed a peculiar look at the jay. But Madan-manjari raised her
beak high in the air, puffed through it once or twice, and turned
away her face in extreme disdain.
‘Perhaps,’ quote the parrot, at length breaking silence, ‘you will
tell me that you have no desire to be married?’
‘Probably,’ replied the jay.
‘And why?’ asked the male bird.
‘Because I don’t choose,’ replied the female.
‘Truly a feminine form of resolution this,’ ejaculated the parrot. ‘I
will borrow my master’s words and call it a woman’s reason, that is
to say, no reason at all. Have you any objection to be more explicit?’
‘None whatever,’ retorted the jay, provoked by the rude innuendo
into telling more plainly than politely exactly what she thought;
‘none whatever, sir parrot. You he-things are all of you sinful,
treacherous, deceitful, selfish, devoid of conscience, and accustomed
to sacrifice us, the weaker sex, to your smallest desire or
convenience.’
‘Of a truth, fair lady,’ quoth the young Raja Ram to his bride, ‘this
pet of thine is sufficiently impudent.’
‘Let her words be as wind in thine ear, master,’ interrupted the
parrot. ‘And pray, Mistress Jay, what are you she-things but
treacherous, false, ignorant, and avaricious beings, whose only wish
in this world is to prevent life being as pleasant as it might be?’
‘Verily, my love,’ said the beautiful Chandravati to her bridegroom,
‘this thy bird has a habit of expressing his opinions in a very free
and easy way.’
‘I can prove what I assert,’ whispered the jay in the ear of the
princess.
‘We can confound their feminine minds by an anecdote,’ whispered the
parrot in the ear of the prince.
Briefly, King Vikram, it was settled between the twain that each
should establish the truth of what it had advanced by an illustration
in the form of a story.
Chandravati claimed, and soon obtained, precedence for the jay. Then
the wonderful bird, Madan-manjari, began to speak as follows:—
I have often told thee, O queen, that before coming to thy feet, my
mistress was Ratnawati, the daughter of a rich trader, the dearest,
the sweetest the——
Here the jay burst into tears, and the mistress was sympathetically
affected. Presently the speaker resumed—
However, I anticipate. In the city of Hapur there was a wealthy
merchant, who was without offspring; on this account he was
continually fasting and going on pilgrimage, and when at home he
was ever engaged in reading the Puranas and in giving alms to the
Brahmans.
At length, by favour of the Deity, a son was born to this merchant,
who celebrated his birth with great pomp and rejoicing, and gave
large gifts to Brahmans and to bards, and distributed largely to the
hungry, the thirsty, and the poor. When the boy was five years old he
had him taught to read, and when older he was sent to a guru, who had
formerly himself been a student, and who was celebrated as teacher
and lecturer.
In the course of time the merchant’s son grew up. Praise be to
Bramha! what a wonderful youth it was, with a face like a monkey’s,
legs like a stork’s, and a back like a camel’s. You know the old
proverb:—
Expect thirty-two villanies from the limping and eighty from
the one-eyed man,
But when the hunchback comes, say ‘Lord defend us!’
Instead of going to study, he went to gamble with other
ne’er-do-weels, to whom he talked loosely, and whom he taught to be
bad-hearted as himself. He made love to every woman, and despite his
ugliness, he was not unsuccessful. For they are equally fortunate
who are very handsome or very ugly, in so far as they are both,
remarkable and remarked. But the latter bear away the palm. Beautiful
men begin well with women, who do all they can to attract them,
love them as the apples of their eyes, discover them to be fools,
hold them to be their equals, deceive them, and speedily despise
them. It is otherwise with the ugly man, who, in consequence of his
homeliness, must work his wits and take pains with himself, and
become as pleasing as he is capable of being, till women forget his
ape’s face, bird’s legs, and bunchy back.
The hunchback, moreover, became a Tantri, so as to complete his
villanies. He was duly initiated by an apostate Brahman, made a
declaration that he renounced all the ceremonies of his old religion,
and was delivered from their yoke, and proceeded to perform in
token of joy an abominable rite. In company with eight men and eight
women—a Brahman female, a dancing girl, a weaver’s daughter, a woman
of ill fame, a washerwoman, a barber’s wife, a milkmaid, and the
daughter of a landowner—choosing the darkest time of night and the
most secret part of the house, he drank with them, was sprinkled and
anointed, and went through many ignoble ceremonies, such as sitting
nude upon a dead body. The teacher informed him that he was not to
indulge shame, or aversion to anything, nor to prefer one thing to
another, nor to regard caste, ceremonial cleanness or uncleanness,
but freely to enjoy all the pleasures of sense—that is, of course,
wine and us, since we are the representatives of the wife of Cupid,
and wine prevents the senses from going astray. And whereas holy
men, holding that the subjugation or annihilation of the passions
is essential to final beatitude, accomplish this object by bodily
austerities, and by avoiding temptation, he proceeded to blunt the
edge of the passions with excessive indulgence. And he jeered at the
pious, reminding them that their ascetics are safe only in forests,
and while keeping a perpetual fast; but that he could subdue his
passions in the very presence of what they most desired.
Presently this excellent youth’s father died, leaving him immense
wealth. He blunted his passions so piously and so vigorously, that
in very few years his fortune was dissipated. Then he turned towards
his neighbour’s goods and prospered for a time, till being discovered
robbing, he narrowly escaped the stake. At length he exclaimed, ‘Let
the gods perish! the rascals send me nothing but ill luck!’ and so
saying he arose and fled from his own country.
Chance led that villain hunchback to the city of Chandrapur, where,
hearing the name of my master Hemgupt, he recollected that one of his
father’s wealthiest correspondents was so called. Thereupon, with
his usual audacity, he presented himself at the house, walked in,
and although he was clothed in tatters, introduced himself, told his
father’s name and circumstances, and wept bitterly.
The good man was much astonished, and not less grieved, to see the
son of his old friend in such woful plight. He rose up, however,
embraced the youth, and asked the reason of his coming.
‘I freighted a vessel,’ said the false hunchback, ‘for the purpose
of trading to a certain land. Having gone there, I disposed of my
merchandise, and, taking another cargo, I was on my voyage home.
Suddenly a great storm arose, and the vessel was wrecked, and I
escaped on a plank, and after a time arrived here. But I am ashamed,
since I have lost all my wealth, and I cannot show my face in this
plight in my own city. My excellent father would have consoled me
with his pity. But now that I have carried him and my mother to
Ganges,[75] every one will turn against me; they will rejoice in my
misfortunes, they will accuse me of folly and recklessness—alas!
alas! I am truly miserable.’
[75] As we should say, buried them.