beauty; the religion of a Brahman is impaired by serving kings; a
cow is spoiled by distant pasturage, wealth is lost by committing
injustice, and prosperity departs from the house where promises are
not kept.’
The Raja highly applauded the sentiment, but was firm as a rock upon
the subject of Sita marrying the treasurer’s son.
Chandraprabha observed that her royal father, usually so
conscientious, must now be acting from interested motives, and that
when selfishness sways a man, right becomes left and left becomes
right, as in the reflection of a mirror.
Subichar approved of the comparison; he was not quite so resolved,
but he showed no symptoms of changing his mind.
Then the Brahman’s daughter-in-law, with the view of gaining time—a
famous stratagem amongst feminines—said to the Raja: ‘Great king,
if you are determined upon giving me to the grand treasurer’s son,
exact from him the promise that he will do what I bid him. Only on
this condition will I ever enter his house!’
‘Speak, then,’ asked the king; ‘what will he have to do?’
She replied, ‘I am of the Brahman or priestly caste, he is the son of
a Kshatriya or warrior: the law directs that before we twain can wed,
he should perform Yatra (pilgrimage) to all the holy places.’
‘Thou has spoken Veda-truth, girl,’ answered the Raja, not sorry to
have found so good a pretext for temporising, and at the same time to
preserve his character for firmness, resolution, determination.
That night Manaswi and Chandraprabha, instead of scolding each
other, congratulated themselves upon having escaped an imminent
danger—which they did not escape.
In the morning, Subichar sent for his ministers, including his
grand treasurer and his love-sick son, and told them how well and
wisely the Brahman’s daughter-in-law had spoken upon the subject
of the marriage. All of them approved of the condition; but the
young man ventured to suggest, that while he was a-pilgrimaging the
maiden should reside under his father’s roof. As he and his father
showed a disposition to continue their fasts in case of the small
favour not being granted, the Raja, though very loath to separate
his beloved daughter and her dear friend, was driven to do it. And
Sita was carried off, weeping bitterly, to the treasurer’s palace.
That dignitary solemnly committed her to the charge of his third and
youngest wife, the lady Subhagya-Sundari, who was about her own age,
and said, ‘You must both live together, without any kind of wrangling
or contention, and do not go into other people’s houses.’ And the
grand treasurer’s son went off to perform his pilgrimages.
It is no less sad than true, Raja Vikram, that in less than six days
the disconsolate Sita waxed weary of being Sita, took the ball out of
her mouth, and became Manaswi. Alas for the infidelity of mankind!
But it is gratifying to reflect that he met with the punishment with
which the Pandit Muldev had threatened him. One night the magic pill
slipped down his throat. When morning dawned, being unable to change
himself into Sita, Manaswi was obliged to escape through a window
from the lady Subhagya-Sundari’s room. He sprained his ankle with the
leap, and he lay for a time upon the ground—where I leave him whilst
convenient to me.
When Muldev quitted the presence of Subichar, he resumed his old
shape, and returning to his brother Pandit Shashi, told him what he
had done. Whereupon Shashi, the misanthrope, looked black, and used
hard words and told his friend that good nature and soft-heartedness
had caused him to commit a very bad action—a grievous sin. Incensed
at this charge, the philanthropic Mulder became angry, and said, ‘I
have warned the youth about his purity; what harm can come of it?’
‘Thou hast,’ retorted Shashi, with irritating coolness, ‘placed a
sharp weapon in a fool’s hand.’
‘I have not,’ cried Muldev, indignantly.
‘Therefore,’ drawled the malevolent, ‘you are answerable for all the
mischief he does with it, and mischief assuredly he will do.’
‘He will not, by Brahma!’ exclaimed Muldev.
‘He will, by Vishnu!’ said Shashi, with an amiability produced by
having completely upset his friend’s temper; ‘and if within the
coming six months he does not disgrace himself, thou shalt have the
whole of my book-case; but if he does, the philanthropic Muldev will
use all his skill and ingenuity in procuring the daughter of Raja
Subichar as a wife for his faithful friend Shashi.’
Having made this covenant, they both agreed not to speak of the
matter till the autumn.
The appointed time drawing near, the Pandits began to make enquiries
about the effect of the magic pills. Presently they found out that
Sita, alias Manaswi, had one night mysteriously disappeared from the
grand treasurer’s house, and had not been heard of since that time.
This, together with certain other things that transpired presently,
convinced Muldev, who had cooled down in six months, that his
friend had won the wager. He prepared to make honourable payment by
handing a pill to old Shashi, who at once became a stout, handsome
young Brahman, some twenty years old. Next putting a pill into his
own mouth, he resumed the shape and form under which he had first
appeared before Raja Subichar; and, leaning upon his staff, he led
the way to the palace.
The king, in great confusion, at once recognised the old priest, and
guessed the errand upon which he and the youth were come. However, he
saluted them, and offered them seats, and receiving their blessings,
he began to make enquiries about their health and welfare. At last he
mustered courage to ask the old Brahman where he had been living for
so long a time.
‘Great king,’ replied the priest, ‘I went to seek after my son, and
having found him, I bring him to your majesty. Give him his wife, and
I will take them both home with me.’
Raja Subichar prevaricated not a little; but presently being hard
pushed, he related everything that had happened.
‘What is this that you have done?’ cried Muldev, simulating excessive
anger and astonishment. ‘Why have you given my son’s wife in marriage
to another man? You have done what you wished, and now, therefore,
receive my Shrap (curse)!’
The poor Raja, in great trepidation, said, ‘O Divinity! be not thus
angry! I will do whatever you bid me.’
Said Muldev, ‘If through dread of my excommunication you will
freely give whatever I demand of you, then marry your daughter,
Chandraprabha, to this my son. On this condition I forgive you. To
me, now a necklace of pearls and a venomous krishna (cobra capella);
the most powerful enemy and the kindest friend; the most precious
gem and a clod of earth; the softest bed and the hardest stone; a
blade of grass and the loveliest woman—are precisely the same. All I
desire is that in some holy place, repeating the name of God, I may
soon end my days.’
Subichar, terrified by this additional show of sanctity, at once
summoned an astrologer, and fixed upon the auspicious moment and
lunar influence. He did not consult the princess, and had he done so
she would not have resisted his wishes. Chandraprabha had heard of
Sita’s escape from the treasurer’s house, and she had on the subject
her own suspicions. Besides which she looked forward to a certain
event, and she was by no means sure that her royal father approved of
the Gandharba form of marriage—at least for his daughter. Thus the
Brahman’s son receiving in due time the princess and her dowry, took
leave of the king and returned to his own village.
Hardly, however, had Chandraprabha been married to Shashi the
Pandit, when Manaswi went to him, and began to wrangle, and said,
‘Give me my wife!’ He had recovered from the effects of his fall, and
having lost her he therefore loved her—very dearly.
But Shashi proved by reference to the astrologers, priests, and ten
persons as witnesses, that he had duly wedded her, and brought her to
his home; ‘therefore,’ said he, ‘she is _my_ spouse.’
Manaswi swore by all holy things that he had been legally married to
her, and that he was the father of her child that was about to be.
‘How then,’ continued he, ‘can she be _thy_ spouse?’ He would have
summoned Muldev as a witness, but that worthy, after remonstrating
with him, disappeared. He called upon Chandraprabha to confirm his
statement, but she put on an innocent face, and indignantly denied
ever having seen the man.
Still, continued the Baital, many people believed Manaswi’s story, as
it was marvellous and incredible. Even to the present day, there are
many who decidedly think him legally married to the daughter of Raja
Subichar.
‘Then they are pestilent fellows!’ cried the warrior king, Vikram,
who hated nothing more than clandestine and runaway matches. ‘No one
knew that the villain, Manaswi, was the father of her child; whereas,
the Pandit Shashi married her lawfully, before witnesses, and with
all the ceremonies.[152] She therefore remains his wife, and the
child will perform the funeral obsequies for him, and offer water
to the manes of his pitris (ancestors). At least, so say law and
justice.’
[152] This would be the verdict of a Hindu jury.
‘Which justice is often unjust enough!’ cried the Vampire; ‘and ply
thy legs, mighty Raja; let me see if thou canst reach the siras-tree
before I do.’
* * * * *
‘The next story, O Raja Vikram, is remarkably interesting.’
THE VAMPIRE’S NINTH STORY.
SHOWING THAT A MAN’S WIFE BELONGS NOT TO HIS BODY BUT TO HIS HEAD.
Far and wide through the lovely land overrun by the Arya from
the Western Highlands spread the fame of Unmadini, the beautiful
daughter of Haridas the Brahman. In the numberless odes, sonnets,
and acrostics addressed to her by a hundred Pandits and poets her
charms were sung with prodigious triteness. Her presence was compared
to light shining in a dark house; her face to the full moon; her
complexion to the yellow champaka flower; her curls to female snakes;
her eyes to those of the deer; her eyebrows to bent bows; her teeth
to strings of little opals; her feet to rubies and red gems,[153] and
her gait to that of the wild goose. And none forgot to say that her
voice affected the author like the song of the kokila bird, sounding
from the shadowy brake, when the breeze blows coolly, or that the
fairy beings of Indra’s heaven would have shrunk away abashed at her
loveliness.
[153] Because stained with the powder of Mhendi, or the _Lawsonia
inermis_ shrub.
But, Raja Vikram! all the poets failed to win the fair Unmadini’s
love. To praise the beauty of a beauty is not to praise her. Extol
her wit and talents, which has the zest of novelty, then you may
succeed. For the same reason, read inversely, the plainer and
cleverer is the bosom you would fire, the more personal you must be
upon the subject of its grace and loveliness. Flattery, you know,
is ever the match which kindles the flame of love. True it is that
some by roughness of demeanour and bluntness in speech, contrasting
with those whom they call the ‘herd,’ have the art to succeed in the
service of the bodyless god.[154] But even they must——
[154] Kansa’s son; so called because the god Shiva, when struck
by his shafts, destroyed him with a fiery glance.
The young prince Dharma Dhwaj could not help laughing at the thought
of how this must sound in his father’s ear. And the Raja hearing
the ill-timed merriment, sternly ordered the Baital to cease his
immoralities and to continue his story.
Thus the lovely Unmadini, conceiving an extreme contempt for poets
and literati, one day told her father, who greatly loved her, that
her husband must be a fine young man who never wrote verses. Withal
she insisted strongly on mental qualities and science, being a person
of moderate mind and an adorer of talent—when not perverted to
poetry.
As you may imagine, Raja Vikram, all the beauty’s bosom friends,
seeing her refuse so many good offers, confidently predicted that
she would pass through the jungle and content herself with a bad
stick, or that she would lead ring-tailed apes in Patala.
At length when some time had elapsed, four suitors appeared from
four different countries, all of them claiming equal excellence in
youth and beauty, strength and understanding. And after paying their
respects to Haridas, and telling him their wishes, they were directed
to come early on the next morning and to enter upon the first
ordeal—an intellectual conversation.
This they did.
‘Foolish the man,’ quoth the young Mahasani, ‘that seeks permanence
in this world—frail as the stem of the plantain-tree, transient as
the ocean foam.
‘All that is high shall presently fall; all that is low must finally
perish.
‘Unwillingly do the manes of the dead taste the tears shed by their
kinsmen: then wail not, but perform the funeral obsequies with
diligence.’
‘What ill-omened fellow is this?’ quoth the fair Unmadini, who was
sitting behind her curtain; ‘besides, he has dared to quote poetry!’
There was little chance of success for that suitor.
‘She is called a good woman, and a woman of pure descent,’ quoth the
second suitor, ‘who serves him to whom her father and mother have
given her; and it is written in the scriptures that a woman who in
the lifetime of her husband becoming a devotee, engages in fasting,
and in austere devotion, shortens his days, and hereafter falls into
the fire. For it is said—
‘A woman’s bliss is found, not in the smile
Of father, mother, friend, nor in herself;
Her husband is her only portion here,
Her heaven _hereafter_.’
The word ‘serve’ which might mean ‘obey,’ was peculiarly disagreeable
to the fair one’s ears, and she did not admire the check so soon
placed upon her devotion, or the decided language and manner of
the youth. She therefore mentally resolved never again to see that
person, whom she determined to be stupid as an elephant.
‘A mother,’ said Gunakar, the third candidate, ‘protects her son in
babyhood, and a father when his offspring is growing up. But the man
of warrior descent defends his brethren at all times. Such is the
custom of the world, and such is my state. I dwell on the heads of
the strong!’
Therefore those assembled together looked with great respect upon the
man of valour.
Devasharma, the fourth suitor, contented himself with listening to
the others, who fancied that he was overawed by their cleverness.
And when it came to his turn he simply remarked, ‘Silence is better
than speech.’ Being further pressed, he said, ‘A wise man will not
proclaim his age, nor a deception practised upon himself, nor his
riches, nor the loss of riches, nor family faults, nor incantations,
nor conjugal love, nor medicinal prescriptions, nor religious duties,
nor gifts, nor reproach, nor the infidelity of his wife.’
Thus ended the first trial. The master of the house dismissed the
two former speakers, with many polite expressions and some trifling
presents. Then having given betel to them, scented their garments
with attar, and sprinkled rose water over their heads, he accompanied
them to the door, showing much regret. The two latter speakers he
begged to come on the next day.
Gunakar and Devasharma did not fail. When they entered the
assembly-room and took the seats pointed out to them, the father
said, ‘Be ye pleased to explain and make manifest the effects of your
mental qualities. So shall I judge of them.’
‘I have made,’ said Gunakar, ‘a four-wheeled carriage, in which the
power resides to carry you in a moment wherever you may purpose to
go.’
‘I have such power over the angel of death,’ said Devasharma, ‘that
I can at all times raise a corpse, and enable my friends to do the
same.’
Now tell me by thy brains, O warrior King Vikram, which of these two
youths was the fitter husband for the maid?
Either the Raja could not answer the question, or perhaps he would
not, being determined to break the spell which had already kept
him walking to and fro for so many hours. Then the Baital, who had
paused to let his royal carrier commit himself, seeing that the
attempt had failed, proceeded without making any further comment.
The beautiful Unmadini was brought out, but she hung down her head
and made no reply. Yet she took care to move both her eyes in the
direction of Devasharma. Whereupon Haridas, quoting the proverb that
‘pearls string with pearls,’ formally betrothed to him his daughter.
The soldier suitor twisted the ends of his mustachios into his eyes,
which were red with wrath, and fumbled with his fingers about the
hilt of his sword. But he was a man of noble birth, and presently his
anger passed away.
Mahasani the poet, however, being a shameless person—and when can
we be safe from such?—forced himself into the assembly and began to
rage and to storm, and to quote proverbs in a loud tone of voice. He
remarked that in this world women are a mine of grief, a poisonous
root, the abode of solicitude, the destroyers of resolution, the
occasioners of fascination, and the plunderers of all virtuous
qualities. From the daughter he passed to the father, and after
saying hard things of him as a ‘Maha-Brahman,’[155] who took cows and
gold and worshipped a monkey, he fell with a sweeping censure upon
all priests and sons of priests, more especially Devasharma. As the
bystanders remonstrated with him, he became more violent, and when
Haridas, who was a weak man, appeared terrified by his voice, look,
and gesture, he swore a solemn oath that despite all the betrothals
in the world, unless Unmadini became his wife he would commit
suicide, and as a demon haunt the house and injure the inmates.
[155] ‘Great Brahman;’ used contemptuously to priests who
officiate for servile men. Brahmans lose their honour by the
following things: By becoming servants to the king; by pursuing
any secular business; by acting priests to Shudras (serviles);
by officiating as priests for a whole village; and by neglecting
any part of the three daily services. Many violate these rules;
yet to kill a Brahman is still one of the five great Hindu sins.
In the present age of the world, the Brahman may not accept
a gift of cows or of gold; of course he despises the law. As
regards monkey worship, a certain Rajah of Nadiya is said to have
expended 10,000_l._ in marrying two monkeys with all the parade
and splendour of the Hindu rite.
Gunakar the soldier exhorted this shameless poet to slay himself at
once, and to go where he pleased. But as Haridas reproved the warrior
for inhumanity, Mahasani nerved by spite, love, rage, and perversity
to an heroic death, drew a noose from his bosom, rushed out of the
house, and suspended himself to the nearest tree.
And, true enough, as the midnight gong struck, he appeared in the
form of a gigantic and malignant Rakshasa (fiend), dreadfully
frightened the household of Haridas, and carried off the lovely
Unmadini, leaving word that she was to be found on the topmost peak
of Himalaya.
The unhappy father hastened to the house where Devasharma lived.
There, weeping bitterly and wringing his hands in despair, he told
the terrible tale, and besought his intended son-in-law to be up and
doing.
The young Brahman at once sought his late rival, and asked his aid.
This the soldier granted at once, although he had been nettled at
being conquered in love by a priestling.
The carriage was at once made ready, and the suitors set out, bidding
the father be of good cheer, and that before sunset he should embrace
his daughter. They then entered the vehicle; Gunakar with cabalistic
words caused it to rise high in the air, and Devasharma put to flight
the demon by reciting the sacred verse,[156] ‘Let us meditate on the
supreme splendour (or adorable light) of that Divine Ruler (the sun)
who may illuminate our understandings. Venerable men, guided by the
intelligence, salute the divine sun (Sarvitri) with oblations and
praise. Om!’
[156] The celebrated Gayatri, the Moslem Kalmah.
Then they returned with the girl to the house, and Haridas blessed
them, praising the sun aloud in the joy of his heart. Lest other
accidents might happen, he chose an auspicious planetary conjunction,
and at a fortunate moment rubbed turmeric upon his daughter’s hands.
The wedding was splendid, and broke the hearts of twenty-four rivals.
In due time Devasharma asked leave from his father-in-law to revisit
his home, and carry with him his bride. This request being granted,
he set out accompanied by Gunakar the soldier, who swore not to leave
the couple before seeing them safe under their own roof-tree.
It so happened that their road lay over the summits of the wild
Vindhya hills, where dangers of all kinds are as thick as shells
upon the shore of the deep. Here were rocks and jagged precipices
making the traveller’s brain whirl when he looked into them. There
impetuous torrents roared and flashed down their beds of black stone,
threatening destruction to those who would cross them. Now the path
was lost in the matted thorny underwood and the pitchy shades of the
jungle, deep and dark as the valley of death. Then the thunder-cloud
licked the earth with its fiery tongue, and its voice shook the crags
and filled their hollow caves. At times, the sun was so hot, that the
wild birds fell dead from the air. And at every moment the wayfarers
heard the trumpeting of giant elephants, the fierce howling of the
tiger, the grisly laugh of the foul hyæna, and the whimpering of the
wild dogs as they coursed by on the tracks of their prey.
Yet, sustained by the five-armed god,[157] the little party passed
safely through all these dangers. They had almost emerged from the
damp glooms of the forest into the open plains which skirt the
southern base of the hills, when one night the fair Unmadini saw a
terrible vision.
[157] Kama again.
She beheld herself wading through a sluggish pool of muddy water,
which rippled, curdling as she stepped into it, and which, as she
advanced, darkened with the slime raised by her feet. She was
bearing in her arms the semblance of a sick child, which struggled
convulsively and filled the air with dismal wails. These cries seemed
to be answered by a multitude of other children, some bloated like
toads, others mere skeletons lying upon the bank, or floating upon
the thick brown waters of the pond. And all seemed to address their
cries to her, as if she were the cause of their weeping; nor could
all her efforts quiet or console them for a moment.
When the bride awoke, she related all the particulars of her
ill-omened vision to her husband; and the latter, after a short
pause, informed her and his friend that a terrible calamity was about
to befall them. He then drew from his travelling wallet a skein of
thread. This he divided into three parts, one for each, and told
his companions that in case of grievous bodily injury, the bit of
thread wound round the wounded part would instantly make it whole.
After which he taught them the Mantra,[158] or mystical word by which
the lives of men are restored to their bodies, even when they have
taken their allotted places amongst the stars, and which for evident
reasons I do not want to repeat. It concluded, however, with the
three Vyahritis, or sacred syllables—Bhuh, Bhuvah, Svar!
[158] From ‘Man,’ to think; primarily meaning, what makes man
think.
Raja Vikram was perhaps a little disappointed by this declaration. He
made no remark, however, and the Baital thus pursued:
[Illustration: As they emerged upon the plain, they were attacked by
the Kiratas.]
As Devasharma foretold, an accident of a terrible nature did occur.
On the evening of that day, as they emerged upon the plain, they were
attacked by the Kiratas, or savage tribes of the mountain.[159] A
small, black, wiry figure, armed with a bow and little cane arrows,
stood in their way, signifying by gestures that they must halt and
lay down their arms. As they continued to advance, he began to speak
with a shrill chattering, like the note of an affrighted bird, his
restless red eyes glared with rage, and he waved his weapon furiously
round his head. Then from the rocks and thickets on both sides of the
path poured a shower of shafts upon the three strangers.
[159] The Cirrhadæ of classical writers.