Then the King said to Rasakósha: My friend, though my mistress guessed
your question, and now four days have gone, yet I forgive you, for the
sake of the smile she gave me when she went away. Oh! it irradiated
the gloom of my soul like as the moonlight illuminates the forest
glades: and when she disappeared, darkness again prevailed. But for
the portrait, I were a dead man before morning. And he passed the
night in a state of impatience, gazing at the portrait. Then when the
sun rose, he rose also, and passed the day by the help of Rasakósha and
the garden. And when the sun set, they went again to the hall of
audience. And there they saw the Princess, clad in a pale red[1] robe,
and a bodice studded with emeralds, and her crown and ornaments,
sitting on her throne. And she dropped her eyes when she saw the King,
who sank with a beating heart upon a couch, speechless and fascinated,
under the spell of her beauty. Then Rasakósha came forward and stood
before her, and began again:
Lady, in former times there was a king, who made war upon a
neighbouring king, and went out and fought a great battle with him.
Now there was in his army a certain Kshatriya, who, fighting all day
long in that battle, after slaying multitudes of the enemy with his
single arm, at length grew tired and faint from exhaustion. And
perceiving this, many of the enemy set upon him at once, and
overpowered him, and after mangling him with innumerable wounds, left
him for dead upon the ground. But when the moon rose, that Kshatriya
recovered his senses, and as it were came back to life. And he dragged
himself with difficulty as far as a neighbouring village. And then his
strength failed, and sinking down exhausted at the door of a certain
house, he struck one great blow upon it, and fell down senseless.
Now there lived in that house a Brahman woman, whose husband was away
from home. And she was beautiful as a jasmine blossom, and pure as
snow, and her name was Suwarnashílá[2]. And hearing the knock, in the
dead of night, she was frightened; but she looked out of a small round
window, and saw in the bright moonlight a man lying still at her door.
Then she thought: This may be a snare. Alas! the neighbours praise me
for my beauty, and to whom is not beauty an object of cupidity? Or how
can beauty, like a great pearl, be safe when its guardian is away?
Then she looked again, and saw a dark stream trickling from the body
along the white ground. And her heart was filled with compassion, and
she thought: Doubtless the man is wounded, and perhaps dying. The
greater[3] sin would be, to leave him to die at my door. So she
summoned her maid, and went out, and took in the wounded man, and
dressed his wounds and nursed him, keeping him in her house till he was
well.
Then that Kshatriya, seeing her daily, was burned to a cinder by the
glory of her beauty, and he made evil proposals to her. But she
stopped her ears, and would not listen to him, but said: What! would
you repay benefits with treachery and ingratitude? Know, that to a
virtuous woman her husband is a god. Depart, and let me alone. Then
finding that he could not prevail upon her, the Kshatriya said to her:
It is you, not your husband, that is the divinity. Your beauty would
turn even a holy ascetic from his penance. And though I owe you my
life, yet you have robbed me of it again. And now I must depart
quickly, otherwise my passion will master me, for love is stronger than
gratitude. Then he went away hurriedly, but with reluctance, somewhere
else.
But when the husband returned, a certain barber's wife, who was jealous
of Suwarnashílá for her beauty, met him and said: Happy are those who
possess treasures. In your absence another man has been wearing your
crest-jewel. So the husband, burning with jealousy, went home and
asked his wife. And she said: It is true, but listen; and she told him
the whole story. But he would not believe her. Then she extended her
hand to the fire, and said: I appeal to the fire, if I have ever been
faithless to you for a moment, even in a dream. And the fire shot up,
and a bright flame licked the roof, and two tongues of flame crept out
and kissed that saint, one on the mouth, and the other on the heart.
But blinded with jealousy and rage, the husband said: This is a trick.
And taking his sword, he said to his wife: Follow me. So she said: As
my lord pleases. Then he led her away into the forest, and there he
tied her to a tree, and cut off her hands and her feet, and her nose
and her breasts, and went away and left her. And after a while she
died alone in the forest, of cold and pain and loss of blood.
But that Kshatriya heard of what he had done. And filled with rage and
despair, he went to that husband, and said to him: O fool, know, that
you have murdered a saint. And but that I know that life will
henceforth be a punishment to you worse than any death, I would slay
you where you stand. But as it is, live, and may your guilt bring you
death without a son. Then the husband, learning the truth, and
discovering the villainy of that lying barber's wife, was filled with
remorse. And he abandoned the world, and went to the Ganges to expiate
his guilt. But the Kshatriya killed himself with his own sword.
So now tell me, Princess, why does fate inflict such terrible
punishment on the innocent[4]? And Rasakósha ceased. Then the
Princess said: Can emancipation be attained, save by those who are
worthy of it? And how can gold[5] be tested, save by fire? And
Suwarnashílá stood the test, and proved her nature: and doubtless she
has her reward. For even death is not so sure as the consequences of
even the minutest action.
Then a bodiless voice[6] fell from the sky, and said aloud: Well
spoken, dear child. And the Princess rose up and went out, looking at
the King with glistening eyes, and the heart of the King went with her.
But the King and Rasakósha returned to their own apartments.
[1] _Goura_ cannot mean white, because _dhawala_ comes on a later day.
[2] See below.
[3] _i.e._ to take him in, with her husband away, would be bad enough,
but, &c. A Hindoo even at the present day would murder his wife for a
much smaller crime than this.
[4] This appalling question, which has puzzled the wise men of all
ages, is answered by the Princess as well as by any one else.
[5] An allusion to the name Suwarnashílá, which means 'good as gold.'
[6] This is an everyday phenomenon in Hindoo stories; and its
appearance in the _Golden Ass_ of Apuleius puts it beyond all doubt
that his story came originally from India.