Then the King said to Rasakósha: My friend, the Princess is again
victorious, and now eight days are lost, yet I cannot but forgive you,
for the sake of the smile she gave me when she went away. Oh! it
gleamed on my soul like the dazzling whiteness of a royal swan
illuminated by the sun on the Mánasa lake. Alas! even the portrait
will scarce enable me to live till the morning. And the King passed
the night in a state of bewilderment, gazing sorrowfully at the
portrait. Then when the sun rose, he rose also, and got through the
long 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 purple robe, with a bodice of burnished gold, and
her crown and ornaments, sitting on her throne. And she looked at the
King with joy, and the King sank 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 a certain city there was a wealthy merchant, who possessed a
very beautiful wife; and he loved her more than his own soul. But she
was of light conduct, and walked in a path independent of her
husband[1], and looked after other men, and her virtue under temptation
was like a blade of grass in a forest conflagration. And though out of
his great love for her, that merchant forgave her all her faults, she
only despised him for it, and disliked him the more.
And one day, she looked out of her window, and saw in the street a
handsome young Rajpoot. And smitten with passion, she instantly left
her husband and her home, and ran away with him. But when he found
that she had gone, that merchant, her husband, in his despair almost
abandoned the body. But the hope that she would one day return kept
him alive: hope alone binds those whom separation has made miserable to
the world. Nevertheless, from the day she departed, all other things
became abominable in his eyes. And neglecting his business, he sank
into poverty, and became an object of contempt and derision to his
friends. And forsaking all occupation or pleasure, he remained alone
in his empty house, with the image of his runaway wife in his heart,
night and day. And thus he lived for three years, every hour of which
seemed to him as long as a _kalpa_, in the black darkness of desolation.
But she, in the meanwhile, after living with that Rajpoot for some
time, grew tired of him, and left him for another paramour, and him
again for another, flitting from one to another like a bee from flower
to flower. And it happened that one night, when she was living with a
certain merchant's son, he, in the new ardour of his admiration for her
beauty, suddenly stooped down to kiss her feet. But not being aware of
his intention, she drew her foot abruptly away, and it caught on the
jewel of a ring in his ear, and was torn. And even though it was
cured, the scar remained.
And one day, when three years had gone by, her husband, the merchant,
was sitting by himself in his deserted house, gazing with the eye of
his heart[2] at the image of his wife, when there came a knock at the
door. And as his servants had all long ago left him, for he had no
money to give them, he went to open it himself. And when he did so, he
looked, and there before him was his wife. She was worn, and old, and
the flower of her beauty was gone, and she was clothed in rags and
dusty with travel, and she looked at her husband with eyes dim with
tears and shame and fear, as she leaned against the doorpost, faint
from hunger and thirst and fatigue. But when he saw her, his heart
stopped, and his hair stood on end, and he uttered an exclamation of
wonder and joy. And taking her in his arms, he carried her in, and put
her on the bed which she had abandoned and disgraced; and fetching food
and water, with feet that stumbled from the ecstasy of his joy, he
washed the dust off her, and dispelled her anxiety and fear, and
revived her heart, and uttered no reproaches, but blessed her for her
return, with laughter and tears; and it was as though she had never
been away, even in a dream. And as he was gently cherishing her, and
shampooing her all over to soothe her fatigue, his eye fell on the scar
that had remained on her foot from the wound caused by the merchant's
son. And putting his finger on it, he said to her with a smile of
compassion: Poor wounded foot, it has found a resting-place at last.
But she looked at him silently, with large eyes, and suddenly she
laughed, and then and there her heart broke and she died. And he, when
he found that she was dead, fell down on the floor at her feet, and
followed her.
So now, tell me, Princess, why did that woman's heart break? And
Rasakósha ceased. Then the Princess said: It broke with grief. For
when she saw that her husband repaid her evil conduct with kindness,
and remembered the occasion that had caused that wound upon her foot,
repentance came suddenly and flowed into her, like a river too great
for her heart to hold it, and it split and broke, and she died.
And when she had spoken, the Princess rose up and went out slowly,
looking regretfully at the King, whose heart went with her. But the
King and Rasakósha returned to their own apartments.
[1] An independent woman is a synonym for a harlot, in Sanskrit.
[2] _Smara_ means 'love' and also 'memory.'