Then the King said to Rasakósha: My friend, now nine days are gone, and
I begin to fear: and certainly, I never will forgive you if I lose my
darling. For she looks at me now, not as she used to look, but kindly,
as if she also felt the pang of separation. Now, therefore, devise
some cunning question that she cannot answer, while I endeavour by
means of the portrait to keep my soul from parting from my body till
to-morrow. So the King passed the night in a state of doubtful
perplexity, gazing at the portrait. And when the sun rose, he rose
also, and got somehow through the day, aided by 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 robe of dazzling white, and
a bodice studded with amethysts, and her crown and other ornaments,
sitting on her throne. And she looked at the King and drew a long
breath, 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[1], there lived formerly in a certain village, a tawny-haired
wrestler, who kept in his house a pet. And one day he returned home
and found that it had gone out. So he ran out into the street to look
for it. And seeing a man sitting at the corner of the street, he asked
him: Have you seen my pet? The man said: Had it a string tied round
its neck? The wrestler said: Yes. Then the man said: It went this
way. So the wrestler went on, and enquired again. And one said: I saw
it standing on two legs, endeavouring to climb that wall. Then another
said: And I saw it on all fours crawling along by the wall. And a
third said: And I saw it, on three legs, scratching its head with the
fourth. So going still further, he met a washerman, who told him: It
came this way and made faces at its own face in the water. And going
still further, he met a fruit-seller, who said: I saw it sitting under
that tree, pulling out the feathers of a bleeding crow[2], and I gave
it a handful of monkey nuts.
Then going on, he met two men conversing together, and he asked them.
And one said: I saw it with another of its own species searching for
fleas in its hair. And the other said: What was the colour of the
hair[3]? The wrestler answered: The same as mine. So the other
replied: It is over yonder in the tree, swinging on a branch.
So now tell me, Princess, what kind of creature was that wrestler's
pet? And Rasakósha ceased. Then the Princess smiled and said: It was
no ape, but a child; perhaps his own son.
And when she had said this, she rose up and went out, as if with
difficulty, looking reproachfully at the King, whose heart went with
her. But the King and Rasakósha returned to their own apartments.
[1] The point of this crafty little story almost evaporates in
translation. It is artfully contrived to entrap the Princess into
saying 'an ape:' but she is too cunning. Tawny-haired means,
literally, 'ape-coloured.'
[2] The pun is untranslateable: it may mean also, 'tossing up its gory
locks' (_kákapaksha_).
[3] This is the critical point. These words may also mean: What is the
caste of the child? The wrestler's answer fits both. The searching
for fleas, as applied to the child, will surprise no one who has been
in India.