Then the King said to Rasakósha: My friend, though the Princess is
still unconquered, and ten of my days are gone, yet I would have
forgiven you, had you not made this day's story so short. For no
sooner had it begun than it ended; and now not only is my delight cut
short, but, like a thirsty man who has drunk insufficiently, I have not
had enough to last me till I see my beloved again. At least endeavour
to lengthen your stories, otherwise I am wholly undone. For now must I
endure another night of separation, by the feeble aid of the portrait,
which loses its power daily by contrast with the original. Thus the
King spent the night in a state of fearfulness, gazing at the portrait.
And when the sun rose, he rose also, and hardly got through the day
with the assistance of Rasakósha and the garden. Then when the sun
set, they went again to the hall of audience. And there they saw the
Princess, clad in a robe of emerald hue, and a bodice studded with
moonstones, and her crown and other ornaments, sitting on her throne.
And she looked at the King affectionately, and he 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, there lived formerly, in a certain country, a king. And he had a
domestic chaplain, who was smitten with an evil passion for another
man's wife. And she was a wicked woman and returned his love. But
owing to the watchful jealousy of her husband, they could find no
opportunity for private interviews. So at last, finding himself unable
to visit his beloved in his own person, that chaplain adopted the
following scheme. He feigned great friendship for her husband, and
paid him many attentions. And being an adept in Yóga, he cultivated
his goodwill by exhibitions of his superhuman power. And one day he
said to him: I know by my art how to enter other people's bodies, and I
can cause you to do the same, if you have any curiosity about it. Than
that foolish husband, not perceiving his intention, eagerly consented.
So the chaplain took him away one night to the cemetery, and there by
means of spells and magic power he caused both of them to abandon the
body. But no sooner had the husband quitted his body than the chaplain
entered it himself. And without losing a moment, he hurried away,
rejoicing in the success of his stratagem, to the house of his beloved
in the form of her husband. But the husband, finding himself deprived
of his own body, exclaimed: Alas! I am undone. But having no other
resource he was obliged against his will to enter the body of the
chaplain, which lay empty near him. And he returned slowly from the
cemetery, full of grief, homewards. But as chance would have it, his
mind being wholly occupied with other reflections, his feet led him as
it were of their own accord to the house of the chaplain, whose body he
was occupying.
In the meantime, his wife, consumed by the fever of desire, and unable
any longer to endure separation, seized the opportunity afforded by her
husband's absence, and went like an _abhisáriká_[1], to the house of
her Brahman lover. And so it happened, that when the chaplain arrived
at her house, she was not there. So he remained there, cursing his
fate, and devoured by impatience, all night long. But she on her part
arrived at his house, just before her husband, in the form of the
chaplain, came there also. And when he went in, he was astonished to
see his own wife. But she, not recognising who he was, but imagining
him to be her lover, ran towards him and threw her arms round his neck,
exclaiming: At last I have you. And that foolish husband was so
delighted, for for a long time his wife had treated him coldly, that he
forgot everything in the joy of the moment, and remained with her all
night, enjoying the company of his own wife.
Then in the morning she rose up early while he was still asleep, and
went secretly back to her own house. And the chaplain, on his part,
wearied out with waiting, and in a very bad humour, left her house
before she arrived, and returned home. And when he got there, he saw,
to his astonishment, the husband in his body, lying asleep on his bed.
So he woke him and said angrily: What are you doing in my bed? Then
the husband replied: What do you mean by running away with my body?
The chaplain said: Enough of this! I have suffered the tortures of
hell in your abominable body, and I have a good mind to burn it. So
the husband trembled for fear, and said humbly: I had no body but yours
to enter, and I was cold; give me back mine, and take your own as soon
as possible. So the chaplain carried him away to the cemetery, and by
his magic power caused them to quit their bodies, and each re-entered
his own.
But no sooner had the husband got back into his own body than he woke
as it were from a dream, and remembered all: and he exclaimed: Rogue of
a Brahman, it was you my wife embraced. But the chaplain replied: What
have I had to do with your wife? But mad with rage, the husband laid
hold of him, and dragged him to the king's officers. And he fetched
his wife, and told the judge the whole story, and said: Punish these
wicked persons: for they have robbed me of my honour. Then the
chaplain said: I have not touched your wife. And she said: Of what are
you complaining? Was it not yourself that I embraced[2]? But the
judge was puzzled, and did not know what to say.
Now, Princess, decide for him. And Rasakósha ceased. Then the
Princess said: The chaplain was a rogue, and intended wickedness, yet
he was not amenable to the pains of law; for though he had planned, he
had not executed, his scheme. And the woman, though she had done
wrong, yet did it under the eye and sanction of her own husband, who
acquiesced in and approved of her act. But that husband, whose
passions were so little under control that he could aid and abet his
wife in soiling his own honour, well knowing what he was about,
deserves nothing but contempt and derision as the author of his own
misfortune. Therefore let all three be dismissed unpunished.
And when the Princess had spoken, she rose up and went out,
reluctantly, and the King's heart went with her. But the King and
Rasakósha returned to their own apartments.
[1] A term, very common in Sanskrit poetry, for _a woman who goes of
her own accord to her lover_.
[2] It is not clear how she knew this, unless she heard him tell the
judge.