Then the King said to Rasakósha: My friend, all doubt is over: my doom
is sealed: for the intellect of the Princess is invincible. And yet
unless my desire blinds me, she intended that sigh to point at me the
significance of her words. Oh! the fear of losing her almost deprives
me of my reason, and breaking loose like a _must_ elephant from every
restraint I shall destroy you, as he does his friend the _mahout_, by
the most terrible of deaths. And yet my own lot will be worse than any
death: for I shall die by inches, starving in the sight of food. Out
upon the portrait that has brought me to ruin, and on the painter that
painted it! For now I see clearly that it is not in the least like
her; for she is kind, and only compelled by destiny in the form of her
own intellect to ruin hopes that she would perhaps otherwise encourage.
So the King passed the night in a state of exhaustion, averting his
gaze forcibly from the portrait. And when the sun rose, he rose also,
and passed the day with difficulty in the garden, aided by Rasakósha.
Then when the sun set, they went again to the hall of audience. And
there they saw the Princess, clad in a robe of russet[1] and a bodice
studded with amber[2], and her crown and other ornaments, sitting on
her throne. And she looked at the King with eyes whose lids were red
with want of sleep, 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[3], there was once a king, who laughed at his kingly duties, and
passed his time in evil courses, lying in bed, neglecting Brahmans,
drinking wine, hunting, and idling in the society of fair women. And
whosoever ventured to remonstrate with him, him he straightway banished
from his kingdom. And as time went on, he grew worse and worse, for
dissatisfaction and satiety came over him, and the only refuge open to
him from their torture lay in drowning reflection by still more
abominable orgies.
Then it happened that one day he went a-hunting. And the ardour of the
chase drew him far out of his way, so that when the sun fell, he was
deep in the forest, far from his palace. And while he was considering
where he should pass the night, he came upon the hut of an aged hermit.
So leaving his followers in the forest, he remained in the hut of that
hospitable hermit for the night. And after making his supper on roots
and fruits, he lay down to sleep on a bed of leaves and _Kusha_ grass.
And in his sleep he had a vision. He thought he found himself on the
bank of a great river, lit up by the sun where he stood, but emerging
from black darkness, and running into it again in a circle. And he
held in his hand a seed. And digging a hole, he planted that seed, and
watered it from the river, and it became a shoot, and grew rapidly into
a tall tree. And the tree put forth leaves, and blossoms, and at last
a single fruit. And the fruit grew larger and larger, till it was as
big as a gourd: and it became green as an emerald, and then red as a
ruby, and shone in the sun: and its weight caused it to sink down
within reach of his hand. So he put out his hand, and plucked, and ate
it.
And in an instant he saw a colossal hand stretched out of the darkness,
and it grasped him and whisked him away, and suspended him over an
abyss by a slender string. And looking down, he gazed into
unfathomable depths, and looking up, he saw a vulture pecking at the
string with its beak; and an icy chill froze his heart, while burning
fire tortured his extremities, and black darkness enveloped him: and it
seemed to him that infinite ages passed in each instant of ineffable
agony. Then on a sudden he awoke with a cry, and saw only that old
hermit standing in the moonlight that fell through the roof,
meditating, and muttering to himself.
Then he lay down again on the bed, and slept and dreamed again. And
again it seemed to him that he planted a seed, and watered it on the
bank of that river: and again it became a tree, and put out leaves and
blossoms and a fruit, which as before grew green and red, and sank down
into his hand. And he plucked and ate it again. And in an instant, a
feeling of inexpressible bliss flowed in upon his soul, and he sank
into a deep sleep, and lay as if he were dead, till that old hermit
roused him in the morning with the sun streaming in through the door of
the hut.
Then that king went home and changed his ways.
So now tell me, Princess, why? And Rasakósha ceased. Then the
Princess said: He was afraid. For the tree was the tree of his own
evil actions, and the eating of its fruit the ripening of their
consequences, dooming him to a punishment of which the agony he endured
in his dream was but a faint shadow. But had he lived otherwise, and
accumulated virtue rather than vice, he would have obtained ultimately
the bliss of emancipation, resembling the deep sleep which came upon
him and obliterated his individuality, the second time he slept.
And when the Princess had spoken, she turned and looked at the King
with tears in her eyes, and rose up and went out, and the King's heart
went with her. But the King and Rasakósha returned to their own
apartments.
[1] _Kapisha_.
[2] _Trinamani_, a gem that attracts grass.
[3] This story is only the embodiment of an idea familiar to every
Hindoo, but in the original it is very pithily told.