Then the King said to Rasakósha: My friend, now I may offer water[1] to
my happiness, and this is the beginning of the end. For three days
only now remain to me, and these will assuredly follow in the footsteps
of their predecessors, and so shall I[2]. Then will my sun set for
ever. Alas! I read my fate in the sorrow that filled my beloved's
eyes, as she looked at me like a frightened fawn. O that she were
either less beautiful or less intelligent, for in the union of these
two virtues lies my destruction. Away with the portrait, which burns
me like a fire. So the King passed the night in a state of delirium,
paying no heed to the portrait. And when the sun rose, he rose also,
and passed the day, half living and half dead, in the garden with
Rasakósha. And when the sun set, they went again to the hall of
audience. And there they saw the Princess, clad in a robe of cloth of
gold and a bodice studded with turquoises, and her crown and other
ornaments, sitting on her throne. And she looked at the King with eyes
in which joy and grief fought for the mastery: 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, there was once a Brahman named Kritákrita[3], who neglected the
study of the Wédas, and walked in the black path, abandoning all his
duties[4], and associating with gamblers, harlots, and outcasts. And
he frequented the cemeteries at night, and became familiar with ghosts
and vampires and dead bodies, and impure and unholy rites and
incantations. And one night, amid the flaming of funeral pyres and the
reek of burning corpses, a certain Vampire[5] of his acquaintance said
to him: I am hungry: bring me fresh meat to devour, or I will tear you
in pieces. Then Kritákrita said: I will bring it, but not for nothing.
What will you give me for it? The Vampire replied: Bring me a newly
slain Brahman, and I will teach you a spell for raising the dead. But
Kritákrita said: That is not enough. And they haggled in the cemetery
about the price. At last that abandoned Brahman said: Throw in a pair
of dice that will enable me always to win at play, and I will bring you
the flesh you require. So the Vampire said: Be it so. Then Kritákrita
went away, and knowing no other resource secretly murdered his own
brother, and brought him to the cemetery at midnight. And the Vampire
kept his word, giving him the dice, and teaching him the spell.
Then some time afterwards, Kritákrita said to himself: I will try the
efficacy of this spell that the Vampire has taught me. So he procured
the body of a dead Chandála[6], and taking it at the dead of night to
the cemetery, placed it on the ground, and began to recite the spell.
But when he had got halfway through, he looked at the corpse, and saw
its left arm, and leg, and eye moving horribly with life, the other
half being still dead. And he was so terrified at the sight, that he
utterly forgot the rest of the spell, and leaped up and ran away. But
the corpse jumped up also, and a vampire entered its dead half, and it
rushed rapidly after him, shuffling on one leg, and rolling its one
eye, and yelling indistinctly: _Underdone, overdone, undone_[7]! But
Kritákrita fled at full speed to his house, and getting into bed lay
there trembling. And after a while he fell asleep. And then suddenly
he awoke, hearing a noise, and he looked and saw the door open, and the
corpse of that dead Chándála came in, and shuffled swiftly towards him
on its left leg, rolling its left eye, with its dead half hanging down
beside it, and crying in a terrible voice: _Underdone, overdone,
undone_! And Kritákrita sprang out of bed, and ran out by another
door, and mounting a horse, fled as fast as he could to another city a
great way off.
And there he thought: Here I am safe. So he went day by day to the
gambling hall, and playing with his dice, won great sums of money, and
lived at his ease, feasting himself and others. But one night, when he
was sitting among the gamblers in the gambling hall, throwing the dice,
he heard behind him a noise of shuffling. And he looked round, and
saw, coming swiftly towards him on one leg, the corpse of that dead
Chándála, with its dead half rotting and hanging down, and its left eye
rolling in anger, and calling out in a voice of thunder: _Underdone,
overdone, undone_! And he rose up with a shriek, and leaped over the
table, and fled away by an opposite door and left that city, and ran as
fast as he could, constantly looking behind him through the forest for
many days and nights, never daring to stop even to take breath, till he
reached another city a long way off. And there he remained, disguised
and concealed, as it were in a hole. But all the gamblers in that
gambling saloon died of fear.
And after some time he again accumulated wealth by gambling in that
city, and lived in extravagance at his ease. But one night, when he
was sitting with an _hetæra_ whom he loved, in the inner room of her
house, he heard the noise of shuffling. And he looked round, and saw
once more the corpse of that dead Chándála coming swiftly towards him
on one leg, with its dead half, from whose bones the flesh had rotted
away, hanging down, and its left eye blazing with flames of rage,
calling out with a voice like the scream of Ráwana: _Underdone,
overdone, undone_! Then that hetæra then and there abandoned the body
in her terror. And Kritákrita rose up, and ran out by a door, which
led out upon the balcony, while the Chándála hastened after him. And
finding no other outlet, Kritækrita flung himself down into the street,
and was dashed to pieces, and died.
So now tell me, Princess, what did that corpse mean by his words? And
Rasakósha ceased. Then the Princess said: There is no difficulty in
this. Woe to the feeble souls that have not courage to carry through
what they have the presumption to begin! They do indeed either too
little or too much, and are themselves their own undoing. For the
strong in virtue avoid sin altogether: while the daring in vice face
the consequences of their own conduct: those attain heavenly rewards,
and these the good things of this world; but the coward souls who are
too weak to be either virtuous or vicious are punished by that very
weakness in the form of their consciousness of guilt, and lose both
worlds.
And when the Princess had spoken, she rose up and went out, looking and
yet as it were not looking at the King, whose heart went with her. But
the King and Rasakósha returned to their own apartments.
[1] _i.e._ it is all over with me. Water is offered to the spirits of
departed ancestors.
[2] _i.e._ I shall fail in my suit, like the others. The following
sentence is a play on his own name.
[3] 'Done and not done.'
[4] Achárabhrashta, an apostate or decasted person. See Manu, I., 108.
[5] _Wétála_, an uncanny being, generally possessing magic powers,
given to occupying empty corpses and devouring human flesh.
[6] The lowest caste, whose very proximity was pollution to a Brahman.
[7] This is all one word in the original, únádhikákritamkritam, 'what
has been done is too little, too much, and not done at all.'