Produced by Sara Vazirian
VIKRAM AND THE VAMPIRE
By Sir Richard F. Burton
Classic Hindu Tales of Adventure, Magic, and Romance
Edited by his Wife Isabel Burton
“Les fables, loin de grandir les hommes, la Nature et Dieu,
rapetssent tout.”
Lamartine (Milton)
“One who had eyes saw it; the blind will not understand it.
A poet, who is a boy, he has perceived it; he who understands it
will be
his sire’s sire.”--Rig-Veda (I.164.16).
Preface
Preface to the First (1870) Edition
Introduction
THE VAMPIRE’S FIRST STORY. In which a Man deceives a Woman
THE VAMPIRE’S SECOND STORY. Of the Relative Villany of Men and Woman
THE VAMPIRE’S THIRD STORY. Of a High-minded Family
THE VAMPIRE’S FOURTH STORY. Of a Woman who told the Truth
THE VAMPIRE’S FIFTH STORY. Of the Thief who Laughed and Wept
THE VAMPIRE’S SIXTH STORY. In which Three Men dispute about a Woman
THE VAMPIRE’S SEVENTH STORY. Showing the exceeding Folly of many wise
Fools
THE VAMPIRE’S EIGHTH STORY. Of the Use and Misuse of Magic Pills
THE VAMPIRE’S NINTH STORY. Showing that a Man’s Wife belongs not to his
body but to his Head
THE VAMPIRE’S TENTH STORY. Of the Marvellous Delicacy of Three Queens
THE VAMPIRE’S ELEVENTH STORY. Which puzzles Raja Vikram
Conclusion
PREFACE
The Baital-Pachisi, or Twenty-five Tales of a Baital is the history of
a huge Bat, Vampire, or Evil Spirit which inhabited and animated dead
bodies. It is an old, and thoroughly Hindu, Legend composed in Sanskrit,
and is the germ which culminated in the Arabian Nights, and which
inspired the “Golden Ass” of Apuleius, Boccacio’s “Decamerone,” the
“Pentamerone,” and all that class of facetious fictitious literature.
The story turns chiefly on a great king named Vikram, the King Arthur of
the East, who in pursuance of his promise to a Jogi or Magician, brings
to him the Baital (Vampire), who is hanging on a tree. The difficulties
King Vikram and his son have in bringing the Vampire into the presence
of the Jogi are truly laughable; and on this thread is strung a series
of Hindu fairy stories, which contain much interesting information on
Indian customs and manners. It also alludes to that state, which induces
Hindu devotees to allow themselves to be buried alive, and to appear
dead for weeks or months, and then to return to life again; a curious
state of mesmeric catalepsy, into which they work themselves by
concentrating the mind and abstaining from food--a specimen of which I
have given a practical illustration in the Life of Sir Richard Burton.
The following translation is rendered peculiarly; valuable and
interesting by Sir Richard Burton’s intimate knowledge of the language.
To all who understand the ways of the East, it is as witty, and as full
of what is popularly called “chaff” as it is possible to be. There is
not a dull page in it, and it will especially please those who delight
in the weird and supernatural, the grotesque, and the wild life.
My husband only gives eleven of the best tales, as it was thought the
translation would prove more interesting in its abbreviated form.
ISABEL BURTON.
August 18th, 1893.
PREFACE TO THE FIRST (1870) EDITION.
“THE genius of Eastern nations,” says an established and respectable
authority, “was, from the earliest times, much turned towards invention
and the love of fiction. The Indians, the Persians, and the Arabians,
were all famous for their fables. Amongst the ancient Greeks we hear
of the Ionian and Milesian tales, but they have now perished, and,
from every account we hear of them, appear to have been loose and
indelicate.” Similarly, the classical dictionaries define “Milesiae
fabulae” to be “licentious themes,” “stories of an amatory or mirthful
nature,” or “ludicrous and indecent plays.” M. Deriege seems indeed
to confound them with the “Moeurs du Temps” illustrated with artistic
gouaches, when he says, “une de ces fables milesiennes, rehaussees de
peintures, que la corruption romaine recherchait alors avec une folle
ardeur.”
My friend, Mr. Richard Charnock, F.A.S.L., more correctly defines
Milesian fables to have been originally “certain tales or novels,
composed by Aristides of Miletus “; gay in matter and graceful in
manner. “They were translated into Latin by the historian Sisenna, the
friend of Atticus, and they had a great success at Rome. Plutarch, in
his life of Crassus, tells us that after the defeat of Carhes (Carrhae?)
some Milesiacs were found in the baggage of the Roman prisoners. The
Greek text; and the Latin translation have long been lost. The only
surviving fable is the tale of Cupid and Psyche,[1] which Apuleius calls
‘Milesius sermo,’ and it makes us deeply regret the disappearance of the
others.” Besides this there are the remains of Apollodorus and
Conon, and a few traces to be found in Pausanias, Athenaeus, and the
scholiasts.
I do not, therefore, agree with Blair, with the dictionaries, or with M.
Deriege. Miletus, the great maritime city of Asiatic Ionia, was of old
the meeting-place of the East and the West. Here the Phoenician trader
from the Baltic would meet the Hindu wandering to Intra, from Extra,
Gangem; and the Hyperborean would step on shore side by side with the
Nubian and the Aethiop. Here was produced and published for the use of
the then civilized world, the genuine Oriental apologue, myth and tale
combined, which, by amusing narrative and romantic adventure, insinuates
a lesson in morals or in humanity, of which we often in our days must
fail to perceive the drift. The book of Apuleius, before quoted, is
subject to as many discoveries of recondite meaning as is Rabelais.
As regards the licentiousness of the Milesian fables, this sign of
semi-civilization is still inherent in most Eastern books of the
description which we call “light literature,” and the ancestral
tale-teller never collects a larger purse of coppers than when he
relates the worst of his “aurei.” But this looseness, resulting from
the separation of the sexes, is accidental, not necessary. The following
collection will show that it can be dispensed with, and that there is
such a thing as comparative purity in Hindu literature. The author,
indeed, almost always takes the trouble to marry his hero and his
heroine, and if he cannot find a priest, he generally adopts
an exceedingly left-hand and Caledonian but legal rite called
“gandharbavivaha.[2]”
The work of Apuleius, as ample internal evidence shows, is borrowed from
the East. The groundwork of the tale is the metamorphosis of Lucius
of Corinth into an ass, and the strange accidents which precede his
recovering the human form.
Another old Hindu story-book relates, in the popular fairy-book
style, the wondrous adventures of the hero and demigod, the great
Gandharba-Sena. That son of Indra, who was also the father of
Vikramajit, the subject of this and another collection, offended the
ruler of the firmament by his fondness for a certain nymph, and was
doomed to wander over earth under the form of a donkey. Through the
interposition of the gods, however, he was permitted to become a man
during the hours of darkness, thus comparing with the English legend--
Amundeville is lord by day,
But the monk is lord by night.
Whilst labouring under this curse, Gandharba-Sena persuaded the King
of Dhara to give him a daughter in marriage, but it unfortunately so
happened that at the wedding hour he was unable to show himself in any
but asinine shape. After bathing, however, he proceeded to the assembly,
and, hearing songs and music, he resolved to give them a specimen of his
voice.
The guests were filled with sorrow that so beautiful a virgin should be
married to a donkey. They were afraid to express their feelings to the
king, but they could not refrain from smiling, covering their mouths
with their garments. At length some one interrupted the general silence
and said:
“O king, is this the son of Indra? You have found a fine bridegroom; you
are indeed happy; don’t delay the marriage; delay is improper in doing
good; we never saw so glorious a wedding! It is true that we once heard
of a camel being married to a jenny-ass; when the ass, looking up to the
camel, said, ‘Bless me, what a bridegroom!’ and the camel, hearing the
voice of the ass, exclaimed, ‘Bless me, what a musical voice!’ In that
wedding, however, the bride and the bridegroom were equal; but in this
marriage, that such a bride should have such a bridegroom is truly
wonderful.”
Other Brahmans then present said:
“O king, at the marriage hour, in sign of joy the sacred shell is blown,
but thou hast no need of that” (alluding to the donkey’s braying).
The women all cried out:
“O my mother![3] what is this? at the time of marriage to have an ass!
What a miserable thing! What! will he give that angelic girl in wedlock
to a donkey?”
At length Gandharba-Sena, addressing the king in Sanskrit, urged him to
perform his promise. He reminded his future father-in-law that there is
no act more meritorious than speaking truth; that the mortal frame is
a mere dress, and that wise men never estimate the value of a person by
his clothes. He added that he was in that shape from the curse of his
sire, and that during the night he had the body of a man. Of his being
the son of Indra there could be no doubt.
Hearing the donkey thus speak Sanskrit, for it was never known that an
ass could discourse in that classical tongue, the minds of the people
were changed, and they confessed that, although he had an asinine form
he was unquestionably the son of Indra. The king, therefore, gave him
his daughter in marriage.[4] The metamorphosis brings with it many
misfortunes and strange occurrences, and it lasts till Fate in the
author’s hand restores the hero to his former shape and honours.
Gandharba-Sena is a quasi-historical personage, who lived in the century
preceding the Christian era. The story had, therefore, ample time to
reach the ears of the learned African Apuleius, who was born A.D. 130.
The Baital-Pachisi, or Twenty-five (tales of a) Baital[5]--a Vampire or
evil spirit which animates dead bodies--is an old and thoroughly Hindu
repertory. It is the rude beginning of that fictitious history which
ripened to the Arabian Nights’ Entertainments, and which, fostered by
the genius of Boccaccio, produced the romance of the chivalrous days,
and its last development, the novel--that prose-epic of modern Europe.
Composed in Sanskrit, “the language of the gods,” alias the Latin of
India, it has been translated into all the Prakrit or vernacular and
modern dialects of the great peninsula. The reason why it has not found
favour with the Moslems is doubtless the highly polytheistic spirit
which pervades it; moreover, the Faithful had already a specimen of that
style of composition. This was the Hitopadesa, or Advice of a Friend,
which, as a line in its introduction informs us, was borrowed from an
older book, the Panchatantra, or Five Chapters. It is a collection of
apologues recited by a learned Brahman, Vishnu Sharma by name, for the
edification of his pupils, the sons of an Indian Raja. They have been
adapted to or translated into a number of languages, notably into Pehlvi
and Persian, Syriac and Turkish, Greek and Latin, Hebrew and Arabic. And
as the Fables of Pilpay,[6] are generally known, by name at least, to
European litterateurs.. Voltaire remarks,[7] “Quand on fait reflexion
que presque toute la terre a ete infatuee de pareils comes, et qu’ils
ont fait l’education du genre humain, on trouve les fables de Pilpay,
Lokman, d’Esope bien raisonnables.” These tales, detached, but strung
together by artificial means--pearls with a thread drawn through
them--are manifest precursors of the Decamerone, or Ten Days. A modern
Italian critic describes the now classical fiction as a collection of
one hundred of those novels which Boccaccio is believed to have read out
at the court of Queen Joanna of Naples, and which later in life were by
him assorted together by a most simple and ingenious contrivance. But
the great Florentine invented neither his stories nor his “plot,” if
we may so call it. He wrote in the middle of the fourteenth century
(1344-8) when the West had borrowed many things from the East, rhymes[8]
and romance, lutes and drums, alchemy and knight-errantry. Many of the
“Novelle” are, as Orientalists well know, to this day sung and recited
almost textually by the wandering tale-tellers, bards, and rhapsodists
of Persia and Central Asia.
The great kshatriya,(soldier) king Vikramaditya,[9] or Vikramarka,
meaning the “Sun of Heroism,” plays in India the part of King Arthur,
and of Harun al-Rashid further West. He is a semi-historical personage.
The son of Gandharba-Sena the donkey and the daughter of the King of
Dhara, he was promised by his father the strength of a thousand male
elephants. When his sire died, his grandfather, the deity Indra,
resolved that the babe should not be born, upon which his mother stabbed
herself. But the tragic event duly happening during the ninth month,
Vikram came into the world by himself, and was carried to Indra, who
pitied and adopted him, and gave him a good education.
The circumstances of his accession to the throne, as will presently
appear, are differently told. Once, however, made King of Malaya, the
modern Malwa, a province of Western Upper India, he so distinguished
himself that the Hindu fabulists, with their usual brave kind of
speaking, have made him “bring the whole earth under the shadow of one
umbrella.”
The last ruler of the race of Mayura, which reigned 318 years, was
Raja-pal. He reigned 25 years, but giving himself up to effeminacy, his
country was invaded by Shakaditya, a king from the highlands of Kumaon.
Vikramaditya, in the fourteenth year of his reign, pretended to espouse
the cause of Raja-pal, attacked and destroyed Shakaditya, and ascended
the throne of Delhi. His capital was Avanti, or Ujjayani, the modern
Ujjain. It was 13 kos (26 miles) long by 18 miles wide, an area of 468
square miles, but a trifle in Indian History. He obtained the title of
Shakari, “foe of the Shakas,” the Sacae or Scythians, by his victories
over that redoubtable race. In the Kali Yug, or Iron Age, he stands
highest amongst the Hindu kings as the patron of learning. Nine persons
under his patronage, popularly known as the “Nine Gems of Science,” hold
in India the honourable position of the Seven Wise Men of Greece.
These learned persons wrote works in the eighteen original dialects
from which, say the Hindus, all the languages of the earth have been
derived.[10] Dhanwantari enlightened the world upon the subjects of
medicine and of incantations. Kshapanaka treated the primary elements.
Amara-Singha compiled a Sanskrit dictionary and a philosophical
treatise. Shankubetalabhatta composed comments, and Ghatakarpara a
poetical work of no great merit. The books of Mihira are not mentioned.
Varaha produced two works on astrology and one on arithmetic. And
Bararuchi introduced certain improvements in grammar, commented upon the
incantations, and wrote a poem in praise of King Madhava.
But the most celebrated of all the patronized ones was Kalidasa. His two
dramas, Sakuntala,[11] and Vikram and Urvasi,[12] have descended to
our day; besides which he produced a poem on the seasons, a work on
astronomy, a poetical history of the gods, and many other books.[13]
Vikramaditya established the Sambat era, dating from A.C. 56. After
a long, happy, and glorious reign, he lost his life in a war with
Shalivahana, King of Pratisthana. That monarch also left behind him an
era called the “Shaka,” beginning with A.D. 78. It is employed, even
now, by the Hindus in recording their births, marriages, and similar
occasions.
King Vikramaditya was succeeded by his infant son Vikrama-Sena, and
father and son reigned over a period of 93 years. At last the latter was
supplanted by a devotee named Samudra-pala, who entered into his body
by miraculous means. The usurper reigned 24 years and 2 months, and the
throne of Delhi continued in the hands of his sixteen successors, who
reigned 641 years and 3 months. Vikrama-pala, the last, was slain in
battle by Tilaka-chandra, King of Vaharannah[14].
It is not pretended that the words of these Hindu tales are preserved
to the letter. The question about the metamorphosis of cats into tigers,
for instance, proceeded from a Gem of Learning in a university much
nearer home than Gaur. Similarly the learned and still living Mgr. Gaume
(Traite du Saint-Esprit, p.. 81) joins Camerarius in the belief that
serpents bite women rather than men. And he quotes (p.. 192) Cornelius a
Lapide, who informs us that the leopard is the produce of a lioness with
a hyena or a bard..
The merit of the old stories lies in their suggestiveness and in their
general applicability. I have ventured to remedy the conciseness of
their language, and to clothe the skeleton with flesh and blood.
To My Uncle,
ROBERT BAGSHAW, OF DOVERCOURT,
These Tales,
That Will Remind Him Of A Land Which
He Knows So Well,
Are Affectionately Inscribed.
INTRODUCTION
The sage Bhavabhuti--Eastern teller of these tales--after making his
initiatory and propitiatory conge to Ganesha, Lord of Incepts, informs
the reader that this book is a string of fine pearls to be hung round
the neck of human intelligence; a fragrant flower to be borne on the
turband of mental wisdom; a jewel of pure gold, which becomes the brow
of all supreme minds; and a handful of powdered rubies, whose tonic
effects will appear palpably upon the mental digestion of every patient.
Finally, that by aid of the lessons inculcated in the following pages,
man will pass happily through this world into the state of absorption,
where fables will be no longer required.
He then teaches us how Vikramaditya the Brave became King of Ujjayani.
Some nineteen centuries ago, the renowned city of Ujjayani witnessed the
birth of a prince to whom was given the gigantic name Vikramaditya.
Even the Sanskrit-speaking people, who are not usually pressed for time,
shortened it to “Vikram”, and a little further West it would infallibly
have been docked down to “Vik”.
Vikram was the second son of an old king Gandharba-Sena, concerning whom
little favourable has reached posterity, except that he became an ass,
married four queens, and had by them six sons, each of whom was more
learned and powerful than the other. It so happened that in course of
time the father died. Thereupon his eldest heir, who was known as Shank,
succeeded to the carpet of Rajaship, and was instantly murdered by
Vikram, his “scorpion”, the hero of the following pages.[15]
By this act of vigour and manly decision, which all younger-brother
princes should devoutly imitate, Vikram having obtained the title of
Bir, or the Brave, made himself Raja. He began to rule well, and the
gods so favoured him that day by day his dominions increased. At
length he became lord of all India, and having firmly established his
government, he instituted an era--an uncommon feat for a mere monarch,
especially when hereditary.
The steps,[16] says the historian, which he took to arrive at that
pinnacle of grandeur, were these:
The old King calling his two grandsons Bhartari-hari and Vikramaditya,
gave them good counsel respecting their future learning. They were told
to master everything, a certain way not to succeed in anything. They
were diligently to learn grammar, the Scriptures, and all the
religious sciences. They were to become familiar with military
tactics, international law, and music, the riding of horses and
elephants--especially the latter--the driving of chariots, and the use
of the broadsword, the bow, and the mogdars or Indian clubs. They were
ordered to be skilful in all kinds of games, in leaping and running, in
besieging forts, in forming and breaking bodies of troops; they were
to endeavour to excel in every princely quality, to be cunning in
ascertaining the power of an enemy, how to make war, to perform
journeys, to sit in the presence of the nobles, to separate the
different sides of a question, to form alliances, to distinguish between
the innocent and the guilty, to assign proper punishments to the wicked,
to exercise authority with perfect justice, and to be liberal. The boys
were then sent to school, and were placed under the care of excellent
teachers, where they became truly famous. Whilst under pupilage, the
eldest was allowed all the power necessary to obtain a knowledge of
royal affairs, and he was not invested with the regal office till in
these preparatory steps he had given full satisfaction to his subjects,
who expressed high approval of his conduct.
The two brothers often conversed on the duties of kings, when the
great Vikramaditya gave the great Bhartari-hari the following valuable
advice[17]:
“As Indra, during the four rainy months, fills the earth with water, so
a king should replenish his treasury with money. As Surya the sun,
in warming the earth eight months, does not scorch it, so a king, in
drawing revenues from his people, ought not to oppress them. As Vayu,
the wind, surrounds and fills everything, so the king by his officers
and spies should become acquainted with the affairs and circumstances
of his whole people. As Yama judges men without partiality or prejudice,
and punishes the guilty, so should a king chastise, without favour,
all offenders. As Varuna, the regent of water, binds with his pasha or
divine noose his enemies, so let a king bind every malefactor safely in
prison. As Chandra,[18] the moon, by his cheering light gives pleasure
to all, thus should a king, by gifts and generosity, make his people
happy. And as Prithwi, the earth, sustains all alike, so should a king
feel an equal affection and forbearance towards every one.”
Become a monarch, Vikram meditated deeply upon what is said of
monarchs:--“A king is fire and air; he is both sun and moon; he is the
god of criminal justice; he is the genius of wealth; he is the regent
of water; he is the lord of the firmament; he is a powerful divinity who
appears in human shape.” He reflected with some satisfaction that the
scriptures had made him absolute, had left the lives and properties
of all his subjects to his arbitrary will, had pronounced him to be
an incarnate deity, and had threatened to punish with death even ideas
derogatory to his honour.
He punctually observed all the ordinances laid down by the author of the
Niti, or institutes of government. His night and day were divided into
sixteen pahars or portions, each one hour and a half, and they were
disposed of as follows:--
Before dawn Vikram was awakened by a servant appointed to this
special duty. He swallowed--a thing allowed only to a khshatriya or
warrior--Mithridatic every morning on the saliva[19], and he made the
cooks taste every dish before he ate of it. As soon as he had risen,
the pages in waiting repeated his splendid qualities, and as he left his
sleeping-room in full dress, several Brahmans rehearsed the praises
of the gods. Presently he bathed, worshipped his guardian deity, again
heard hymns, drank a little water, and saw alms distributed to the poor.
He ended this watch by auditing his accounts.
Next entering his court, he placed himself amidst the assembly. He was
always armed when he received strangers, and he caused even women to be
searched for concealed weapons. He was surrounded by so many spies and
so artful, that of a thousand, no two ever told the same tale. At
the levee, on his right sat his relations, the Brahmans, and men of
distinguished birth. The other castes were on the left, and close to
him stood the ministers and those whom he delighted to consult. Afar
in front gathered the bards chanting the praises of the gods and of
the king; also the charioteers, elephanteers, horsemen, and soldiers of
valour. Amongst the learned men in those assemblies there were ever
some who were well instructed in all the scriptures, and others who had
studied in one particular school of philosophy, and were acquainted only
with the works on divine wisdom, or with those on justice, civil and
criminal, on the arts, mineralogy or the practice of physic;
also persons cunning in all kinds of customs; riding-masters,
dancing-masters, teachers of good behaviour, examiners, tasters, mimics,
mountebanks, and others, who all attended the court and awaited the
king’s commands. He here pronounced judgment in suits of appeal. His
poets wrote about him:
The lord of lone splendour an instant suspends
His course at mid-noon, ere he westward descends;
And brief are the moments our young monarch knows,
Devoted to pleasure or paid to repose!
Before the second sandhya,[20] or noon, about the beginning of the third
watch, he recited the names of the gods, bathed, and broke his fast in
his private room; then rising from food, he was amused by singers and
dancing girls. The labours of the day now became lighter. After eating
he retired, repeating the name of his guardian deity, visited the
temples, saluted the gods conversed with the priests, and proceeded
to receive and to distribute presents. Fifthly, he discussed political
questions with his ministers and councillors.
On the announcement of the herald that it was the sixth watch--about
2 or 3 P.M.--Vikram allowed himself to follow his own inclinations, to
regulate his family, and to transact business of a private and personal
nature.
After gaining strength by rest, he proceeded to review his troops,
examining the men, saluting the officers, and holding military councils.
At sunset he bathed a third time and performed the five sacraments of
listening to a prelection of the Veda; making oblations to the manes;
sacrificing to Fire in honour of the deities; giving rice to dumb
creatures; and receiving guests with due ceremonies. He spent the
evening amidst a select company of wise, learned, and pious men,
conversing on different subjects, and reviewing the business of the day.
The night was distributed with equal care. During the first portion
Vikram received the reports which his spies and envoys, dressed in every
disguise, brought to him about his enemies. Against the latter he
ceased not to use the five arts, namely--dividing the kingdom, bribes,
mischief-making, negotiations, and brute-force--especially preferring
the first two and the last. His forethought and prudence taught him
to regard all his nearest neighbours and their allies as hostile. The
powers beyond those natural enemies he considered friendly because they
were the foes of his foes. And all the remoter nations he looked upon as
neutrals, in a transitional or provisional state as it were, till they
became either his neighbours’ neighbours, or his own neighbours, that is
to say, his friends or his foes.
This important duty finished he supped, and at the end of the third
watch he retired to sleep, which was not allowed to last beyond three
hours. In the sixth watch he arose and purified himself. The seventh
was devoted to holding private consultations with his ministers, and to
furnishing the officers of government with requisite instructions. The
eighth or last watch was spent with the Purohita or priest, and with
Brahmans, hailing the dawn with its appropriate rites; he then bathed,
made the customary offerings, and prayed in some unfrequented place near
pure water.
And throughout these occupations he bore in mind the duty of kings,
namely--to pursue every object till it be accomplished; to succour all
dependents, and hospitably to receive guests, however numerous. He was
generous to his subjects respecting taxes, and kind of speech; yet he
was inexorable as death in the punishment of offenses. He rarely hunted,
and he visited his pleasure gardens only on stated days. He acted in his
own dominions with justice; he chastised foreign foes with rigour; he
behaved generously to Brahmans, and he avoided favouritism amongst his
friends. In war he never slew a suppliant, a spectator, a person asleep
or undressed, or anyone that showed fear. Whatever country he conquered,
offerings were presented to its gods, and effects and money were given
to the reverends. But what benefited him most was his attention to the
creature comforts of the nine Gems of Science: those eminent men ate
and drank themselves into fits of enthusiasm, and ended by immortalizing
their patron’s name.
Become Vikram the Great he established his court at a delightful and
beautiful location rich in the best of water. The country was difficult
of access, and artificially made incapable of supporting a host of
invaders, but four great roads met near the city. The capital was
surrounded with durable ramparts, having gates of defence, and near it
was a mountain fortress, under the especial charge of a great captain.
The metropolis was well garrisoned and provisioned, and it surrounded
the royal palace, a noble building without as well as within. Grandeur
seemed embodied there, and Prosperity had made it her own. The nearer
ground, viewed from the terraces and pleasure pavilions, was a lovely
mingling of rock and mountain, plain and valley, field and fallow,
crystal lake and glittering stream. The banks of the winding Lavana
were fringed with meads whose herbage, pearly with morning dew, afforded
choicest grazing for the sacred cow, and were dotted with perfumed
clumps of Bo-trees, tamarinds, and holy figs: in one place Vikram
planted 100,000 in a single orchard and gave them to his spiritual
advisers. The river valley separated the stream from a belt of forest
growth which extended to a hill range, dark with impervious jungle, and
cleared here and there for the cultivator’s village. Behind it, rose
another sub-range, wooded with a lower bush and already blue with air,
whilst in the background towered range upon range, here rising abruptly
into points and peaks, there ramp-shaped or wall-formed, with sheer
descents, and all of light azure hue adorned with glories of silver and
gold.
After reigning for some years, Vikram the Brave found himself at the
age of thirty, a staid and sober middle-aged man, He had several
sons--daughters are naught in India--by his several wives, and he had
some paternal affection for nearly all--except of course, for his eldest
son, a youth who seemed to conduct himself as though he had a claim to
the succession. In fact, the king seemed to have taken up his abode
for life at Ujjayani, when suddenly he bethought himself, “I must visit
those countries of whose names I am ever hearing.” The fact is, he had
determined to spy out in disguise the lands of all his foes, and to find
the best means of bringing against them his formidable army.
* * * * * *
We now learn how Bhartari Raja becomes Regent of Ujjayani.
Having thus resolved, Vikram the Brave gave the government into the
charge of a younger brother, Bhartari Raja, and in the garb of a
religious mendicant, accompanied by Dharma Dhwaj, his second son, a
youth bordering on the age of puberty, he began to travel from city to
city, and from forest to forest.
The Regent was of a settled melancholic turn of mind, having lost
in early youth a very peculiar wife. One day, whilst out hunting, he
happened to pass a funeral pyre, upon which a Brahman’s widow had just
become Sati (a holy woman) with the greatest fortitude. On his return
home he related the adventure to Sita Rani, his spouse, and she at once
made reply that virtuous women die with their husbands, killed by the
fire of grief, not by the flames of the pile. To prove her truth the
prince, after an affectionate farewell, rode forth to the chase, and
presently sent back the suite with his robes torn and stained, to report
his accidental death. Sita perished upon the spot, and the widower
remained inconsolable--for a time.
He led the dullest of lives, and took to himself sundry spouses, all
equally distinguished for birth, beauty, and modesty. Like his brother,
he performed all the proper devoirs of a Raja, rising before the day to
finish his ablutions, to worship the gods, and to do due obeisance to
the Brahmans. He then ascended the throne, to judge his people according
to the Shastra, carefully keeping in subjection lust, anger, avarice,
folly, drunkenness, and pride; preserving himself from being seduced by
the love of gaming and of the chase; restraining his desire for dancing,
singing, and playing on musical instruments, and refraining from sleep
during daytime, from wine, from molesting men of worth, from dice, from
putting human beings to death by artful means, from useless travelling,
and from holding any one guilty without the commission of a crime. His
levees were in a hall decently splendid, and he was distinguished only
by an umbrella of peacock’s feathers; he received all complainants,
petitioners, and presenters of offenses with kind looks and soft words.
He united to himself the seven or eight wise councillors, and the
sober and virtuous secretary that formed the high cabinet of his royal
brother, and they met in some secret lonely spot, as a mountain, a
terrace, a bower or a forest, whence women, parrots, and other talkative
birds were carefully excluded.
And at the end of this useful and somewhat laborious day, he retired to
his private apartments, and, after listening to spiritual songs and
to soft music, he fell asleep. Sometimes he would summon his brother’s
“Nine Gems of Science,” and give ear to their learned discourses. But it
was observed that the viceroy reserved this exercise for nights when
he was troubled with insomnia--the words of wisdom being to him an
infallible remedy for that disorder.
Thus passed onwards his youth, doing nothing that it could desire,
forbidden all pleasures because they were unprincely, and working in the
palace harder than in the pauper’s hut. Having, however, fortunately for
himself, few predilections and no imagination, he began to pride himself
upon being a philosopher. Much business from an early age had dulled
his wits, which were never of the most brilliant; and in the steadily
increasing torpidity of his spirit, he traced the germs of that quietude
which forms the highest happiness of man in this storm of matter called
the world. He therefore allowed himself but one friend of his soul. He
retained, I have said, his brother’s seven or eight ministers; he was
constant in attendance upon the Brahman priests who officiated at the
palace, and who kept the impious from touching sacred property; and he
was courteous to the commander-in-chief who directed his warriors, to
the officers of justice who inflicted punishment upon offenders, and
to the lords of towns, varying in number from one to a thousand. But
he placed an intimate of his own in the high position of confidential
councillor, the ambassador to regulate war and peace.
Mahi-pala was a person of noble birth, endowed with shining abilities,
popular, dexterous in business, acquainted with foreign parts, famed for
eloquence and intrepidity, and as Menu the Lawgiver advises, remarkably
handsome.
Bhartari Raja, as I have said, became a quietist and a philosopher.
But Kama,[21] the bright god who exerts his sway over the three worlds,
heaven and earth and grewsome Hades,[22] had marked out the prince once
more as the victim of his blossom-tipped shafts and his flowery bow.
How, indeed, could he hope to escape the doom which has fallen equally
upon Brahma the Creator, Vishnu the Preserver, and dreadful Shiva the
Three-eyed Destroyer[23]?
By reason of her exceeding beauty, her face was a full moon shining in
the clearest sky; her hair was the purple cloud of autumn when, gravid
with rain, it hangs low over earth; and her complexion mocked the pale
waxen hue of the large-flowered jasmine. Her eyes were those of the
timid antelope; her lips were as red as those of the pomegranate’s bud,
and when they opened, from them distilled a fountain of ambrosia. Her
neck was like a pigeon’s; her hand the pink lining of the conch-shell;
her waist a leopard’s; her feet the softest lotuses. In a word, a model
of grace and loveliness was Dangalah Rani, Raja Bhartari’s last and
youngest wife.
The warrior laid down his arms before her; the politician spoke
out every secret in her presence. The religious prince would have
slaughtered a cow--that sole unforgivable sin--to save one of her
eyelashes: the absolute king would not drink a cup of water without her
permission; the staid philosopher, the sober quietist, to win from her
the shadow of a smile, would have danced before her like a singing-girl.
So desperately enamoured became Bhartari Raja.
It is written, however, that love, alas! breeds not love; and so
it happened to the Regent. The warmth of his affection, instead of
animating his wife, annoyed her; his protestations wearied her; his vows
gave her the headache; and his caresses were a colic that made her blood
run cold. Of course, the prince perceived nothing, being lost in wonder
and admiration of the beauty’s coyness and coquetry. And as women must
give away their hearts, whether asked or not, so the lovely Dangalah
Rani lost no time in lavishing all the passion of her idle soul upon
Mahi-pala, the handsome ambassador of peace and war. By this means the
three were happy and were contented; their felicity, however, being
built on a rotten foundation, could not long endure. It soon ended in
the following extraordinary way.
In the city of Ujjayani,[24] within sight of the palace, dwelt a Brahman
and his wife, who, being old and poor, and having nothing else to do,
had applied themselves to the practice of austere devotion.[25] They
fasted and refrained from drink, they stood on their heads and held
their arms for weeks in the air; they prayed till their knees were like
pads; they disciplined themselves with scourges of wire; and they walked
about unclad in the cold season, and in summer they sat within a circle
of flaming wood, till they became the envy and admiration of all the
plebeian gods that inhabit the lower heavens. In fine, as a reward for
their exceeding piety, the venerable pair received at the hands of a
celestial messenger an apple of the tree Kalpavriksha--a fruit which has
the virtue of conferring eternal life upon him that tastes it.
Scarcely had the god disappeared, when the Brahman, opening his
toothless mouth, prepared to eat the fruit of immortality. Then his wife
addressed him in these words, shedding copious tears the while:
“To die, O man, is a passing pain; to be poor is an interminable
anguish. Surely our present lot is the penalty of some great crime
committed by us in a past state of being.[26] Callest thou this state
life? Better we die at once, and so escape the woes of the world!”
Hearing these words, the Brahman sat undecided, with open jaws and eyes
fixed upon the apple. Presently he found tongue: “I have accepted
the fruit, and have brought it here; but having heard thy speech, my
intellect hath wasted away; now I will do whatever thou pointest out.”
The wife resumed her discourse, which had been interrupted by a more
than usually copious flow of tears. “Moreover, O husband, we are old,
and what are the enjoyments of the stricken in years? Truly quoth the
poet--
Die loved in youth, not hated in age.
If that fruit could have restored thy dimmed eyes, and deaf ears, and
blunted taste, and warmth of love, I had not spoken to thee thus.”
After which the Brahman threw away the apple, to the great joy of his
wife, who felt a natural indignation at the prospect of seeing her
goodman become immortal, whilst she still remained subject to the laws
of death; but she concealed this motive in the depths of her thought,
enlarging, as women are apt to do, upon everything but the truth. And
she spoke with such success, that the priest was about to toss in his
rage the heavenly fruit into the fire, reproaching the gods as if by
sending it they had done him an injury. Then the wife snatched it out
of his hand, and telling him it was too precious to be wasted, bade him
arise and gird his loins and wend him to the Regent’s palace, and
offer him the fruit--as King Vikram was absent--with a right reverend
brahmanical benediction. She concluded with impressing upon her
unworldly husband the necessity of requiring a large sum of money as a
return for his inestimable gift. “By this means,” she said, “thou mayst
promote thy present and future welfare.[27]”
Then the Brahman went forth, and standing in the presence of the Raja,
told him all things touching the fruit, concluding with “O, mighty
prince! vouchsafe to accept this tribute, and bestow wealth upon me. I
shall be happy in your living long!”
Bhartari Raja led the supplicant into an inner strongroom, where stood
heaps of the finest gold-dust, and bade him carry away all that he
could; this the priest did, not forgetting to fill even his eloquent and
toothless mouth with the precious metal. Having dismissed the devotee
groaning under the burden, the Regent entered the apartments of his
wives, and having summoned the beautiful Queen Dangalah Rani, gave her
the fruit, and said, “Eat this, light of my eyes! This fruit--joy of my
heart!--will make thee everlastingly young and beautiful.”
The pretty queen, placing both hands upon her husband’s bosom, kissed
his eyes and lips, and sweetly smiling on his face--for great is the
guile of women--whispered, “Eat it thyself, dear one, or at least share
it with me; for what is life and what is youth without the presence of
those we love?” But the Raja, whose heart was melted by these unusual
words, put her away tenderly, and, having explained that the fruit would
serve for only one person, departed.
Whereupon the pretty queen, sweetly smiling as before, slipped the
precious present into her pocket. When the Regent was transacting
business in the hall of audience she sent for the ambassador who
regulated war and peace, and presented him with the apple in a manner at
least as tender as that with which it had been offered to her.
Then the ambassador, after slipping the fruit into his pocket also,
retired from the presence of the pretty queen, and meeting Lakha, one of
the maids of honour, explained to her its wonderful power, and gave
it to her as a token of his love. But the maid of honour, being an
ambitious girl, determined that the fruit was a fit present to set
before the Regent in the absence of the King. Bhartari Raja accepted it,
bestowed on her great wealth, and dismissed her with many thanks.
He then took up the apple and looked at it with eyes brimful of tears,
for he knew the whole extent of his misfortune. His heart ached, he felt
a loathing for the world, and he said with sighs and groans[28]:
“Of what value are these delusions of wealth and affection, whose
sweetness endures for a moment and becomes eternal bitterness? Love is
like the drunkard’s cup: delicious is the first drink, palling are the
draughts that succeed it, and most distasteful are the dregs. What is
life but a restless vision of imaginary pleasures and of real pains,
from which the only waking is the terrible day of death? The affection
of this world is of no use, since, in consequence of it, we fall at last
into hell. For which reason it is best to practice the austerities of
religion, that the Deity may bestow upon us hereafter that happiness
which he refuses to us here!”
Thus did Bhartari Raja determine to abandon the world. But before
setting out for the forest, he could not refrain from seeing the queen
once more, so hot was the flame which Kama had kindled in his heart.
He therefore went to the apartments of his women, and having caused
Dangalah Rani to be summoned, he asked her what had become of the fruit
which he had given to her. She answered that, according to his command,
she had eaten it. Upon which the Regent showed her the apple, and she
beholding it stood aghast, unable to make any reply. The Raja gave
careful orders for her beheading; he then went out, and having had the
fruit washed, ate it. He quitted the throne to be a jogi, or religious
mendicant, and without communicating with any one departed into the
jungle. There he became such a devotee that death had no power over him,
and he is wandering still. But some say that he was duly absorbed into
the essence of the Deity.
* * * * * *
We are next told how the valiant Vikram returned to his own country.
Thus Vikram’s throne remained empty. When the news reached King Indra,
Regent of the Lower Firmament and Protector of Earthly Monarchs, he sent
Prithwi Pala, a fierce giant,[29] to defend the city of Ujjayani till
such time as its lawful master might reappear, and the guardian used to
keep watch and ward night and day over his trust.
In less than a year the valorous Raja Vikram became thoroughly tired of
wandering about the woods half dressed: now suffering from famine, then
exposed to the attacks of wild beasts, and at all times very ill at
ease. He reflected also that he was not doing his duty to his wives and
children; that the heir-apparent would probably make the worst use of
the parental absence; and finally, that his subjects, deprived of his
fatherly care, had been left in the hands of a man who, for ought he
could say, was not worthy of the high trust. He had also spied out
all the weak points of friend and foe. Whilst these and other equally
weighty considerations were hanging about the Raja’s mind, he heard a
rumour of the state of things spread abroad; that Bhartari, the regent,
having abdicated his throne, had gone away into the forest. Then quoth
Vikram to his son, “We have ended our wayfarings, now let us turn our
steps homewards!”
The gong was striking the mysterious hour of midnight as the king and
the young prince approached the principal gate. And they were pushing
through it when a monstrous figure rose up before them and called out
with a fearful voice, “Who are ye, and where are ye going? Stand and
deliver your names!”
“I am Raja Vikram,” rejoined the king, half choked with rage, “and I am
come to mine own city. Who art thou that darest to stop or stay me?”
“That question is easily answered,” cried Prithwi Pala the giant, in his
roaring voice; “the gods have sent me to protect Ujjayani. If thou be
really Raja Vikram, prove thyself a man: first fight with me, and then
return to thine own.”
The warrior king cried “Sadhu!” wanting nothing better. He girt his
girdle tight round his loins, summoned his opponent into the empty space
beyond the gate, told him to stand on guard, and presently began to
devise some means of closing with or running in upon him. The giant’s
fists were large as watermelons, and his knotted arms whistled through
the air like falling trees, threatening fatal blows. Besides which the
Raja’s head scarcely reached the giant’s stomach, and the latter, each
time he struck out, whooped so abominably loud, that no human nerves
could remain unshaken.
At last Vikram’s good luck prevailed. The giant’s left foot slipped, and
the hero, seizing his antagonist’s other leg, began to trip him up. At
the same moment the young prince, hastening to his parent’s assistance,
jumped viciously upon the enemy’s naked toes. By their united exertions
they brought him to the ground, when the son sat down upon his stomach,
making himself as weighty as he well could, whilst the father, climbing
up to the monster’s throat, placed himself astride upon it, and pressing
both thumbs upon his eyes, threatened to blind him if he would not
yield.
Then the giant, modifying the bellow of his voice, cried out--
“O Raja, thou hast overthrown me, and I grant thee thy life.”
“Surely thou art mad, monster,” replied the king, in jeering tone, half
laughing, half angry. “To whom grantest thou life? If I desire it I can
kill thee; how, then, cost thou talk about granting me my life?”
“Vikram of Ujjayani,” said the giant, “be not too proud! I will save
thee from a nearly impending death. Only hearken to the tale which I
have to tell thee, and use thy judgment, and act upon it. So shalt
thou rule the world free from care, and live without danger, and die
happily.”
“Proceed,” quoth the Raja, after a moment’s thought, dismounting from
the giant’s throat, and beginning to listen with all his ears.
The giant raised himself from the ground, and when in a sitting posture,
began in solemn tones to speak as follows: