“Brother, if I can obtain her my life will be prosperous, and if I do
not obtain her my living in the world will be in vain.”
Having thus spoken, and becoming restless from the fear of separation,
he involuntarily drew near to her, and seizing her hand, said--“If thou
wilt not form an affection for me, I will throw away my life on thy
account.”
“Be pleased not to do this,” she replied; “it will be sinful, and it
will involve me in the guilt and punishment of shedding blood; hence I
shall be miserable in this world and in that to be.”
“Thy blandishments,” he replied, “have pierced my heart, and the
consuming thought of parting from thee has burnt up my body, and memory
and understanding have been destroyed by this pain; and from excess
of love I have no sense of right or wrong. But if thou wilt make me a
promise, I will live again.”
She replied, “Truly the Kali Yug (iron age) has commenced, since which
time falsehood has increased in the world and truth has diminished;
people talk smoothly with their tongues, but nourish deceit in their
hearts; religion is destroyed, crime has increased, and the earth
has begun to give little fruit. Kings levy fines, Brahmans have waxed
covetous, the son obeys not his sire’s commands, brother distrusts
brother; friendship has departed from amongst friends; sincerity
has left masters; servants have given up service; man has abandoned
manliness; and woman has abandoned modesty. Five days hence, my marriage
is to be; but if thou slay not thyself, I will visit thee first, and
after that I will remain with my husband.”
Having given this promise, and having sworn by the Ganges, she returned
home. The merchant’s son also went his way.
Presently the marriage ceremonies came on, and Hiranyadatt the Baniya
expended a lakh of rupees in feasts and presents to the bridegroom. The
bodies of the twain were anointed with turmeric, the bride was made to
hold in her hand the iron box for eye paint, and the youth a pair of
betel scissors. During the night before the wedding there was loud and
shrill music, the heads and limbs of the young couple were rubbed with
an ointment of oil, and the bridegroom’s head was duly shaved. The
wedding procession was very grand. The streets were a blaze of flambeaux
and torches carried in the hand, fireworks by the ton were discharged
as the people passed; elephants, camels, and horses richly caparisoned,
were placed in convenient situations; and before the procession had
reached the house of the bride half a dozen wicked boys and bad young
men were killed or wounded.[90] After the marriage formulas were
repeated, the Baniya gave a feast or supper, and the food was so
excellent that all sat down quietly, no one uttered a complaint, or
brought dishonour on the bride’s family, or cut with scissors the
garments of his neighbour.
The ceremony thus happily concluded, the husband brought Madansena home
to his own house. After some days the wife of her husband’s youngest
brother, and also the wife of his eldest brother, led her at night
by force to her bridegroom, and seated her on a bed ornamented with
flowers.
As her husband proceeded to take her hand, she jerked it away, and at
once openly told him all that she had promised to Somdatt on condition
of his not killing himself.
“All things,” rejoined the bridegroom, hearing her words, “have their
sense ascertained by speech; in speech they have their basis, and
from speech they proceed; consequently a falsifier of speech falsifies
everything. If truly you are desirous of going to him, go!
“Receiving her husband’s permission, she arose and went off to the young
merchant’s house in full dress. Upon the road a thief saw her, and in
high good humour came up and asked--
“Whither goest thou at midnight in such darkness, having put on all
these fine clothes and ornaments?”
She replied that she was going to the house of her beloved.
“And who here,” said the thief, “is thy protector?”
“Kama Deva,” she replied, “the beautiful youth who by his fiery arrows
wounds with love the hearts of the inhabitants of the three worlds,
Ratipati, the husband of Rati,[91] accompanied by the kokila bird,[92]
the humming bee and gentle breezes.” She then told to the thief the
whole story, adding--
“Destroy not my jewels: I give thee a promise before I go, that on my
return thou shalt have all these ornaments.”
Hearing this the thief thought to himself that it would be useless
now to destroy her jewels, when she had promised to give them to him
presently of her own good will. He therefore let her go, and sat down
and thus soliloquized:
“To me it is astonishing that he who sustained me in my mother’s womb
should take no care of me now that I have been born and am able to enjoy
the good things of this world. I know not whether he is asleep or dead.
And I would rather swallow poison than ask man for money or favour. For
these six things tend to lower a man:--friendship with the perfidious;
causeless laughter; altercation with women; serving an unworthy master;
riding an ass, and speaking any language but Sanskrit. And these five
things the deity writes on our fate at the hour of birth:--first, age;
secondly, action; thirdly, wealth; fourthly, science; fifthly, fame.
I have now done a good deed, and as long as a man’s virtue is in the
ascendant, all people becoming his servants obey him. But when virtuous
deeds diminish, even his friends become inimical to him.”
Meanwhile Madansena had reached the place where Somdatt the young trader
had fallen asleep.
She awoke him suddenly, and he springing up in alarm quickly asked her,
“Art thou the daughter of a deity? or of a saint? or of a serpent? Tell
me truly, who art thou? And whence hast thou come?”
She replied, “I am human--Madansena, the daughter of the Baniya
Hiranyadatt. Dost thou not remember taking my hand in that grove, and
declaring that thou wouldst slay thyself if I did not swear to visit
thee first and after that remain with my husband?”
“Hast thou,” he inquired, “told all this to thy husband or not?”
She replied, “I have told him everything; and he, thoroughly
understanding the whole affair, gave me permission.”
“This matter,” exclaimed Somdatt in a melancholy voice, “is like pearls
without a suitable dress, or food without clarified butter,[93] or
singing without melody; they are all alike unnatural. In the same way,
unclean clothes will mar beauty, bad food will undermine strength, a
wicked wife will worry her husband to death, a disreputable son will
ruin his family, an enraged demon will kill, and a woman, whether she
love or hate, will be a source of pain. For there are few things which a
woman will not do. She never brings to her tongue what is in her heart,
she never speaks out what is on her tongue, and she never tells what she
is doing. Truly the Deity has created woman a strange creature in this
world.” He concluded with these words: “Return thou home with another
man’s wife I have no concern.”
Madansena rose and departed. On her way she met the thief, who, hearing
her tale, gave her great praise, and let her go unplundered.[94]
She then went to her husband, and related the whole matter to him. But
he had ceased to love her, and he said, “Neither a king nor a minister,
nor a wife, nor a person’s hair nor his nails, look well out of their
places. And the beauty of the kokila is its note, of an ugly man
knowledge, of a devotee forgiveness, and of a woman her chastity.”
The Vampire having narrated thus far, suddenly asked the king, “Of these
three, whose virtue was the greatest?”
Vikram, who had been greatly edified by the tale, forgot himself, and
ejaculated, “The Thief’s.”
“And pray why?” asked the Baital.
“Because,” the hero explained, “when her husband saw that she loved
another man, however purely, he ceased to feel affection for her.
Somdatt let her go unharmed, for fear of being punished by the king. But
there was no reason why the thief should fear the law and dismiss her;
therefore he was the best.”
“Hi! hi! hi!” laughed the demon, spitefully. “Here, then, ends my
story.”
Upon which, escaping as before from the cloth in which he was slung
behind the Raja’s back, the Baital disappeared through the darkness of
the night, leaving father and son looking at each other in dismay.
“Son Dharma Dhwaj,” quoth the great Vikram, “the next time when that
villain Vampire asks me a question, I allow thee to take the liberty of
pinching my arm even before I have had time to answer his questions. In
this way we shall never, of a truth, end our task.”
“Your words be upon my head, sire,” replied the young prince. But he
expected no good from his father’s new plan, as, arrived under the
sires-tree, he heard the Baital laughing with all his might.
“Surely he is laughing at our beards, sire,” said the beardless prince,
who hated to be laughed at like a young person.
“Let them laugh that win,” fiercely cried Raja Vikram, who hated to be
laughed at like an elderly person.
* * * * * * *
The Vampire lost no time in opening a fresh story.
THE VAMPIRE’S FIFTH STORY -- Of the Thief Who Laughed and Wept.
Your majesty (quoth the demon, with unusual politeness), there is a
country called Malaya, on the western coast of the land of Bharat--you
see that I am particular in specifying the place--and in it was a city
known as Chandrodaya, whose king was named Randhir.
This Raja, like most others of his semi-deified order, had been in youth
what is called a Sarva-rasi[95]; that is, he ate and drank and listened
to music, and looked at dancers and made love much more than he studied,
reflected, prayed, or conversed with the wise. After the age of thirty
he began to reform, and he brought such zeal to the good cause, that in
an incredibly short space of time he came to be accounted and quoted
as the paragon of correct Rajas. This was very praiseworthy. Many of
Brahma’s viceregents on earth, be it observed, have loved food and
drink, and music and dancing, and the worship of Kama, to the end of
their days.
Amongst his officers was Gunshankar, a magistrate of police, who,
curious to say, was as honest as he was just. He administered equity
with as much care before as after dinner; he took no bribes even in the
matter of advancing his family; he was rather merciful than otherwise
to the poor, and he never punished the rich ostentatiously, in order to
display his and his law’s disrespect for persons. Besides which, when
sitting on the carpet of justice, he did not, as some Kotwals do, use
rough or angry language to those who cannot reply; nor did he take
offence when none was intended.
All the people of the city Chandrodaya, in the province of Malaya,
on the western coast of Bharatland, loved and esteemed this excellent
magistrate; which did not, however, prevent thefts being committed so
frequently and so regularly, that no one felt his property secure. At
last the merchants who had suffered most from these depredations went in
a body before Gunshankar, and said to him:
“O flower of the law! robbers have exercised great tyranny upon us, so
great indeed that we can no longer stay in this city.”
Then the magistrate replied, “What has happened, has happened. But in
future you shall be free from annoyance. I will make due preparation for
these thieves.”
Thus saying Gunshankar called together his various delegates, and
directed them to increase the number of their people. He pointed out to
them how they should keep watch by night; besides which he ordered them
to open registers of all arrivals and departures, to make themselves
acquainted by means of spies with the movements of every suspected
person in the city, and to raise a body of paggis (trackers), who could
follow the footprints of thieves even when they wore thieving shoes,[96]
till they came up with and arrested them. And lastly, he gave the
patrols full power, whenever they might catch a robber in the act, to
slay him without asking questions.
People in numbers began to mount guard throughout the city every night,
but, notwithstanding this, robberies continued to be committed. After
a time all the merchants having again met together went before the
magistrate, and said, “O incarnation of justice! you have changed your
officers, you have hired watchmen, and you have established patrols:
nevertheless the thieves have not diminished, and plundering is ever
taking place.”
Thereupon Gunshankar carried them to the palace, and made them lay their
petition at the feet of the king Randhir. That Raja, having consoled
them, sent them home, saying, “Be ye of good cheer. I will to-night
adopt a new plan, which, with the blessing of the Bhagwan, shall free ye
from further anxiety.”
Observe, O Vikram, that Randhir was one of those concerning whom the
poet sang--
The unwise run from one end to the other.
Not content with becoming highly respectable, correct, and even
unimpeachable in point of character, he reformed even his reformation,
and he did much more than he was required to do.
When Canopus began to sparkle gaily in the southern skies, the king
arose and prepared for a night’s work. He disguised his face by smearing
it with a certain paint, by twirling his moustachios up to his eyes, by
parting his beard upon his chin, and conducting the two ends towards his
ears, and by tightly tying a hair from a horse’s tail over his nose, so
as quite to change its shape. He then wrapped himself in a coarse outer
garment, girt his loins, buckled on his sword, drew his shield upon his
arm, and without saying a word to those within the palace, he went out
into the streets alone, and on foot.
It was dark, and Raja Randhir walked through the silent city for nearly
an hour without meeting anyone. As, however, he passed through a back
street in the merchants’ quarter, he saw what appeared to be a homeless
dog, lying at the foot of a house-wall. He approached it, and up leaped
a human figure, whilst a loud voice cried, “Who art thou?”
Randhir replied, “I am a thief; who art thou?”
“And I also am a thief,” rejoined the other, much pleased at hearing
this; “come, then, and let us make together. But what art thou, a
high-loper or a lully-prigger[97]?”
“A little more ceremony between coves in the lorst,[98]” whispered the
king, speaking as a flash man, “were not out of place. But, look sharp,
mind old Oliver,[99] or the lamb-skin man[100] will have the pull of
us, and as sure as eggs is eggs we shall be scragged as soon as
lagged.[101]”
“Well, keep your red rag[102] quiet,” grumbled the other, “and let us be
working.”
Then the pair, king and thief, began work in right earnest. The gang
seemed to swarm in the street. They were drinking spirits, slaying
victims, rubbing their bodies with oil, daubing their eyes with
lamp-black, and repeating incantations to enable them to see in the
darkness; others were practicing the lessons of the god with the golden
spear,[103] and carrying out the four modes of breaching a house: 1.
Picking out burnt bricks. 2. Cutting through unbaked ones when old,
when softened by recent damp, by exposure to the sun, or by saline
exudations. 3. Throwing water on a mud wall; and 4. Boring through one
of wood. The sons of Skanda were making breaches in the shape of lotus
blossoms, the sun, the new moon, the lake, and the water jar, and they
seemed to be anointed with magic unguents, so that no eye could behold,
no weapon harm them.
At length having filled his bag with costly plunder, the thief said to
the king, “Now, my rummy cove, we’ll be off to the flash ken, where the
lads and the morts are waiting to wet their whistles.”
Randhir, who as a king was perfectly familiar with “thieves’ Latin,”
took heart, and resolved to hunt out the secrets of the den. On the way,
his companion, perfectly satisfied with the importance which the new
cove had attached to a rat-hole,[104] and convinced that he was a true
robber, taught him the whistle, the word, and the sign peculiar to the
gang, and promised him that he should smack the lit[105] that night
before “turning in.”
So saying the thief rapped twice at the city gate, which was at once
opened to him, and preceding his accomplice led the way to a rock about
two kos (four miles) distant from the walls. Before entering the dark
forest at the foot of the eminence, the robber stood still for a moment
and whistled twice through his fingers with a shrill scream that rang
through the silent glades. After a few minutes the signal was answered
by the hooting of an owl, which the robber acknowledged by shrieking
like a jackal. Thereupon half a dozen armed men arose from their
crouching places in the grass, and one advanced towards the new comers
to receive the sign. It was given, and they both passed on, whilst the
guard sank, as it were, into the bowels of the earth. All these things
Randhir carefully remarked: besides which he neglected not to take note
of all the distinguishable objects that lay on the road, and, when
he entered the wood, he scratched with his dagger all the tree trunks
within reach.
After a sharp walk the pair reached a high perpendicular sheet of rock,
rising abruptly from a clear space in the jungle, and profusely printed
over with vermilion hands. The thief, having walked up to it, and made
his obeisance, stooped to the ground, and removed a bunch of grass. The
two then raised by their united efforts a heavy trap door, through which
poured a stream of light, whilst a confused hubbub of voices was heard
below.
“This is the ken,” said the robber, preparing to descend a thin ladder
of bamboo, “follow me!” And he disappeared with his bag of valuables.
The king did as he was bid, and the pair entered together a large hall,
or rather a cave, which presented a singular spectacle. It was lighted
up by links fixed to the sombre walls, which threw a smoky glare over
the place, and the contrast after the deep darkness reminded Randhir of
his mother’s descriptions of Patal-puri, the infernal city. Carpets of
every kind, from the choicest tapestry to the coarsest rug, were spread
upon the ground, and were strewed with bags, wallets, weapons, heaps of
booty, drinking cups, and all the materials of debauchery.
Passing through this cave the thief led Randhir into another, which was
full of thieves, preparing for the pleasures of the night. Some were
changing garments, ragged and dirtied by creeping through gaps in the
houses: others were washing the blood from their hands and feet; these
combed out their long dishevelled, dusty hair: those anointed their
skins with perfumed cocoa-nut oil. There were all manner of murderers
present, a villanous collection of Kartikeya’s and Bhawani’s[106] crew.
There were stabbers with their poniards hung to lanyards lashed round
their naked waists, Dhaturiya-poisoners[107] distinguished by the
little bag slung under the left arm, and Phansigars[108] wearing their
fatal kerchiefs round their necks. And Randhir had reason to thank
the good deed in the last life that had sent him there in such strict
disguise, for amongst the robbers he found, as might be expected, a
number of his own people, spies and watchmen, guards and patrols.
The thief, whose importance of manner now showed him to be the chief of
the gang, was greeted with applause as he entered the robing room,
and he bade all make salam to the new companion. A number of questions
concerning the success of the night’s work was quickly put and answered:
then the company, having got ready for the revel, flocked into the first
cave. There they sat down each in his own place, and began to eat and
drink and make merry.
After some hours the flaring torches began to burn out, and drowsiness
to overpower the strongest heads. Most of the robbers rolled themselves
up in the rugs, and covering their heads, went to sleep. A few still sat
with their backs to the wall, nodding drowsily or leaning on one side,
and too stupefied with opium and hemp to make any exertion.
At that moment a servant woman, whom the king saw for the first time,
came into the cave, and looking at him exclaimed, “O Raja! how came you
with these wicked men? Do you run away as fast as you can, or they will
surely kill you when they awake.”
“I do not know the way; in which direction am I to go?” asked Randhir.
The woman then showed him the road. He threaded the confused mass of
snorers, treading with the foot of a tiger-cat, found the ladder, raised
the trap-door by exerting all his strength, and breathed once more the
open air of heaven. And before plunging into the depths of the wood he
again marked the place where the entrance lay and carefully replaced the
bunch of grass.
Hardly had Raja Randhir returned to the palace, and removed the traces
of his night’s occupation, when he received a second deputation of the
merchants, complaining bitterly and with the longest faces about their
fresh misfortunes.
“O pearl of equity!” said the men of money, “but yesterday you consoled
us with the promise of some contrivance by the blessing of which our
houses and coffers would be safe from theft; whereas our goods have
never yet suffered so severely as during the last twelve hours.”
Again Randhir dismissed them, swearing that this time he would either
die or destroy the wretches who had been guilty of such violence.
Then having mentally prepared his measures, the Raja warned a company of
archers to hold themselves in readiness for secret service, and as each
one of his own people returned from the robbers’ cave he had him privily
arrested and put to death--because the deceased, it is said, do not,
like Baitals, tell tales. About nightfall, when he thought that the
thieves, having finished their work of plunder, would meet together as
usual for wassail and debauchery, he armed himself, marched out his men,
and led them to the rock in the jungle.
But the robbers, aroused by the disappearance of the new companion, had
made enquiries and had gained intelligence of the impending danger. They
feared to flee during the daytime, lest being tracked they should be
discovered and destroyed in detail. When night came they hesitated to
disperse, from the certainty that they would be captured in the morning.
Then their captain, who throughout had been of one opinion, proposed to
them that they should resist, and promised them success if they would
hear his words. The gang respected him, for he was known to be brave:
they all listened to his advice, and they promised to be obedient.
As young night began to cast transparent shade upon the jungle ground,
the chief of the thieves mustered his men, inspected their bows and
arrows, gave them encouraging words, and led them forth from the cave.
Having placed them in ambush he climbed the rock to espy the movements
of the enemy, whilst others applied their noses and ears to the level
ground. Presently the moon shone full upon Randhir and his band of
archers, who were advancing quickly and carelessly, for they expected
to catch the robbers in their cave. The captain allowed them to march
nearly through the line of ambush. Then he gave the signal, and at that
moment the thieves, rising suddenly from the bush fell upon the royal
troops and drove them back in confusion.
The king also fled, when the chief of the robbers shouted out, “Hola!
thou a Rajput and running away from combat?” Randhir hearing this
halted, and the two, confronting each other, bared their blades and
began to do battle with prodigious fury.
The king was cunning of fence, and so was the thief. They opened the
duel, as skilful swordsmen should, by bending almost double, skipping in
a circle, each keeping his eye well fixed upon the other, with frowning
brows and contemptuous lips; at the same time executing divers gambados
and measured leaps, springing forward like frogs and backward like
monkeys, and beating time with their sabres upon their shields, which
rattled like drums.
Then Randhir suddenly facing his antagonist, cut at his legs with a loud
cry, but the thief sprang in the air, and the blade whistled harmlessly
under him. Next moment the robber chief’s sword, thrice whirled round
his head, descended like lightning in a slanting direction towards the
king’s left shoulder: the latter, however, received it upon his target
and escaped all hurt, though he staggered with the violence of the blow.