CANTO I_Hindu literature : Comprising The Book of good counsels, Nala and Damayanti, The Ramayana, and Sakoontala

HINDU LITERATURE

COMPRISING

THE BOOK OF GOOD COUNSELS, NALA AND DAMAYANTI, THE RÁMÁYANA AND

ŚAKOONTALÁ

WITH CRITICAL AND BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES BY

EPIPHANIUS WILSON, A.M.

REVISED EDITION

NEW YORK

P.F. COLLIER & SON

BY THE COLONIAL PRESS

CONTENTS

THE BOOK OF GOOD COUNSELS

Translator's Preface

Introduction

THE WINNING OF FRIENDS

The Story of the Jackal, Deer, and Crow

The Story of the Vulture, the Cat, and the Birds

The Story of the Dead Game and the Jackal

The Prince and the Wife of the Merchant's Son

The Story of the Old Jackal and the Elephant

THE PARTING OF FRIENDS

The Story of the Lion, the Jackals, and the Bull

The Story of the Monkey and the Wedge

The Story of the Washerman's Jackass

The Story of the Cat who Served the Lion

The Story of the Terrible Bell

The Story of the Prince and the Procuress

The Story of the Black Snake and the Golden Chain

The Story of the Lion and the Old Hare

The Story of the Wagtail and the Sea

WAR

The Battle of the Swans and Peacocks

The Story of the Weaver-Birds and the Monkeys

The Story of the Old Hare and the Elephants

The Story of the Heron and the Crow

The Story of the Appeased Wheelwright

The Story of the Dyed Jackal

The Story of the Faithful Rajpoot

PEACE

The Treaty Between the Peacocks and the Swans

The Story of the Tortoise and the Geese

The Story of Fate and the Three Fishes

The Story of the Unabashed Wife

The Story of the Herons and the Mongoose

The Story of the Recluse and the Mouse

The Story of the Crane and the Crab

The Story of the Brahman and the Pans

The Duel of the Giants

The Story of the Brahman and the Goat

The Story of the Camel, the Lion, and His Court

The Story of the Frogs and the Old Serpent

NALA AND DAMAYANTI

Introduction

NALA AND DAMAYANTI.--

Part I

Part II

SELECTIONS FROM THE RÁMÁYANA

Introduction

Invocation

BOOK I.--

CANTO

I.--Nárad

[_Cantos II., III., IV., and V. are omitted_]

VI.--The King

VII.--The Ministers

VIII.--Sumantra's Speech

IX.--Rishyaśring

X.--Rishyaśring Invited

XI.--The Sacrifice Decreed

XII.--The Sacrifice Begun

XIII.--The Sacrifice Finished

XIV.--Rávan Doomed

XV.--The Nectar

XVI.--The Vánars

XVII.--Rishyaśring's Return

XVIII.--Rishyaśring's Departure

XIX.--The Birth of the Princes

XX.--Viśvámitra's Visit

XXI.--Viśvámitra's Speech

XXII.--Daśaratha's Speech

XXIII.--Vaśishtha's Speech

XXIV.--The Spells

XXV.--The Hermitage of Love

XXVI.--The Forest of Tádaká

XXVII.--The Birth of Tádaká

XXVIII.--The Death of Tádaká

XXIX.--The Celestial Arms

XXX.--The Mysterious Powers

XXXI.--The Perfect Hermitage

XXXII.--Viśvámitra's Sacrifice

XXXIII.--The Sone

XXXIV.--Brahmadatta

XXXV.--Viśvámitra's Lineage

XXXVI.--The Birth of Gangá

[_Cantos XXXVII. and XXXVIII. are omitted_]

XXXIX.--The Son of Sagar

XL.--The Cleaving of the Earth

XLI.--Kapil

XLII.--Sagar's Sacrifice

XLIII.--Bhagírath

ŚAKOONTALÁ

Introduction

Dramatis Personae

Rules for Pronunciation of Proper Names

Prologue

Act First

Act Second

Prelude to Act Third

Act Third

Prelude to Act Fourth

Act Fourth

Act Fifth

Prelude to Act Sixth

Act Sixth

Act Seventh

POEMS BY TORU DUTT

Introduction

BALLADS OF HINDOSTAN.--

Jogadhya Uma

Buttoo

Sindhu.--

Part I

Part II

Part III

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.--

Near Hastings

France

The Tree of Life

Madame Thérèse

Sonnet

Our Casuarina-Tree

THE BOOK OF GOOD COUNSELS

* * * * *

SELECTED FROM

THE HITOPADEŚA

[_Translated from the Sanscrit by Sir Edwin Arnold_]

TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE

A story-book from the Sanscrit at least possesses the minor merit of

novelty. The "perfect language" has been hitherto regarded as the

province of scholars, and few of these even have found time or taste to

search its treasures. And yet among them is the key to the heart of

modern India--as well as the splendid record of her ancient Gods and

glories. The hope of Hindostan lies in the intelligent interest of

England. Whatever avails to dissipate misconceptions between them, and

to enlarge their intimacy, is a gain to both peoples; and to this end

the present volume aspires, in an humble degree, to contribute.

The "Hitopadeśa" is a work of high antiquity, and extended popularity.

The prose is doubtless as old as our own era; but the intercalated

verses and proverbs compose a selection from writings of an age

extremely remote. The "Mahabharata" and the textual Veds are of those

quoted; to the first of which Professor M. Williams (in his admirable

edition of the "Nala," 1860) assigns a date of 350 B.C., while he claims

for the "Rig-Veda" an antiquity as high as B.C. 1300. The "Hitopadeśa"

may thus be fairly styled "The Father of all Fables"; for from its

numerous translations have come Æsop and Pilpay, and in later days

Reineke Fuchs. Originally compiled in Sanscrit, it was rendered, by

order of Nushiraván, in the sixth century, A.D., into Persic. From the

Persic it passed, A.D. 850, into the Arabic, and thence into Hebrew and

Greek. In its own land it obtained as wide a circulation. The Emperor

Acbar, impressed with the wisdom of its maxims and the ingenuity of its

apologues, commended the work of translating it to his own Vizir, Abdul

Fazel. That minister accordingly put the book into a familiar style, and

published it with explanations, under the title of the "Criterion of

Wisdom." The Emperor had also suggested the abridgment of the long

series of shlokes which here and there interrupt the narrative, and the

Vizir found this advice sound, and followed it, like the present

Translator. To this day, in India, the "Hitopadeśa," under other names

(as the "Anvári Suhaili"[1]), retains the delighted attention of young

and old, and has some representative in all the Indian vernaculars. A

work so well esteemed in the East cannot be unwelcome to Western

readers, who receive it here, a condensed but faithful transcript of

sense and manner.

As often as an Oriental allusion, or a name in Hindoo mythology, seemed

to ask some explanation for the English reader, notes have been

appended, bearing reference to the page. In their compilation, and

generally, acknowledgment is due to Professor Johnson's excellent

version and edition of the "Hitopadeśa," and to Mr. Muir's "Sanscrit

Texts."

A residence in India, and close intercourse with the Hindoos, have given

the author a lively desire to subserve their advancement. No one listens

now to the precipitate ignorance which would set aside as "heathenish"

the high civilization of this great race; but justice is not yet done to

their past development and present capacities. If the wit, the morality,

and the philosophy of these "beasts of India" (so faithfully rendered by

Mr. Harrison Weir) surprise any vigorous mind into further exploration

of her literature, and deeper sense of our responsibility in her

government, the author will be repaid.

EDWIN ARNOLD.

[1] "The Lights of Canopus," a Persian paraphrase; as the "Khirad

Afroz," "the lamp of the Understanding," is in Hindustani.

THE BOOK OF GOOD COUNSELS

INTRODUCTION

HONOR TO GUNESH, GOD OF WISDOM

This book of Counsel read, and you shall see,

Fair speech and Sanscrit lore, and Policy.

ON the banks of the holy river Ganges there stood a city named

Pataliputra. The King of it was a good King and a virtuous, and his name

was Sudarsana. It chanced one day that he overheard a certain person

reciting these verses--

"Wise men, holding wisdom highest, scorn delights, as false as fair,

Daily live they as Death's fingers twined already in their hair.

Truly, richer than all riches, better than the best of gain,

Wisdom is, unbought, secure--once won, none loseth her again.

Bringing dark things into daylight, solving doubts that vex the mind,

Like an open eye is Wisdom--he that hath her not is blind."

Hearing these the King became disquieted, knowing that his own sons were

gaining no wisdom, nor reading the Sacred Writings,[2] but altogether

going in the wrong way; and he repeated this verse to himself--

"Childless art thou? dead thy children? leaving thee to want and dool?

Less thy misery than his is, who is father to a fool."

And again this--

"One wise son makes glad his father, forty fools avail him not:--

One moon silvers all that darkness which the silly stars did dot."

"And it has been said," reflected he--

"Ease and health, obeisant children, wisdom, and a fair-voiced wife--

Thus, great King! are counted up the five felicities of life.

For the son the sire is honored; though the bow-cane bendeth true,

Let the strained string crack in using, and what service shall it do?"

"Nevertheless," mused the King, "I know it is urged that human efforts

are useless: as, for instance--

"That which will not be, will not be--and what is to be, will be:--

Why not drink this easy physic, antidote of misery?"

"But then that comes from idleness, with people who will not do what

they should do. Rather,

"Nay! and faint not, idly sighing, 'Destiny is mightiest,'

Sesamum holds oil in plenty, but it yieldeth none unpressed.

Ah! it is the Coward's babble, 'Fortune taketh, Fortune gave;'

Fortune! rate her like a master, and she serves thee like a slave."

"For indeed,

"Twofold is the life we live in--Fate and Will together run:--

Two wheels bear life's chariot onward--will it move on only one?"

"And

"Look! the clay dries into iron, but the potter moulds the clay:--

Destiny to-day is master--Man was master yesterday."

"So verily,

"Worthy ends come not by wishing. Wouldst thou? Up, and win it, then!

While the hungry lion slumbers, not a deer comes to his den."

Having concluded his reflections, the Raja gave orders to assemble a

meeting of learned men. Then said he--

"Hear now, O my Pundits! Is there one among you so wise that he will

undertake to give the second birth of Wisdom to these my sons, by

teaching them the Books of Policy; for they have never yet read the

Sacred Writings, and are altogether going in the wrong road; and ye know

that

"Silly glass, in splendid settings, something of the gold may gain;

And in company of wise ones, fools to wisdom may attain."

Then uprose a great Sage, by name Vishnu-Sarman, learned in the

principles of Policy as is the angel of the planet Jupiter himself, and

he said--

"My Lord King, I will undertake to teach these princes Policy, seeing

they are born of a great house; for--

"Labors spent on the unworthy, of reward the laborer balk;

Like the parrot, teach the heron twenty times, he will not talk."

"But in this royal family the offspring are royal-minded, and in six

moons I will engage to make your Majesty's sons comprehend Policy."

The Raja replied, with condescension:--

"On the eastern mountains lying, common things shine in the sun,

And by learned minds enlightened, lower minds may show as one."

"And you, worshipful sir, are competent to teach my children the rules

of Policy."

So saying, with much graciousness, he gave the Princes into the charge

of Vishnu-Sarman; and that sage, by way of introduction, spake to the

Princes, as they sat at ease on the balcony of the palace, in this

wise:--

"Hear now, my Princes! for the delectation of your Highnesses, I purpose

to tell the tale of the Crow, the Tortoise, the Deer, and the Mouse."

"Pray, sir," said the King's sons, "let us hear it."

Vishnu-Sarman answered--

"It begins with the Winning of Friends; and this is the first verse of

it:--

"Sans way or wealth, wise friends their purpose gain--

The Mouse, Crow, Deer, and Tortoise make this plain."

[2] The Vedas are the holy books of India. They are four in number: The

Rig-Veda, Yajur-Veda, Sama-Veda, and Atharva-Veda.

THE WINNING OF FRIENDS

Sans way or wealth, wise friends their purpose gain--

The Mouse, Crow, Deer, and Tortoise make this plain."

"However was that?" asked the Princes.

Vishnu-Sarman replied:--

"On the banks of the Godavery there stood a large silk-cotton-tree, and

thither at night, from all quarters and regions, the birds came to

roost. Now once, when the night was just spent, and his Radiance the

Moon, Lover of the white lotus, was about to retire behind the western

hills, a Crow who perched there, 'Light o' Leap' by name, upon

awakening, saw to his great wonder a fowler approaching--a second God of

Death. The sight set him reflecting, as he flew off uneasily to follow

up the man's movements, and he began to think what mischief this

ill-omened apparition foretold.

"For a thousand thoughts of sorrow, and a hundred things of dread,

By the wise unheeded, trouble day by day the foolish head."

And yet in this life it must be that

"Of the day's impending dangers, Sickness, Death, and Misery,

One will be; the wise man waking, ponders which that one will be."

Presently the fowler fixed a net, scattered grains of rice about, and

withdrew to hide. At this moment "Speckle-neck," King of the Pigeons,

chanced to be passing through the sky with his Court, and caught sight

of the rice-grains. Thereupon the King of the Pigeons asked of his

rice-loving followers, 'How can there possibly be rice-grains lying here

in an unfrequented forest? We will see into it, of course, but We like

not the look of it--love of rice may ruin us, as the Traveller was

ruined.

"All out of longing for a golden bangle,

The Tiger, in the mud, the man did mangle."

"How did that happen?" asked the Pigeons.

THE STORY OF THE TIGER AND THE TRAVELLER

"Thus," replied Speckle-neck: "I was pecking about one day in the Deccan

forest, and saw an old tiger sitting newly bathed on the bank of a pool,

like a Brahman, and with holy kuskus-grass[3] in his paws.

'Ho! ho! ye travellers,' he kept calling out, 'take this golden bangle!'

Presently a covetous fellow passed by and heard him.

'Ah!' thought he, 'this is a bit of luck--but I must not risk my neck

for it either.

"Good things come not out of bad things; wisely leave a longed-for ill.

Nectar being mixed with poison serves no purpose but to kill."

'But all gain is got by risk, so I will see into it at least;' then he

called out, 'Where is thy bangle?'

The Tiger stretched forth his paw and exhibited it.

'Hem!' said the Traveller, 'can I trust such a fierce brute as thou

art?'

'Listen,' replied the Tiger, 'once, in the days of my cub-hood, I know I

was very wicked. I killed cows, Brahmans, and men without number--and I

lost my wife and children for it--and haven't kith or kin left. But

lately I met a virtuous man who counselled me to practise the duty of

almsgiving--and, as thou seest, I am strict at ablutions and alms.

Besides, I am old, and my nails and fangs are gone--so who would

mistrust me? and I have so far conquered selfishness, that I keep the

golden bangle for whoso comes. Thou seemest poor! I will give it thee.

Is it not said,

'Give to poor men, son of Kûnti--on the wealthy waste not wealth;

Good are simples for the sick man, good for nought to him in health.'

'Wade over the pool, therefore, and take the bangle,'

Thereupon the covetous Traveller determined to trust him, and waded into

the pool, where he soon found himself plunged in mud, and unable to

move.

'Ho! ho!' says the Tiger, 'art thou stuck in a slough? stay, I will

fetch thee out!'

So saying he approached the wretched man and seized him--who meanwhile

bitterly reflected--

'Be his Scripture-learning wondrous, yet the cheat will be a cheat;

Be her pasture ne'er so bitter, yet the cow's milk will be sweet.'

And on that verse, too--

'Trust not water, trust not weapons; trust not clawed nor horned

things;

Neither give thy soul to women, nor thy life to Sons of Kings.'

And those others--

'Look! the Moon, the silver roamer, from whose splendor darkness flies

With his starry cohorts marching, like a crowned king through the

skies.

All the grandeur, all the glory, vanish in the Dragon's jaw;

What is written on the forehead, that will be, and nothing more,'

Here his meditations were cut short by the Tiger devouring him. "And

that," said Speckle-neck, "is why we counselled caution."

"Why, yes!" said a certain pigeon, with some presumption, "but you've

read the verse--

'Counsel in danger; of it

Unwarned, be nothing begun.

But nobody asks a Prophet

Shall the risk of a dinner be run?'

Hearing that, the Pigeons settled at once; for we know that

"Avarice begetteth anger; blind desires from her begin;

A right fruitful mother is she of a countless spawn of sin.'

And again,

'Can a golden Deer have being? yet for such the Hero pined:--

When the cloud of danger hovers, then its shadow dims the mind.'

Presently they were caught in the net. Thereat, indeed, they all began

to abuse the pigeon by whose suggestion they had been ensnared. It is

the old tale!

"Be second and not first!--the share's the same

If all go well. If not, the Head's to blame."

And we should remember that

"Passion will be Slave or Mistress: follow her, she brings to woe;

Lead her, 'tis the way to Fortune. Choose the path that thou wilt go."

When King Speckle-neck heard their reproaches, he said, "No, no! it is

no fault of his.

'When the time of trouble cometh, friends may ofttimes irk us most: For

the calf at milking-hour the mother's leg is tying-post.'

'And in disaster, dismay is a coward's quality; let us rather rely on

fortitude, and devise some remedy. How saith the sage?

"In good fortune not elated, in ill-fortune not dismayed,

Ever eloquent in council, never in the fight affrayed--

Proudly emulous of honor, steadfastly on wisdom set;

Perfect virtues in the nature of a noble soul are met.

Whoso hath them, gem and glory of the three wide worlds[4] is he;

Happy mother she that bore him, she who nursed him on her knee."

"Let us do this now directly," continued the King: "at one moment and

with one will, rising under the net, let us fly off with it: for indeed

'Small things wax exceeding mighty, being cunningly combined:--

Furious elephants are fastened with a rope of grass-blades twined.'

"And it is written, you know,

'Let the household hold together, though the house be ne'er so small;

Strip the rice-husk from the rice-grain, and it groweth not at all.'

Having pondered this advice, the Pigeons adopted it; and flew away with

the net. At first the fowler, who was at a distance, hoped to recover

them, but as they passed out of sight with the snare about them he gave

up the pursuit. Perceiving this, the Pigeons said,

"What is the next thing to be done, O King?"

"A friend of mine," said Speckle-neck, "lives near in a beautiful forest

on the Gundaki. Golden-skin is his name--the King of the Mice--he is the

one to cut these bonds."

Resolving to have recourse to him, they directed their flight to the

hole of Golden-skin--a prudent monarch, who dreaded danger so much that

he had made himself a palace with a hundred outlets, and lived always in

it. Sitting there he heard the descent of the pigeons, and remained

silent and alarmed.

"Friend Golden-skin," cried the King, "have you no welcome for us?"

"Ah, my friend!" said the Mouse-king, rushing out on recognizing the

voice, "is it thou art come, Speckle-neck! how delightful!--But what is

this?" exclaimed he, regarding the entangled net.

"That," said King Speckle-neck, "is the effect of some wrong-doing in a

former life--

'Sickness, anguish, bonds, and woe

Spring from wrongs wrought long ago,'[5]

Golden-skin, without replying, ran at once to the net, and began to gnaw

the strings that held Speckle-neck.

"Nay! friend, not so," said the King, "cut me first these meshes from my

followers, and afterwards thou shalt sever mine."

"I am little," answered Golden-skin, "and my teeth are weak--how can I

gnaw so much? No! no! I will nibble your strings as long as my teeth

last, and afterwards do my best for the others. To preserve dependents

by sacrificing oneself is nowhere enjoined by wise moralists; on the

contrary--

'Keep wealth for want, but spend-it for thy wife,

And wife, and wealth, and all to guard thy life,'

"Friend," replied King Speckle-neck, "that may be the rule of policy,

but I am one that can by no means bear to witness the distress of those

who depend on me, for--

'Death, that must come, comes nobly when we give

Our wealth, and life, and all, to make men live,'

And you know the verse,

'Friend, art thou faithful? guard mine honor so!

And let the earthy rotting body go,'"

When King Golden-skin heard this answer his heart was charmed, and his

fur bristled up for pure pleasure. "Nobly spoken, friend," said he,

"nobly spoken! with such a tenderness for those that look to thee, the

Sovereignty of the Three Worlds might be fitly thine." So saying he set

himself to cut all their bonds. This done, and the pigeons extricated,

the King of the Mice[6] gave them his formal welcome. "But, your

Majesty," he said, "this capture in the net was a work of destiny; you

must not blame yourself as you did, and suspect a former fault. Is it

not written--

'Floating on his fearless pinions, lost amid the noon-day skies,

Even thence the Eagle's vision kens the carcase where it lies;

But the hour that comes to all things comes unto the Lord of Air,

And he rushes, madly blinded, to his ruin in the snare,'"

With this correction Golden-skin proceeded to perform the duties of

hospitality, and afterwards, embracing and dismissing them, the pigeons

left for such destination as they fancied, and the King of the Mice

retired again into his hole.

Now Light o' Leap, the Crow, had been a spectator of the whole

transaction, and wondered at it so much that at last he called out, "Ho!

Golden-skin, thou very laudable Prince, let me too be a friend of thine,

and give me thy friendship."

"Who art thou?" said Golden-skin, who heard him, but would not come out

of his hole.

"I am the Crow Light o' Leap," replied the other.

"How can I possibly be on good terms with thee?" answered Golden-skin

with a laugh; "have you never read--

'When Food is friends with Feeder, look for Woe,

The Jackal ate the Deer, but for the Crow,'

"No! how was that?"

"I will tell thee," replied Golden-skin:--

THE STORY OF THE JACKAL, DEER, AND CROW

"Far away in Behar there is a forest called Champak-Grove,[7] and in it

had long lived in much affection a Deer and a Crow. The Deer, roaming

unrestrained, happy and fat of carcase, was one day descried by a

Jackal. 'Ho! ho!' thought the Jackal on observing him, 'if I could but

get this soft meat for a meal! It might be--if I can only win his

confidence,' Thus reflecting he approached, and saluted him.

'Health be to thee, friend Deer!'

'Who art thou?' said the Deer.

'I'm Small-wit, the Jackal,' replied the other. 'I live in the wood

here, as the dead do, without a friend; but now that I have met with

such a friend as thou, I feel as if I were beginning life again with

plenty of relations. Consider me your faithful servant.'

'Very well,' said the Deer; and then, as the glorious King of Day, whose

diadem is the light, had withdrawn himself, the two went together to the

residence of the Deer. In that same spot, on a branch of Champak, dwelt

the Crow Sharp-sense, an old friend of the Deer. Seeing them approach

together, the Crow said,

'Who is this number two, friend Deer?'

'It is a Jackal,' answered the Deer, 'that desires our acquaintance.'

'You should not become friendly to a stranger without reason,' said

Sharp-sense. 'Don't you know?'

"To folks by no one known house-room deny:--

The Vulture housed the Cat, and thence did die."

'No! how was that?' said both.

'In this wise,' answered the Crow.

THE STORY OF THE VULTURE, THE CAT, AND THE BIRDS

"On the banks of the Ganges there is a cliff called Vulture-Crag, and

thereupon grew a great fig-tree. It was hollow, and within its shelter

lived an old Vulture, named Grey-pate, whose hard fortune it was to have

lost both eyes and talons. The birds that roosted in the tree made

subscriptions from their own store, out of sheer pity for the poor

fellow, and by that means he managed to live. One day, when the old

birds were gone, Long-ear, the Cat, came there to get a meal of the

nestlings; and they, alarmed at perceiving him, set up a chirruping that

roused Grey-pate.

'Who comes there?' croaked Grey-pate.

"Now Long-ear, on espying the Vulture, thought himself undone; but as

flight was impossible, he resolved to trust his destiny and approach.

'My lord,' said he, 'I have the honor to salute thee.'

'Who is it?' said the Vulture.

'I am a Cat,'

'Be off, Cat, or I shall slay thee,' said the Vulture.

'I am ready to die if I deserve death,' answered the Cat; 'but let what

I have to say be heard,'

'Wherefore, then, comest thou?' said the Vulture.

'I live,' began Long-ear, 'on the Ganges, bathing, and eating no flesh,

practising the moon-penance,[8] like a Bramacharya. The birds that

resort thither constantly praise your worship to me as one wholly given

to the study of morality, and worthy of all trust; and so I came here to

learn law from thee, Sir, who art so deep gone in learning and in years.

Dost thou, then, so read the law of strangers as to be ready to slay a

guest? What say the books about the householder?--

'Bar thy door not to the stranger, be he friend or be he foe,

For the tree will shade the woodman while his axe doth lay it low,'

And if means fail, what there is should be given with kind words, as--

'Greeting fair, and room to rest in; fire, and water from the well--

Simple gifts--are given freely in the house where good men dwell,'--

and without respect of person--

'Young, or bent with many winters; rich, or poor, whate'er thy guest,

Honor him for thine own honor--better is he than the best,'

Else comes the rebuke--

'Pity them that ask thy pity: who art thou to stint thy hoard,

When the holy moon shines equal on the leper and the lord!'

And that other, too,

'When thy gate is roughly fastened, and the asker turns away,

Thence he bears thy good deeds with him, and his sins on thee doth lay

For verily,

'In the house the husband ruleth, men the Brahmans "master" call;

Agni is the Twice-born Master--but the guest is lord of all,'

"To these weighty words Grey-pate answered,

'Yes! but cats like meat, and there are young birds here, and therefore

I said, go,'

'Sir,' said the Cat (and as he spoke he touched the ground, and then his

two ears, and called on Krishna to witness to his words), 'I that have

overcome passion, and practised the moon-penance, know the Scriptures;

and howsoever they contend, in this primal duty of abstaining from

injury they are unanimous. Which of them sayeth not--

'He who does and thinks no wrong--

He who suffers, being strong--

He whose harmlessness men know--

Unto Swerga such doth go.'

"And so, winning the old Vulture's confidence, Long-ear, the Cat,

entered the hollow tree and lived there. And day after day he stole away

some of the nestlings, and brought them down to the hollow to devour.

Meantime the parent birds, whose little ones were being eaten, made an

inquiry after them in all quarters; and the Cat, discovering this fact,

slipped out from the hollow, and made his escape. Afterwards, when the

birds came to look closely, they found the bones of their young ones in

the hollow of the tree where Grey-pate lived; and the birds at once

concluded that their nestlings had been killed and eaten by the old

Vulture, whom they accordingly executed. That is my story, and why I

warned you against unknown acquaintances."

"Sir," said the Jackal, with some warmth, "on the first day of your

encountering the Deer you also were of unknown family and character: how

is it, then, that your friendship with him grows daily greater? True, I

am only Small-wit, the Jackal, but what says the saw?--

"In the land where no wise men are, men of little wit are lords;

And the castor-oil's a tree, where no tree else its shade affords."

The Deer is my friend; condescend, sir, to be my friend also."

'Oh!' broke in the Deer, 'why so much talking? We'll all live together,

and be friendly and happy--

'Foe is friend, and friend is foe,

As our actions make them so,'

"Very good," said Sharp-sense; "as you will;" and in the morning each

started early for his own feeding-ground (returning at night). One day

the Jackal drew the Deer aside, and whispered, 'Deer, in one corner of

this wood there is a field full of sweet young wheat; come and let me

show you.' The Deer accompanied him, and found the field, and afterwards

went every day there to eat the green corn, till at last the owner of

the ground spied him and set a snare. The Deer came again very shortly,

and was caught in it, and (after vainly struggling) exclaimed, 'I am

fast in the net, and it will be a net of death to me if no friend comes

to rescue me!' Presently Small-wit, the Jackal, who had been lurking

near, made his appearance, and standing still, he said to himself, with

a chuckle, 'O ho! my scheme bears fruit! When he is cut up, his bones,

and gristle, and blood, will fall to my share and make me some beautiful

dinners,' The Deer, here catching sight of him, exclaimed with rapture,

'Ah, friend, this is excellent! Do but gnaw these strings, and I shall

be at liberty. How charming to realize the saying!--

'That friend only is the true friend who is near when trouble comes;

That man only is the brave man who can bear the battle-drums;

Words are wind; deed proveth promise: he who helps at need is kin;

And the leal wife is loving though the husband lose or win,'

And is it not written--

'Friend and kinsman--more their meaning than the idle-hearted mind.

Many a friend can prove unfriendly, many a kinsman less than kind:

He who shares his comrade's portion, be he beggar, be he lord,

Comes as truly, comes as duly, to the battle as the board--

Stands before the king to succor, follows to the pile to sigh--

He is friend, and he is kinsman--less would make the name a lie.'

"Small-wit answered nothing, but betook himself to examining the snare

very closely.

'This will certainly hold,' muttered he; then, turning to the Deer, he

said, 'Good friend, these strings, you see, are made of sinew, and

to-day is a fast-day, so that I cannot possibly bite them. To-morrow

morning, if you still desire it, I shall be happy to serve you,'

When he was gone, the Crow, who had missed the Deer upon returning that

evening, and had sought for him everywhere, discovered him; and seeing

his sad plight, exclaimed--

'How came this about, my friend?'

'This came,' replied the Deer, 'through disregarding a friend's advice,'

'Where is that rascal Small-wit?' asked the Crow.

'He is waiting somewhere by,' said the Deer, 'to taste my flesh,'

'Well,' sighed the Crow, 'I warned you; but it is as in the true verse--

'Stars gleam, lamps flicker, friends foretell of fate;

The fated sees, knows, hears them--all too late.'

And then, with a deeper sigh, he exclaimed,'Ah, traitor Jackal, what an

ill deed hast thou done! Smooth-tongued knave--alas!--and in the face of

the monition too--

'Absent, flatterers' tongues are daggers--present, softer than the

silk;

Shun them! 'tis a jar of poison hidden under harmless milk;

Shun them when they promise little! Shun them when they promise much!

For, enkindled, charcoal burneth--cold, it doth defile the touch.'

When the day broke, the Crow (who was still there) saw the master of the

field approaching with his club in his hand.

'Now, friend Deer,' said Sharp-sense on perceiving him, 'do thou cause

thyself to seem like one dead: puff thy belly up with wind, stiffen thy

legs out, and lie very still. I will make a show of pecking thine eyes

out with my beak; and whensoever I utter a croak, then spring to thy

feet and betake thee to flight.'

The Deer thereon placed himself exactly as the Crow suggested, and was

very soon espied by the husbandman, whose eyes opened with joy at the

sight.

'Aha!' said he, 'the fellow has died of himself,' and so speaking, he

released the Deer from the snare, and proceeded to gather and lay aside

his nets. At that instant Sharp-sense uttered a loud croak, and the Deer

sprang up and made off. And the club which the husbandman flung after

him in a rage struck Small-wit, the Jackal (who was close by), and

killed him. Is it not said, indeed?--

'In years, or moons, or half-moons three,

Or in three days--suddenly,

Knaves are shent--true men go free,'

"Thou seest, then," said Golden-skin, "there can be no friendship

between food and feeder."

"I should hardly," replied the Crow, "get a large breakfast out of your

worship; but as to that indeed you have nothing to fear from me. I am

not often angry, and if I were, you know--

'Anger comes to noble natures, but leaves there no strife or storm:

Plunge a lighted torch beneath it, and the ocean grows not warm.'

"Then, also, thou art such a gad-about," objected the King.

"Maybe," answered Light o' Leap; "but I am bent on winning thy

friendship, and I will die at thy door of fasting if thou grantest it

not. Let us be friends! for

'Noble hearts are golden vases--close the bond true metals make;

Easily the smith may weld them, harder far it is to break.

Evil hearts are earthen vessels--at a touch they crack a-twain,

And what craftsman's ready cunning can unite the shards again?'

And then, too,

'Good men's friendships may be broken, yet abide they friends at heart;

Snap the stem of Luxmee's lotus, and its fibres will not part.'

"Good sir," said the King of the Mice, "your conversation is as pleasing

as pearl necklets or oil of sandal-wood in hot weather. Be it as you

will"--and thereon King Golden-skin made a treaty with the Crow, and

after gratifying him with the best of his store reëntered his hole. The

Crow returned to his accustomed perch:--and thenceforward the time

passed in mutual presents of food, in polite inquiries, and the most

unrestrained talk. One day Light o' Leap thus accosted Golden-skin:--

"This is a poor place, your Majesty, for a Crow to get a living in. I

should like to leave it and go elsewhere."

"Whither wouldst thou go?" replied the King; they say,

'One foot goes, and one foot stands,

When the wise man leaves his lands.'

"And they say, too," answered the Crow,

'Over-love of home were weakness; wheresoever the hero come,

Stalwart arm and steadfast spirit find or win for him a home.

Little recks the awless lion where his hunting jungles lie--

When he enters it be certain that a royal prey shall die,'

"I know an excellent jungle now."

"Which is that?" asked the Mouse-king.

"In the Nerbudda woods, by Camphor-water," replied the Crow. "There is

an old and valued friend of mine lives there--Slow-toes his name is, a

very virtuous Tortoise; he will regale me with fish and good things."

"Why should I stay behind," said Golden-skin, "if thou goest? Take me

also."

Accordingly, the two set forth together, enjoying charming converse upon

the road. Slow-toes perceived Light o' Leap a long way off, and hastened

to do him the guest-rites, extending them to the Mouse upon Light o'

Leap's introduction.

"Good Slow-toes," said he, "this is Golden-skin, King of the Mice--pay

all honor to him--he is burdened with virtues--a very jewel-mine of

kindnesses. I don't know if the Prince of all the Serpents, with his two

thousand tongues, could rightly repeat them." So speaking, he told the

story of Speckle-neck. Thereupon Slow-toes made a profound obeisance to

Golden-skin, and said, "How came your Majesty, may I ask, to retire to

an unfrequented forest?"

"I will tell you," said the King. "You must know that in the town of

Champaka there is a college for the devotees. Unto this resorted daily a

beggar-priest, named Chudakarna, whose custom was to place his

begging-dish upon the shelf, with such alms in it as he had not eaten,

and go to sleep by it; and I, so soon as he slept, used to jump up, and

devour the meal. One day a great friend of his, named Vinakarna, also a

mendicant, came to visit him; and observed that while conversing, he

kept striking the ground with a split cane, to frighten me. 'Why don't

you listen?' said Vinakarna. 'I am listening!' replied the other; 'but

this plaguy mouse is always eating the meal out of my begging-dish,'

Vinakarna looked at the shelf and remarked, 'However can a mouse jump as

high as this? There must be a reason, though there seems none. I guess

the cause--the fellow is well off and fat,' With these words Vinakarna

snatched up a shovel, discovered my retreat, and took away all my hoard

of provisions. After that I lost strength daily, had scarcely energy

enough to get my dinner, and, in fact, crept about so wretchedly, that

when Chudakarna saw me he fell to quoting--

'Very feeble folk are poor folk; money lost takes wit away:--

All their doings fail like runnels, wasting through the summer day.'

"Yes!" I thought, "he is right, and so are the sayings--

'Wealth is friends, home, father, brother--title to respect and fame;

Yea, and wealth is held for wisdom--that it should be so is shame,'

'Home is empty to the childless; hearts to them who friends deplore:--

Earth unto the idle-minded; and the three worlds to the poor.'

'I can stay here no longer; and to tell my distress to another is out of

the question--altogether out of the question!--

'Say the sages, nine things name not: Age, domestic joys and woes,

Counsel, sickness, shame, alms, penance; neither Poverty disclose.

Better for the proud of spirit, death, than life with losses told;

Fire consents to be extinguished, but submits not to be cold.'

'Verily he was wise, methought also, who wrote--

'As Age doth banish beauty,

As moonlight dies in gloom,

As Slavery's menial duty

Is Honor's certain tomb;

As Hari's name and Hara's

Spoken, charm sin away,

So Poverty can surely

A hundred virtues slay.'

'And as to sustaining myself on another man's bread, that,' I mused,

'would be but a second door of death. Say not the books the same?--

'Half-known knowledge, present pleasure purchased with a future woe,

And to taste the salt of service--greater griefs no man can know.'

'And herein, also--

'All existence is not equal, and all living is not life;

Sick men live; and he who, banished, pines for children, home, and

wife;

And the craven-hearted eater of another's leavings lives,

And the wretched captive waiting for the word of doom survives;

But they bear an anguished body, and they draw a deadly breath,

And life cometh to them only on the happy day of death.'

Yet, after all these reflections, I was covetous enough to make one

more attempt on Chudakarna's meal, and got a blow from the split cane

for my pains. 'Just so,' I said to myself, 'the soul and organs of the

discontented want keeping in subjection. I must be done with

discontent:--

'Golden gift, serene Contentment! have thou that, and all is had; Thrust

thy slipper on, and think thee that the earth is leather-clad.'

'All is known, digested, tested; nothing new is left to learn When the

soul, serene, reliant, Hope's delusive dreams can spurn.'

'And the sorry task of seeking favor is numbered in the miseries of

life--

'Hast thou never watched, a-waiting till the great man's door unbarred?

Didst thou never linger parting, saying many a last sad word? Spak'st

thou never word of folly, one light thing thou wouldst recall? Rare and

noble hath thy life been! fair thy fortune did befall!'

'No!' exclaimed I, 'I will do none of these; but, by retiring into the

quiet and untrodden forest, I will show my discernment of real good and

ill. The holy Books counsel it--

'True Religion!--'tis not blindly prating what the priest may prate, But

to love, as God hath loved them, all things, be they small or great; And

true bliss is when a sane mind doth a healthy body fill; And true

knowledge is the knowing what is good and what is ill.'

"So came I to the forest, where, by good fortune and this good friend, I

met much kindness; and by the same good fortune have encountered you,

Sir, whose friendliness is as Heaven to me. Ah! Sir Tortoise,

'Poisonous though the tree of life be, two fair blossoms grow thereon:

One, the company of good men; and sweet songs of Poet's, one.'

"King!" said Slow-toes, "your error was getting too much, without

giving. Give, says the sage--

'Give, and it shall swell thy getting; give, and thou shalt safer keep:

Pierce the tank-wall; or it yieldeth, when the water waxes deep.'

And he is very hard upon money-grubbing: as thus--

'When the miser hides his treasure in the earth, he doeth well;

For he opens up a passage that his soul may sink to hell,'

And thus--

'He whose coins are kept for counting, not to barter nor to give,

Breathe he like a blacksmith's bellows, yet in truth he doth not live.'

It hath been well written, indeed,

'Gifts, bestowed with words of kindness, making giving doubly dear:--

Wisdom, deep, complete, benignant, of all arrogancy clear;

Valor, never yet forgetful of sweet Mercy's pleading prayer;

Wealth, and scorn of wealth to spend it--oh! but these be virtues

rare!'

"Frugal one may be," continued Slow-toes; "but not a niggard like the

Jackal--

'The Jackal-knave, that starved his spirit so,

And died of saving, by a broken bow.'

"Did he, indeed," said Golden-skin; "and how was that?"

"I will tell you," answered Slow-toes:--

THE STORY OF THE DEAD GAME AND THE JACKAL

"In a town called 'Well-to-Dwell' there lived a mighty hunter, whose

name was 'Grim-face,' Feeling a desire one day for a little venison, he

took his bow, and went into the woods; where he soon killed a deer. As

he was carrying the deer home, he came upon a wild boar of prodigious

proportions. Laying the deer upon the earth, he fixed and discharged an

arrow and struck the boar, which instantly rushed upon him with a roar

louder than the last thunder, and ripped the hunter up. He fell like a

tree cut by the axe, and lay dead along with the boar, and a snake also,

which had been crushed by the feet of the combatants. Not long

afterwards, there came that way, in his prowl for food, a Jackal, named

'Howl o' Nights,' and cast eyes on the hunter, the deer, the boar, and

the snake lying dead together. 'Aha!' said he, 'what luck! Here's a

grand dinner got ready for me! Good fortune can come, I see, as well as

ill fortune. Let me think:--the man will be fine pickings for a month;

the deer with the boar will last two more; the snake will do for

to-morrow; and, as I am very particularly hungry, I will treat myself

now to this bit of meat on the bow-horn,' So saying, he began to gnaw it

asunder, and the bow-string slipping, the bow sprang back, and resolved

Howl o' Nights into the five elements by death. That is my story,"

continued Slow-toes, "and its application is for the wise:--

'Sentences of studied wisdom, nought avail they unapplied;

Though the blind man hold a lantern, yet his footsteps stray aside.'

The secret of success, indeed, is a free, contented, and yet

enterprising mind. How say the books thereon?--

'Wouldst thou know whose happy dwelling Fortune entereth unknown?

His, who careless of her favor, standeth fearless in his own;

His, who for the vague to-morrow barters not the sure to-day--

Master of himself, and sternly steadfast to the rightful way:

Very mindful of past service, valiant, faithful, true of heart--

Unto such comes Lakshmi[9] smiling--comes, and will not lightly part.'

"What indeed," continued Slow-toes, "is wealth, that we should prize it,

or grieve to lose it?--

'Be not haughty, being wealthy; droop not, having lost thine all;

Fate doth play with mortal fortunes as a girl doth toss her ball.'

It is unstable by nature. We are told--

'Worldly friendships, fair but fleeting, shadows of the clouds at noon

Women, youth, new corn, and riches--these be pleasures passing soon.'

And it is idle to be anxious; the Master of Life knows how to sustain

it. Is it not written?--

'For thy bread be not o'er thoughtful--God for all hath taken thought:

When the babe is born, the sweet milk to the mother's breast is

brought.

He who gave the swan her silver, and the hawk her plumes of pride,

And his purples to the peacock--He will verily provide.'

"Yes, verily," said Slow-toes, "wealth is bad to handle, and better left

alone; there is no truer saying than this--

'Though for good ends, waste not on wealth a minute;

Mud may be wiped, but wise men plunge not in it.'

Hearing the wisdom of these monitions, Light o' Leap broke out, 'Good

Slow-toes! thou art a wise protector of those that come to thee; thy

learning comforts my enlightened friend, as elephants drag elephants

from the mire,' And thus, on the best of terms, wandering where they

pleased for food, the three lived there together.

One day it chanced that a Deer named Dapple-back, who had seen some

cause of alarm in the forest, came suddenly upon the three in his

flight. Thinking the danger imminent, Slow-toes dropped into the water,

King Golden-skin slipped into his hole, and Light o' Leap flew up into

the top of a high tree. Thence he looked all round to a great distance,

but could discover nothing. So they all came back again, and sat down

together. Slow-toes welcomed the Deer.

'Good Deer,' said he, 'may grass and water never fail thee at thy need.

Gratify us by residing here, and consider this forest thine own.'

'Indeed,' answered Dapple-back, 'I came hither for your protection,

flying from a hunter; and to live with you in friendship is my greatest

desire.'

'Then the thing is settled,' observed Golden-skin.

'Yes! yes!' said Light o' Leap, 'make yourself altogether at home!'

So the Deer, charmed at his reception, ate grass and drank water, and

laid himself down in the shade of a Banyan-tree to talk. Who does not

know?--

'Brunettes, and the Banyan's shadow,

Well-springs, and a brick-built wall.

Are all alike cool in the summer,

And warm in the winter--all.'

'What made thee alarmed, friend Deer?' began Slow-toes. 'Do hunters ever

come to this unfrequented forest?'

'I have heard,' replied Dapple-back, 'that the Prince of the Kalinga

country, Rukmangada, is coming here. He is even now encamped on the

Cheenab River, on his march to subjugate the borders; and the hunters

have been heard to say that he will halt to-morrow by this very lake of

"Camphor-water." Don't you think, as it is dangerous to stay, that we

ought to resolve on something?'

'I shall certainly go to another pool,' exclaimed Slow-toes.

'It would be better,' answered the Crow and Deer together.

'Yes!' remarked the King of the Mice, after a minute's thought; 'but how

is Slow-toes to get across the country in time? Animals like our

amphibious host are best in the water; on land he might suffer from his

own design, like the merchant's son--

'The merchant's son laid plans for gains,

And saw his wife kissed for his pains.'

'How came that about?' asked all. "I'll tell you," answered Golden-skin.

THE PRINCE AND THE WIFE OF THE MERCHANT'S SON

"In the country of Kanouj there was a King named Virasena, and he made

his son viceroy of a city called Virapoora. The Prince was rich,

handsome, and in the bloom of youth. Passing through the streets of his

city one day, he observed a very lovely woman, whose name was

Lávanyavati--i.e., the Beautiful--the wife of a merchant's son. On

reaching his palace, full of her charms and of passionate admiration for

them, he despatched a message to her, and a letter, by a female

attendant:--who wonders at it?--

'Ah! the gleaming, glancing arrows of a lovely woman's eye!

Feathered with her jetty lashes, perilous they pass us by:--

Loosed at venture from the black bows of her arching brow they part,

All too penetrant and deadly for an undefended heart.'

Now Lávanyavati, from the moment she saw the Prince, was hit with the

same weapon of love that wounded him; but upon hearing the message of

the attendant, she refused with dignity to receive his letter.

'I am my husband's,' she said, 'and that is my honor; for--

'Beautiful the Koíl[10] seemeth for the sweetness of his song,

Beautiful the world esteemeth pious souls for patience strong;

Homely features lack not favor when true wisdom they reveal,

And a wife is fair and honored while her heart is firm and leal.'

What the lord of my life enjoins, that I do.'

'Is such my answer?' asked the attendant.

'It is,' said Lávanyavati.

Upon the messenger reporting her reply to the Prince, he was in despair.

'The God of the five shafts has hit me,' he exclaimed, 'and only her

presence will cure my wound.'

'We must make her husband bring her, then,' said the messenger.

'That can never be,' replied the Prince.

'It can,' replied the messenger--

'Fraud may achieve what force would never try:--

The Jackal killed the Elephant thereby.'

'How was that?' asked the Prince. The Slave related:--

THE STORY OF THE OLD JACKAL AND THE ELEPHANT

"In the forest of Brahma[11] lived an Elephant, whose name was

'White-front.' The Jackals knew him, and said among themselves, 'If this

great brute would but die, there would be four months' food for us, and

plenty, out of his carcase.' With that an old Jackal stood up, and

pledged himself to compass the death of the Elephant by his own wit.

Accordingly, he sought for 'White-front,' and, going up to him, he made

the reverential prostration of the eight members, gravely saluting him.

'Divine creature,' said he, 'vouchsafe me the regard of one look.'

'Who art thou?' grunted the Elephant,'and whence comest thou?'

'I am only a Jackal,' said the other; 'but the beasts of the forest are

convinced that it is not expedient to live without a king, and they have

met in full council, and despatched me to acquaint your Royal Highness

that on you, endowed with so many lordly qualities, their choice has

fallen for a sovereign over the forest here; for--

'Who is just, and strong, and wise?

Who is true to social ties?

He is formed for Emperies.

Let your Majesty, therefore, repair thither at once, that the moment of

fortunate conjunction may not escape us.' So saying he led the way,

followed at a great pace by White-front, who was eager to commence his

reign.

"Presently the Jackal brought him upon a deep slough, into which he

plunged heavily before he could stop himself.

'Good master Jackal,' cried the Elephant,'what's to do now? I am up to

my belly in this quagmire.'

'Perhaps your Majesty,' said the Jackal, with an impudent laugh, 'will

condescend to take hold of the tip of my brush with your trunk, and so

get out.'

'Then White-front, the Elephant, knew that he had been deceived; and

thus he sank in the slime, and was devoured by the Jackals. Hence,'

continued the attendant, 'is why I suggested stratagem to your

Highness,'

Shortly afterwards, by the Slave's advice, the Prince sent for the

merchant's son (whose name was Charudatta), and appointed him to be near

his person; and one day, with the same design, when he was just come

from the bath, and had on his jewels, he summoned Charudatta, and said--

"I have a vow to keep to Gauri--bring hither to me every evening for a

month some lady of good family, that I may do honor to her, according to

my vow; and begin to-day."

Charudatta in due course brought a lady of quality, and, having

introduced her, retired to watch the interview. The Prince, without even

approaching his fair visitor, made her the most respectful obeisances,

and dismissed her with gifts of ornaments, sandal-wood, and perfumes,

under the protection of a guard. This made Charudatta confident, and

longing to get some of these princely presents he brought his own wife

next evening. When the Prince recognized the charming Lávanyavati--the

joy of his soul--he sprang to meet her, and kissed and caressed her

without the least restraint. At sight of this the miserable Charudatta

stood transfixed with despair--the very picture of wretchedness'----

'And you too, Slow-toes--but where is he gone?' abruptly asked King

Golden-skin.

Now Slow-toes had not chosen to wait the end of the story, but was gone

before, and Golden-skin and the others followed him up in some anxiety.

The Tortoise had been painfully travelling along, until a hunter, who

was beating the wood for game, had overtaken him. The fellow, who was

very hungry, picked him up, fastened him on his bow-stick, and set off

for home; while the Deer, the Crow, and the Mouse, who had witnessed

the capture, followed them in terrible concern. 'Alas!' cried the

Mouse-king, 'he is gone!--and such a friend!

'Friend! gracious word!--the heart to tell is ill able

Whence came to men this jewel of a syllable.'

'Let us,' continued he to his companions, 'let us make one attempt, at

least, to rescue Slow-toes before the hunter is out of the wood!'

'Only tell us how to do it,' replied they.

'Do thus,' said Golden-skin: 'let Dapple-back hasten on to the water,

and lie down there and make himself appear dead; and do you, Light o'

Leap, hover over him and peck about his body. The hunter is sure to put

the Tortoise down to get the venison, and I will gnaw his bonds.'

'The Deer and the Crow started at once; and the hunter, who was sitting

down to rest under a tree and drinking water, soon caught sight of the

Deer, apparently dead. Drawing his wood-knife, and putting the Tortoise

down by the water, he hastened to secure the Deer, and Golden-skin, in

the meantime, gnawed asunder the string that held Slow-toes, who

instantly dropped into the pool. The Deer, of course, when the hunter

got near, sprang up and made off, and when he returned to the tree the

Tortoise was gone also. "I deserve this," thought he--

'Whoso for greater quits his gain,

Shall have his labor for his pain;

The things unwon unwon remain,

And what was won is lost again.'

And so lamenting, he went to his village. Slow-toes and his friends,

quit of all fears, repaired together to their new habitations, and there

lived happily.

Then spake the King Sudarsana's sons, "We have heard every word, and are

delighted; it fell out just as we wished."

"I rejoice thereat, my Princes," said Vishnu-Sarman; "may it also fall

out according to this my wish--

"Lakshmi give you friends like these!

Lakshmi keep your lands in ease!

Set, your sovereign thrones beside,

Policy, a winsome bride!

And He, whose forehead-jewel is the moon

Give peace to us and all--serene and soon."

[3] Used in many religious observances by the Hindoos.

[4] Heaven, earth, and the lower regions.

[5] The Hindoo accounts for the origin of evil by this theory of a

series of existences continued until the balance is just, and the soul

has purified itself. Every fault must have its expiation and every

higher faculty its development; pain and misery being signs of the

ordeals in the trial, which is to end in the happy re-absorption of the

emancipated spirit.

[6] The mouse, as vehicle of Gunesh, is an important animal in Hindoo

legend.

[7] The champak is a bushy tree, bearing a profusion of star-like

blossoms with golden centres, and of the most pleasing perfume.

[8] A religious observance. The devotee commences the penance at the

full moon with an allowance of fifteen mouthfuls for his food,

diminishing this by one mouthful each day, till on the fifteenth it is

reduced to one. As the new moon increases, his allowance ascends to its

original proportion.

[9] The wife of Vishnoo, Goddess of beauty and abundance.

[10] The black or Indian cuckoo.

[11] A grove where the Vedas are read and expounded.

THE PARTING OF FRIENDS

Then spake the Royal Princes to Vishnu-Sarman,

"Reverend Sir! we have listened to the 'Winning of Friends,' we would

now hear how friends are parted."

"Attend, then," replied the Sage, "to 'the Parting of Friends,' the

first couplet of which runs in this wise--

'The Jackal set--of knavish cunning full--

At loggerheads the Lion and the Bull.'

"How was that?" asked the sons of the Rajah.

Vishnu-Sarman proceeded to relate:--

THE STORY OF THE LION, THE JACKALS, AND THE BULL

"In the Deccan there is a city called Golden-town, and a wealthy

merchant lived there named Well-to-do. He had abundant means, but as

many of his relations were even yet richer, his mind was bent: upon

outdoing them by gaining more. Enough is never what we have--

'Looking down on lives below them, men of little store are great;

Looking up to higher fortunes, hard to each man seems his fate.'

And is not wealth won by courage and enterprise?--

'As a bride, unwisely wedded, shuns the cold caress of eld,

So, from coward souls and slothful, Lakshmi's favors turn repelled.'

'Ease, ill-health, home-keeping, sleeping, woman-service, and content--

In the path that leads to greatness these be six obstructions sent.'

And wealth that increases not, diminishes--a little gain is so far

good--

'Seeing how the soorma wasteth, seeing how the ant-hill grows,

Little adding unto little--live, give, learn, as life-time goes.'

'Drops of water falling, falling, falling, brim the chatty o'er;

Wisdom comes in little lessons--little gains make largest store.'

Moved by these reflections Well-to-do loaded a cart with wares of all

kinds, yoked two bulls to it, named Lusty-life and Roarer, and started

for Kashmir to trade. He had not gone far upon his journey when in

passing through a great forest called Bramble-wood, Lusty-life slipped

down and broke his foreleg. At sight of this disaster Well-to-do fell

a-thinking, and repeated--

'Men their cunning schemes may spin--

God knows who shall lose or win.'

Comforting himself with such philosophy, Well-to-do left Lusty-life

there, and went on his way. The Bull watched him depart, and stood

mournfully on three legs, alone in the forest. 'Well, well,' he thought,

'it is all destiny whether I live or die:--

'Shoot a hundred shafts, the quarry lives and flies--not due to death;

When his hour is come, a grass-blade hath a point to stop his breath.'

As the days passed by, and Lusty-life picked about in the tender forest

grass, he grew wonderfully well, and fat of carcase, and happy, and

bellowed about the wood as though it were his own. Now, the reigning

monarch of the forest was King Tawny-hide the Lion, who ruled over the

whole country absolutely, by right of having deposed everybody else. Is

not might right?--

'Robes were none, nor oil of unction, when the King of Beasts was

crowned:--

'Twas his own fierce roar proclaimed him, rolling all his kingdom

round.'

One morning, his Majesty, being exceedingly thirsty, had repaired to the

bank of the Jumna to drink water, and just as he was about to lap it,

the bellow of Lusty-life, awful as the thunder of the last day, reached

the imperial ears. Upon catching the sound the King retreated in

trepidation to his own lair, without drinking a drop, and stood there in

silence and alarm revolving what it could mean. In this position he was

observed by the sons of his minister, two jackals named Karataka and

Damanaka, who began to remark upon it.

'Friend Karataka,' said the last,'what makes our royal master slink away

from the river when he was dying to drink?'

'Why should we care?' replied Karataka. 'It's bad enough to serve him,

and be neglected for our pains--

'Oh, the bitter salt of service!--toil, frost, fire, are not so keen:--

Half such heavy penance bearing, tender consciences were clean.'

'Nay, friend! never think thus,' said Damanaka--

'What but for their vassals,

Elephant and man--

Swing of golden tassels,

Wave of silken fan--

But for regal manner

That the "Chattra"[12] brings,

Horse, and foot, and banner--

What would come of kings?'

'I care not,' replied Karataka; 'we have nothing to do with it, and

matters that don't concern us are best left alone. You know the story of

the Monkey, don't you?'--

'The Monkey drew the sawyer's wedge, and died:--

Let meddlers mark it, and be edified.'

'No!' said Damanaka. 'How was it?'

'In this way,' answered Karataka:--

THE STORY OF THE MONKEY AND THE WEDGE

"In South Behar, close by the retreat of Dhurmma, there was an open plot

of ground, upon which a temple was in course of erection, under the

management of a man of the Káyeth caste, named Subhadatta. A carpenter

upon the works had partly sawed through a long beam of wood, and wedged

it open, and was gone away, leaving the wedge fixed. Shortly afterwards

a large herd of monkeys came frolicking that way, and one of their

number, directed doubtless by the Angel of death, got astride the beam,

and grasped the wedge, with his tail and lower parts dangling down

between the pieces of the wood. Not content with this, in the mischief

natural to monkeys, he began to tug at the wedge; till at last it

yielded to a great effort and came out; when the wood closed upon him,

and jammed him all fast. So perished the monkey, miserably crushed; and

I say again--

'Let meddlers mark it, and be edified.'

'But surely,' argued Damanaka, 'servants are bound to watch the

movements of their masters!'

'Let the prime minister do it, then,' answered Karataka; 'it is his

business to overlook things, and subordinates shouldn't interfere in the

department of their chief. You might get ass's thanks for it--

'The Ass that hee-hawed, when the dog should do it,

For his lord's welfare, like an ass did rue it.'

Damanaka asked how that happened, and Karataka related:--

THE STORY OF THE WASHERMAN'S JACKASS

"There was a certain Washerman at Benares, whose name was Carpúrapataka,

and he had an Ass and a Dog in his courtyard; the first tethered, and

the last roaming loose. Once on a time, when he had been spending his

morning in the society of his wife, whom he had just married, and had

fallen to sleep in her arms, a robber entered the house, and began to

carry off his goods. The Ass observed the occupation of the thief, and

was much concerned.

'Good Dog,' said he, 'this is thy matter: why dost thou not bark aloud,

and rouse the master?'

'Gossip Ass,' replied the Dog, 'leave me alone to guard the premises. I

can do it, if I choose; but the truth is, this master of ours thinks

himself so safe lately that he clean forgets me, and I don't find my

allowance of food nearly regular enough. Masters will do so; and a

little fright will put him in mind of his defenders again.'

'Thou scurvy cur!' exclaimed the Ass--

'At the work-time, asking wages--is it like a faithful herd?'

'Thou extreme Ass!' replied the Dog.

'When the work's done, grudging wages--is that acting like a lord?'

'Mean-spirited beast,' retorted the Ass, 'who neglectest thy master's

business! Well, then, I at least will endeavor to arouse him; it is no

less than religion,

'Serve the Sun with sweat of body; starve thy maw to feed the flame;

Stead thy lord with all thy service; to thy death go, quit of blame.'

So saying, he put forth his very best braying. The Washerman sprang up

at the noise, and missing the thief, turned in a rage upon the Ass for

disturbing him, and beat it with a cudgel to such an extent that the

blows resolved the poor animal into the five elements of death. 'So

that,' continued Karataka, 'is why I say, Let the prime minister look to

him. The hunting for prey is our duty--let us stick to it, then. And

this,' he said, with a meditative look, 'need not trouble us to-day; for

we have a capital dish of the royal leavings.'

'What!' said Damanaka, rough with rage, 'dost thou serve the King for

the sake of thy belly? Why take any such trouble to preserve an

existence like thine?--

'Many prayers for him are uttered whereon many a life relies;

'Tis but one poor fool the fewer when the gulping Raven dies.'

For assisting friends, and defeating enemies also, the service of kings

is desirable. To enter upon it for a mere living makes the thing low

indeed. There must be dogs and elephants; but servants need not be like

hungry curs, while their masters are noble. What say the books?

'Give thy Dog the merest mouthful, and he crouches at thy feet,

Wags his tail, and fawns, and grovels, in his eagerness to eat;

Bid the Elephant be feeding, and the best of fodder bring;

Gravely--after much entreaty--condescends that mighty king.'

'Well, well!' said Karataka; 'the books are nothing to us, who are not

councillors.'

'But we may come to be,' replied Damanaka; 'men rise, not by chance or

nature, but by exertions--

'By their own deeds men go downward, by them men mount upward all,

Like the diggers of a well, and like the builders of a wall.'

Advancement is slow--but that is in the nature of things--

'Rushes down the hill the crag, which upward 'twas so hard to roll:

So to virtue slowly rises--so to vice quick sinks the soul.'

'Very good,' observed Karataka; 'but what is all this talk about?'

'Why! don't you see our Royal Master there, and how he came home without

drinking? I know he has been horribly frightened,' said Damanaka.

'How do you know it?' asked the other.

'By my perception--at a glance!' replied Damanaka; 'and I mean to make

out of this occasion that which shall put his Majesty at my disposal,'

'Now,' exclaimed Karataka, 'it is thou who art ignorant about service--

'Who speaks unasked, or comes unbid,

Or counts on favor--will be chid.'

'I ignorant about service!' said Damanaka; 'no, no, my friend, I know

the secret of it--

'Wise, modest, constant, ever close at hand,

Not weighing but obeying all command,

Such servant by a Monarch's throne may stand.'

'In any case, the King often rates thee,' remarked Karataka, 'for coming

to the presence unsummoned.'

'A dependent,' replied Damanaka, 'should nevertheless present himself;

he must make himself known to the great man, at any risk--

'Pitiful, that fearing failure, therefore no beginning makes,

Who forswears his daily dinner for the chance of stomach-aches?'

and besides, to be near is at last to be needful;--is it not said--

'Nearest to the King is dearest, be thy merit low or high;

Women, creeping plants, and princes, twine round that which groweth

nigh.'

'Well,' inquired Karataka, 'what wilt thou say, being come to him?'

'First,' replied Damanaka, 'I will discover if his Majesty is well

affected to me.'

'How do you compass that?' asked the other.

'Oh, easily! by a look, a word,' answered Damanaka; 'and that

ascertained, I will proceed to speak what will put him at my disposal.'

'I can't see how you can venture to speak,' objected the other,

'without an opportunity--

'If Vrihaspati, the Grave,

Spoke a sentence out of season,

Even Vrihaspati would have

Strong rebuke for such unreason.'

'Pray don't imagine I shall speak unseasonably,' interrupted Damanaka;

'if that is all you fear, I will start at once.'

'Go, then,' said Karataka; 'and may you be as lucky as you hope.'

"Thereupon Damanaka set out for the lair of King Tawny-hide; putting on,

as he approached it, the look of one greatly disconcerted. The Rajah

observed him coming, and gave permission that he should draw near; of

which Damanaka availing himself, made reverential prostration of the

eight members and sat down upon his haunches.

'You have come at last, then, Sir Jackal!' growled his Majesty.

'Great Monarch!' humbly replied Damanaka, 'my service is not worthy of

laying at your imperial feet, but a servant should attend when he can

perform a service, and therefore I am come--

'When Kings' ears itch, they use a straw to scratch 'em;

When Kings' foes plot, they get wise men to match 'em.'

'H'm!' growled the Lion.

'Your Majesty suspects my intellect, I fear,' continued the

Jackal,'after so long an absence from your Majesty's feet; but, if I may

say so, it is still sound.'

'H'm!' growled the Lion again.

'A king, may it please your Majesty, should know how to estimate his

servants, whatever their position--

'Pearls are dull in leaden settings, but the setter is to blame;

Glass will glitter like the ruby, dulled with dust--are they the same?

'And a fool may tread on jewels, setting in his crown mere glass;

Yet, at selling, gems are gems, and fardels but for fardels pass.'

'Servants, gracious liege! are good or bad as they are entertained. Is

it not written?--

'Horse and weapon, lute and volume, man and woman, gift of speech,

Have their uselessness or uses in the One who owneth each.'

'And if I have been traduced to your Majesty as a dull fellow, that hath

not made me so--

'Not disparagement nor slander kills the spirit of the brave;

Fling a torch down, upward ever burns the brilliant flame it gave.'

'Accept then, Sire, from the humblest of your slaves his very humble

counsel--for

'Wisdom from the mouth of children be it overpast of none;

What man scorns to walk by lamplight in the absence of the sun?'

'Good Damanaka,' said King Tawny-hide, somewhat appeased, 'how is it

that thou, so wise a son of our first minister, hast been absent all

this while from our Court? But now speak thy mind fearlessly: what

wouldst thou?'

'Will your Majesty deign to answer one question?' said Damanaka.

'Wherefore came He back from the river without drinking?'

'Hush!' whispered the King, 'thou hast hit right upon my trouble. I knew

no one unto whom I might confide it; but thou seemest a faithful fellow,

and I will tell thee. Listen, then,' continued his Majesty in an

agitated whisper, 'there is some awful beast that was never seen before

in this wood here; and we shall have to leave it, look you. Did you hear

by chance the inconceivable great roar he gave? What a strong beast it

must be to have such a voice!'

'May it please your Majesty, I did hear the noise,' said the Jackal,

'and there is doubtless cause for terrible apprehension therein; but

take comfort, my Liege, he is no minister who bids thee prepare for

either war or resignation. All will go well, and your Majesty will learn

by this difficulty which be your best servants,'

'Good Jackal,' said Tawny-hide, 'I am horribly frightened about it.'

'I can see that,' thought Damanaka; but he only said, 'Fear nothing, my

liege, while thy servant survives,'

'What shall I do?' asked the King.

'It is well to encourage those who can avert disaster. If your Majesty

condescended now to bestow some favor on Karataka and the other----'

'It shall be done,' said the Rajah; and, summoning the other Jackals, he

gave them and Damanaka a magnificent gift of flesh, and they left the

presence, undertaking to meet the threatened danger.

'But, brother,' began Karataka,'haven't we eaten the King's dinner

without knowing what the danger is which we are to meet, and whether we

can obviate it?'

'Hold thy peace,' said Damanaka, laughing; 'I know very well what the

danger is! It was a bull, aha! that bellowed--a bull, my brother--whose

beef you and I could pick, much more the King our master.'

'And why not tell him so?' asked Karataka.

'What! and quiet his Majesty's fears! And where would our splendid

dinner have been then? No, no, my friend--

'Set not your lord at ease; for, doing that,

Might starve you as it starved "Curd-ear" the Cat.'

'Who was Curd-ear, the Cat?' inquired Karataka. Damanaka related:--

THE STORY OF THE CAT WHO SERVED THE LION

"Far away in the North, on a mountain named 'Thousand-Crags,' there

lived a lion called 'Mighty-heart'; and he was much annoyed by a certain

mouse, who made a custom of nibbling his mane while he lay asleep in his

den. The Lion would wake in a great rage at finding the ends of his

magnificent mane made ragged, but the little mouse ran into his hole,

and he could never catch it. After much consideration he went down to a

village, and got a Cat named Curd-ear to come to his cave with much

persuasion. He kept the Cat royally on all kinds of dainties, and slept

comfortably without having his mane nibbled, as the mouse would now

never venture out. Whenever the Lion heard the mouse scratching about,

that was always a signal for regaling the Cat in a most distinguished

style. But one day, the wretched mouse being nearly starved, he took

courage to creep timidly from his hole, and was directly pounced upon by

Curd-ear and killed. After that the Lion heard no more of the mouse, and

quite left off his regular entertainments of the Cat. No!" concluded

Damanaka, "we will keep our mouse alive for his Majesty."

So conversing, the Jackals went away to find Lusty-life the Bull, and

upon discovering him, Karataka squatted down with great dignity at the

foot of a tree, while Damanaka approached to accost him.

'Bull,' said Damanaka, 'I am the warder of this forest under the King

Tawny-hide, and Karataka the Jackal there is his General. The General

bids thee come before him, or else instantly depart from the wood. It

were better for thee to obey, for his anger is terrible,'

'Thereupon Lusty-life, knowing nothing of the country customs, advanced

at once to Karataka, made the respectful prostration of the eight

members, and said timidly, 'My Lord General! what dost thou bid me do?--

'Strength serves Reason. Saith the Mahout, when he beats the brazen

drum,

"Ho! ye elephants, to this work must your mightinesses come."'

'Bull,' answered Karataka, 'thou canst remain in the wood no longer

unless thou goest directly to lay thyself at our Royal master's imperial

feet.'

'My Lord,' replied the Bull, 'give me a guarantee of safety, and I will

go.'

'Bull,' said Karataka, 'thou art foolish; fear nothing--

"When the King of Chedi cursed him,

Krishna scorned to make reply;

Lions roar the thunder quiet,

Jackals'-yells they let go by."

Our Lord the King will not vouchsafe his anger to thee; knowest thou

not--

'Mighty natures war with mighty: when the raging tempests blow,

O'er the green rice harmless pass they, but they lay the palm-trees

low,'

'So the Jackals, keeping Lusty-life in the rear, went towards the palace

of King Tawny-hide; where the Rajah received them with much

graciousness, and bade them sit down.

'Have you seen him?' asked the King.

'We have seen him, your Majesty,' answered Damanaka; 'it is quite as

your Majesty expected--the creature has enormous strength, and wishes

to see your Majesty. Will you be seated, Sire, and prepare yourself--it

will never do to appear alarmed at a noise.'

'Oh, if it was only a noise,' began the Rajah.

'Ah, but the cause, Sire! that was what had to be found out; like the

secret of Swing-ear the Spirit.'

'And who might Swing-ear be?' asked the King.

THE STORY OF THE TERRIBLE BELL

"A goblin, your Majesty," responded Damanaka, "it seemed so, at least,

to the good people of Brahmapoora. A thief had stolen a bell from the

city, and was making off with that plunder, and more, into the

Sri-parvata hills, when he was killed by a tiger. The bell lay in the

jungle till some monkeys picked it up, and amused themselves by

constantly ringing it. The townspeople found the bones of the man, and

heard the noise of the bell all about the hills; so they gave out that

there was a terrible devil there, whose ears rang like bells as he swung

them about, and whose delight was to devour men. Every one, accordingly,

was leaving the town, when a peasant woman named Karála, who liked

belief the better for a little proof, came to the Rajah.

'Highness!' she observed, 'for a consideration I could settle this

Swing-ear.'

'You could!' exclaimed the Rajah.

'I think so!' repeated the woman.

'Give her a consideration forthwith,' said the Rajah.

"Karála, who had her own ideas upon the matter, took the present and set

out. Being come to the hills, she made a circle, and did homage to

Gunputtee,[13] without whom nothing prospers. Then, taking some fruit

she had brought, such as monkeys love extremely, she scattered it up and

down in the wood, and withdrew to watch. Very soon the monkeys finding

the fruit, put down the bell, to do justice to it, and the woman picking

it up, bore it back to the town, where she became an object of uncommon

veneration. We, indeed," concluded Damanaka, "bring you a Bull instead

of a bell--your Majesty shall now see him!"

"Thereupon Lusty-life was introduced, and, the interview passing off

well, he remained many days in the forest on excellent terms with the

Lion.

'One day another Lion, named 'Stiff-ears,' the brother of King

Tawny-hide, came to visit him. The King received him with all imaginable

respect, bade him be seated, and rose from his throne to go and kill

some beasts for his refreshment.

'May it please your Majesty,' interposed the Bull, 'a deer was slain

to-day--where is its flesh?'

'Damanaka and his brother know best,' said the King.

'Let us ascertain if there be any,' suggested the Bull.

'It is useless,' said the King, laughing--'they leave none,'

'What!' exclaimed the Bull, 'have those Jackals eaten a whole deer?'

'Eaten it, spoiled it, and given it away,' answered Tawny-hide; 'they

always do so,'

'And this without your Majesty's sanction?' asked the Bull.

'Oh! certainly not with my sanction,' said the King.

'Then,' exclaimed the Bull, 'it is too bad: and in Ministers too!--

'Narrow-necked to let out little, big of belly to keep much,

As a flagon is--the Vizir of a Sultan should be such.'

'No wealth will stand such waste, your Majesty--

'He who thinks a minute little, like a fool misuses more;

He who counts a cowry nothing, being wealthy, will be poor.'

'A king's treasury, my liege, is the king's life.'

'Good brother,' observed Stiff-ears, who had heard what the Bull said,

'these Jackals are your Ministers of Home and Foreign Affairs--they

should not have direction of the Treasury. They are old servants, too,

and you know the saying--

'Brahmans, soldiers, these and kinsmen--of the three set none in

charge:

For the Brahman, tho' you rack him, yields no treasure small or large;

And the soldier, being trusted, writes his quittance with his sword,

And the kinsman cheats his kindred by the charter of the word;

But a servant old in service, worse than any one is thought,

Who, by long-tried license fearless, knows his master's anger nought.'

Ministers, my royal brother, are often like obstinate swellings that

want squeezing, and yours must be kept in order.'

'They are not particularly obedient, I confess,' said Tawny-hide.

'It is very wrong,' replied Stiff-ears; 'and if you will be advised by

me--as we have banqueted enough to-day--you will appoint this

grain-eating and sagacious Bull your Superintendent of Stores.'

'It shall be so,' exclaimed the King.

'Lusty-life was accordingly appointed to serve out the provisions, and

for many days Tawny-hide showed him favor beyond all others in the

Court.

"Now the Jackals soon found that food was no longer so freely provided

by this arrangement as before, and they met to consult about it.

'It is all our own fault,' said Damanaka, 'and people must suffer for

their own mistakes. You know who said--

"I that could not leave alone

'Streak-o'-Gold,' must therefore moan.

She that took the House-wife's place

Lost the nose from off her face.

Take this lesson to thy heart--

Fools for folly suffer smart."

'No!' said Karataka, 'how was it?' Damanaka related:--

THE STORY OF THE PRINCE AND THE PROCURESS

"In the city of 'Golden-Streets' there reigned a valorous King, named

Vira-vikrama, whose officer of justice was one day taking away to

punishment a certain Barber, when he was stopped by a strolling

mendicant, who held him by the skirts, and cried out, 'Punish not this

man--punish them that do wrong of their own knowledge.' Being asked his

meaning, he recited the foregoing verses, and, being still further

questioned, he told this story--

"I am Prince Kandarpa-ketu, son of the King of Ceylon. Walking one day

in my summer-garden, I heard a merchant-captain narrating how that out

at sea, deep under water, on the fourteenth day of the moon, he had seen

what was like nothing but the famous tree of Paradise, and sitting under

it a lady of most lustrous beauty, bedecked with strings of pearls like

Lukshmi herself, reclining, with a lute in her hands, on what appeared

to be a golden couch crusted all over with precious stones. At once I

engaged the captain and his ship, and steered to the spot of which he

told me. On reaching it I beheld the beautiful apparition as he had

described it, and, transported with the exquisite beauty of the lady, I

leapt after her into the sea. In a moment I found myself in a city of

gold; and in an apartment of a golden palace, surrounded by young and

beautiful girls, I found the Sea-queen. She perceived my approach, and

sent an attendant with a courteous message to meet me. In reply to my

questions, I learned that the lady was the Princess Ratnamanjari,

daughter of the King of All the Spirits--and how she had made a vow that

whoever should first come to see her golden city, with his own eyes,

should marry her. So I married her by the form called Gundharva, or

'Union by mutual consent,' and spent many and happy days in her

delightful society. One day she took me aside, and said, 'Dear Prince!

all these delights, and I myself, are thine to enjoy; only that picture

yonder, of the Fairy Streak-o'-Gold, that thou must never touch!' For a

long time I observed this injunction; at last, impelled by resistless

curiosity, I laid my hand on the picture of 'Streak-o'-Gold,' In one

instant her little foot, lovely as the lotus-blossom, advanced from out

of the painting, and launched me through sea and air into my own

country. Since that I have been a miserable wanderer; and passing

through this city, I chanced to lodge at a Cowkeeper's hut, and saw the

truth of this Barber's affair. The herdsman returned at night with his

cattle, and found his wife talking with the wife of the Barber, who is

no better than a bawd. Enraged at this, the man beat his wife, tied her

to the milking-post, and fell asleep. In the dead of the night the

Barber's wife came back, and said to the woman, 'He, whom thou knowest,

is burnt with the cruel fire of thine absence, and lies nigh to death;

go therefore and console him, and I will tie myself to the post until

thou returnest.' This was done, and the Cowkeeper presently awoke. 'Ah!

thou light thing!' he said jeeringly, 'why dost not thou keep promise,

and meet thy gallant?' The Barber's wife could make no reply; whereat

becoming incensed, the man cried out, 'What! dost thou scorn to speak to

me? I will cut thy nose off!' And so he did, and then lay down to sleep

again. Very soon the Cowkeeper's wife came back and asked if 'all was

well.' 'Look at my face!' said the Barber's wife, 'and you will see if

all is well.' The woman could do nothing but take her place again,

while the Barber's wife, picking up the severed nose, and at a sad loss

how to account for it, went to her house. In the morning, before it was

light, the Barber called to her to bring his box of razors, and she

bringing one only, he flung it away in a passion. 'Oh, the knave!' she

cried out, directly, aloud, 'Neighbors, neighbors! he has cut my nose

off!' and so she took him before the officers. The Cowkeeper, meantime,

wondering at his wife's patience, made some inquiry about her nose;

whereto she replied, 'Cruel wretch! thou canst not harm a virtuous

woman. If Yama and the seven guardians of the world know me chaste, then

be my face unmaimed!' The herdsman hastened to fetch a light, and

finding her features unaltered, he flung himself at her feet, and begged

forgiveness. For,

'Never tires the fire of burning, never wearies death of slaying,

Nor the sea of drinking rivers, nor the bright-eyed of betraying,'

Thereupon the King's officer dismissed Kandarpa-ketu, and did justice by

setting the Barber free, shaving the head of the Barber's wife, and

punishing the Cowkeeper's.

'That is my story,' concluded Damanaka, 'and thence I said that we had

no reason to complain.'

'Well, but we must do something,' said Karataka.

'Yes! How shall we break the friendship of the King with the Bull?'

asked the other.

'It is very strong,' observed Karataka.

'But we can do it,' replied the other.

'What force would fail to win, fraud can attain:--

The Crow despatched the Serpent by a chain.'

'How did that occur?' asked Karataka.

Damanaka related:--

THE STORY OF THE BLACK SNAKE AND THE GOLDEN CHAIN

"A pair of Crows had their abode in a certain tree, the hollow of which

was occupied by a black snake, who had often devoured their young. The

Hen-bird, finding herself breeding again, thus addressed her mate:

'Husband, we must leave this tree; we shall never rear young ones while

this black snake lives here! You know the saw--

'From false friends that breed thee strife,

From a house with serpents rife,

Saucy slaves and brawling wife--

Get thee out, to save thy life.'

'My dear,' replied the Crow, 'you need not fear; I have put up with him

till I am tired. Now I will put an end to him.'

'How can you fight with a great black snake like that?' said the

Hen-bird.

'Doubt nothing,' answered the other--

'He that hath sense hath strength; the fool is weak:--

The Lion proud died by the Hare so meek,'

'How came that about?' asked the Hen-Crow.

'Thus,' replied her mate:--

THE STORY OF THE LION AND THE OLD HARE

"On the Mandara mountain there lived a Lion named Fierce-of-heart, and

he was perpetually making massacre of all the wild animals. The thing

grew so bad that the beasts held a public meeting, and drew up a

respectful remonstrance to the Lion in these words:--

"Wherefore should your Majesty thus make carnage of us all? If it may

please you, we ourselves will daily furnish a beast for your Majesty's

meal." The Lion responded, "If that arrangement is more agreeable to

you, be it so."; and from that time a beast was allotted to him daily,

and daily devoured. One day it came to the turn of an old hare to supply

the royal table, who reflected to himself as he walked along, "I can but

die, and I will go to my death leisurely."

"Now Fierce-of-heart, the lion, was pinched with hunger, and seeing the

Hare so approaching he roared out, "How darest thou thus delay in

coming?"

'Sire,' replied the Hare, 'I am not to blame. I was detained on the road

by another lion, who exacted an oath from me to return when I should

have informed your Majesty.'

'Go,' exclaimed King Fierce-of-heart in a rage; 'show me, instantly,

where this insolent villain of a lion lives.'

"The Hare led the way accordingly till he came to a deep well, whereat

he stopped, and said, 'Let my lord the King come hither and behold him.'

The Lion approached, and beheld his own reflection in the water of the

well, upon which, in his passion, he directly flung himself, and so

perished."

"I have heard your story," said the Hen-Crow, "but what plan do you

propose?"

"My dear," replied her mate, "the Rajah's son comes here every day to

bathe in the stream. When he takes off his gold anklet, and lays it on

the stone, do thou bring it in thy beak to the hollow of the tree, and

drop it in there." Shortly after the Prince came, as was his wont, and

taking off his dress and ornaments, the Hen-Crow did as had been

determined; and while the servants of the Prince were searching in the

hollow, there they found the Black Snake, which they at once dispatched.

'Said I not well,' continued Damanaka, 'that stratagem excels force?'

'It was well said,' replied Karataka; 'go! and may thy path be

prosperous!

'With that Damanaka repaired to the King, and having done homage, thus

addressed him:--

"Your Majesty, there is a dreadful thing on my mind, and I am come to

disclose it."

'Speak!' said the King, with much graciousness.

'Your Majesty,' said the Jackal, 'this Bull has been detected of

treason. To my face he has spoken contemptuously of the three

prerogatives of the throne,[14] unto which he aspires.'

"At these words King Tawny-hide stood aghast.

'Your Majesty,' continued Damanaka, 'has placed him above us all in the

Court. Sire! he must be displaced!--

'Teeth grown loose, and wicked-hearted ministers, and poison-trees,

Pluck them by the roots together; 'Tis the thing that giveth ease,'

'Good Jackal,' said the King, after some silence; 'this is indeed

dreadful; but my regard for the Bull is very great, and it is said--

'Long-tried friends are friends to cleave to--never leave thou these

i' the lurch:--

What man shuns the fire as sinful for that once it burned a church?'

'That is written of discarding old servants, may it please your

Majesty,' observed Damanaka; 'and this Bull is quite a stranger,'

'Wondrous strange!' replied the Lion; 'when I have advanced and

protected him that he should plot against me!'

'Your Majesty,' said the Jackal, 'knows what has been written--

'Raise an evil soul to honor, and his evil bents remain;

Bind a cur's tail ne'er so straightly, yet it curleth up again.'

'How, in sooth, should Trust and Honor change the evil nature's root?

Though one watered them with nectar, poison-trees bear deadly fruit.'

I have now at least warned your Majesty: if evil comes, the fault is not

mine,'

'It will not do to condemn the Bull without inquiry,' mused the King;

then he said aloud, 'shall we admonish him, think you, Damanaka?'

'No, no, Sire!' exclaimed the Jackal, eagerly; 'that would spoil all our

precautions--

'Safe within the husk of silence guard the seed of counsel so

That it break not--being broken, then the seedling will not grow,'

What is to be done must be done with despatch. After censuring his

treason, would your Majesty still trust the traitor?--

'Whoso unto ancient fondness takes again a faithless friend,

Like she-mules that die conceiving, in his folly finds his end,'

'But wherein can the Bull injure me?' asked Tawny-hide; 'tell me that!'

'Sire,' replied the Jackal, how can I tell it?--

'Ask who his friends are, ere you scorn your foe;

The Wagtail foiled the sea, that did not so,'

'How could that be?' demanded King Tawny-hide.

'The Jackal related:--

THE STORY OF THE WAGTAIL AND THE SEA

"On the shore of the Southern Sea there dwelt a pair of Wagtails. The

Hen-bird was about to lay, and thus addressed her mate:--

'Husband, we must look about for a fit place to lay my eggs.'

'My dear,' replied the Cock-bird, 'will not this spot do?'

'This spot!' exclaimed the Hen; 'why, the tide overflows it.'

'Good dame,' said the Cock, 'am I so pitiful a fellow that the Sea will

venture to wash the eggs out of my nest?'

'You are my very good Lord,' replied the Hen, with a laugh; 'but still

there is a great difference between you and the Sea.'

"Afterwards, however, at the desire of her mate, she consented to lay

her eggs on the sea-beach. Now the Ocean had overheard all this, and,

bent upon displaying its strength, it rose and washed away the nest and

eggs. Overwhelmed with grief, the Hen-bird flew to her mate, and

cried:--

'Husband, the terrible disaster has occurred! My eggs arc gone!'

'Be of good heart! my Life,' answered he.

"And therewith he called a meeting of fowls, and went with them into the

presence of Gurud, the Lord of the birds. When the Master of the Mighty

Wing had listened to their complaint, he conveyed it to the knowledge of

the God Narayen, who keeps, and kills, and makes alive the world. The

almighty mandate given, Gurud bound it upon his forehead, and bore it to

the Ocean, which, so soon as it heard the will of Narayen, at once gave

back the eggs.

'How, indeed,' concluded Damanaka, 'should I judge of the Bull's power,

not knowing who supports him?'

'By what signs, then,' asked the King, 'may I conclude him a traitor?'

'If he comes into the presence with his horns lowered for goring, as one

that expects the fight. That,' replied the Jackal, 'will convince your

Majesty,'

'Thereupon Damanaka the Jackal withdrew, and betook himself towards the

Bull, upon perceiving whom he approached slowly, with all the air of one

greatly distressed.

'Good master Jackal,' said Lusty-life, 'what goes amiss with thee?'

'All goes amiss with such as serve wicked masters,' replied the Jackal.

'But what ails thee?' asked the Bull.

'Alas!' answered the Jackal, 'what can I say in such a strait!--

'Even as one who grasps a serpent, drowning in the bitter sea,

Death to hold and death to loosen--such is life's perplexity.'

'And therewithal the Jackal heaved a deep sigh, and squatted down.

'But, good friend,' said the Bull, 'at least tell me what is in thy

mind.'

'Bull,' began Damanaka, 'it is a King's secret, and should not be

spoken; but thou didst come here upon my safeguard, and as I hope for

the life to come, I will tell thee of what touches thee so nearly.

Listen!--the heart of the King is turned against thee! he hath sworn

secretly that he will kill thee and feast upon thy flesh.'

'Then Lusty-life the Bull was sorely troubled, and he fell a-musing

thus--

"Woman's love rewards the worthless--kings of knaves exalters be;

Wealth attends the selfish niggard, and the cloud rains on the sea."

'Can this be the Jackal's doing?' he reflected. Going with honest folk

will not make one honest--

'Many a knave wins fair opinions standing in fair company,

As the sooty soorma pleases, lighted by a brilliant eye.'

Then he said aloud, 'wherein can I have angered the King? Do kings hate

without cause? I can tell nothing, except that there is no happiness

which abides long--

'Where the azure lotus[15] blossoms, there the alligators hide;

In the sandal-tree are serpents. Pain and pleasure live allied.'

I thought his Majesty noble as the sandal-tree; but that, indeed, is not

wholly noble--

'Rich the sandal--yet no part is but a vile thing habits there;

Snake and wasp haunt root and blossom; on the boughs sit ape and bear.'

'Bull,' said Damanaka, 'I knew the King of old for one whose tongue was

honey and whose heart was poison.'

'But how very hard!' said the Bull, 'that he, being a lion, should

attack me, an innocent eater of grass!'

'It is very hard!' said the Jackal.

'Who can have set him against me?' asked the Bull.

'Being so, it cannot be bettered,' replied the Jackal, 'whoever did it--

'As a bracelet of crystal, once broke, is not mended;

So the favor of princes, once altered, is ended.'

'Yes,' said the Bull, 'and a king incensed is terrible--

'Wrath of kings, and rage of lightning--both be very full of dread;

But one falls on one man only--one strikes many victims dead,'

Still, I can but die--and I will die fighting! When death is certain,

and no hope left but in battle, that is the time for war,'

'It is so,' said the Jackal.

'Having weighed all this, Lusty-life inquired of the Jackal by what

signs he might conclude the King's hostile intentions.

'If he glowers upon thee,' answered Damanaka, 'and awaits thee with ears

pricked, tail stiffened, paw upraised, and muzzle agape, then thou

mayest get thee to thy weapons like a Bull of spirit, for

'All men scorn the soulless coward who his manhood doth forget:--

On a lifeless heap of ashes fearlessly the foot is set,'

'Then Damanaka the Jackal returned to the Lion, and said to him:--

'If it please your Majesty, the traitor is now coming; let your Majesty

be on your guard, with ears pricked and paw upraised.'

'The Bull meanwhile approached, and observing the hostile attitude of

King Tawny-hide, he also lowered his horns, and prepared for the combat.

A terrible battle ensued, and at the last King Tawny-hide slew

Lusty-life the Bull. Now when the Bull was dead, the Lion was very

sorrowful, and as he sat on his throne lamenting, he said--

'I repent me of this deed!--

'As when an Elephant's life-blood is spilt,

Another hath the spoils--mine is the guilt.'

'Sire,' replied the Jackal, 'a King over-merciful is like a Brahman

that eats all things equally. May all your Majesty's enemies perish as

did this Bull.'

"Thus endeth," said the Sage Vishnu-Sarman, "the 'Parting of Friends.'"

"We are gratified exceedingly thereby," replied the Sons of the King.

"Let me then close it thus," said their Preceptor--

'So be friendship never parted,

But among the evil-hearted;

Time's sure step drag, soon or later,

To his judgment, such a Traitor;

Lady Lukshmi, of her grace,

Grant good fortune to this place;

And you, Royal boys! and boys of times to be

In this fair fable-garden wander free.'

[12] The white umbrella borne above the heads of Indian rajahs.

[13] The deity of prudence.

[14] Regal authority derives its rights from three sources: Power,

Prescription or continuance, and Wisdom.

[15] The lotus resembles the water-lily, but is more varied in form and

color.

WAR

When the next day of instruction was come, the King's sons spake to the

Sage, Vishnu-Sarman.

"Master," said they, "we are Princes, and the sons of Princes, and we

earnestly desire to hear thee discourse upon War."

"I am to speak on what shall please you," replied Vishnu-Sarman. "Hear

now, therefore, of 'War,' whose opening is thus:--

'Between the peoples of Peacock and Swan[16]

War raged; and evenly the contest ran,

Until the Swans to trust the Crows began.'

'And how was all that?' asked the sons of the Rajah. Vishnu-Sarman

proceeded to relate--

THE BATTLE OF THE SWANS AND PEACOCKS

"In the Isle of Camphor there is a lake called 'Lotus-water,' and

therein a Swan-Royal, named 'Silver-sides,' had his residence. The birds

of the marsh and the mere had elected him King, in full council of all

the fowls--for a people with no ruler is like a ship that is without a

helmsman. One day King Silver-sides, with his courtiers, was quietly

reposing on a couch of well-spread lotus-blossoms, when a Crane, named

'Long-bill,' who had just arrived from foreign parts, entered the

presence with an obeisance, and sat down.

'What news from abroad, Long-bill?' asked his Majesty.

'Great news, may it please you,' answered the Crane, 'and therefore have

I hastened hither. Will your Majesty hear me?'

'Speak!' said King Silver-sides.

'You must know, my Liege,' began the Crane, 'that over all the birds of

the Vindhya mountains in Jambudwipa a Peacock is King, and his name is

'Jewel-plume,' I was looking for food about a certain burnt jungle

there, when some of his retainers discovered me, and asked my name and

country. 'I am a vassal of King Silver-sides, Lord of the Island of

Camphor,' I replied, 'and I am travelling in foreign lands for my

pleasure.' Upon that the birds asked me which country, my own or theirs,

and which King, appeared to me superior. 'How can you ask?' I replied;

'the island of Camphor is, as it were, Heaven itself, and its King a

heaven-born ruler. To dwellers in a barren land like yours how can I

describe them? Come for yourselves, and see the country where I live.'

Thereupon, your Majesty, the birds were exceedingly offended, as one

might expect--

'Simple milk, when serpents drink it, straightway into venom turns;

And a fool who heareth counsel all the wisdom of it spurns.'

For, indeed, no reflecting person wastes time in admonishing

blockheads--

'The birds that took the apes to teaching,

Lost eggs and nests in pay for preaching.'

'How did that befall?' asked the King.

The Crane related:--

THE STORY OF THE WEAVER-BIRDS AND THE MONKEYS

"In a nullah that leads down to the Nerbudda river there stood a large

silk-cotton tree, where a colony of weaver-birds had built their hanging

nests, and lived snugly in them, whatever the weather. It was in the

rainy season, when the heavens are overlaid with clouds like

indigo-sheets, and a tremendous storm of water was falling. The birds

looked out from their nests, and saw some monkeys, shivering and starved

with the cold, standing under a tree. 'Twit! twit! you Monkeys,' they

began to chirrup. 'Listen to us!--

'With beaks we built these nests, of fibres scattered;

You that have hands and feet, build, or be spattered.'

On hearing that the Monkeys were by no means pleased. 'Ho! ho!' said

they, 'the Birds in their snug nests are jeering at us; wait till the

rain is over,' Accordingly, so soon as the weather mended, the Monkeys

climbed into the tree, and broke all the birds' eggs and demolished

every nest. I ought to have known better,' concluded the Crane, 'than to

have wasted my suggestions on King Jewel-plume's creatures.'

'But what did they say?' asked Silver-sides.

'They said, Rajah,' answered the Crane, 'who made that Swan of thine a

King?'

'And what was your reply?' asked Silver-sides.

'I demanded,' replied the Crane, 'who made a King of that Peacock of

theirs. Thereupon they were ready to kill me for rage; but I displayed

my very best valor. Is it not written--

'A modest manner fits a maid,

And Patience is a man's adorning;

But brides may kiss, nor do amiss,

And men may draw, at scathe and scorning.'

'Yet a man should measure his own strength first,' said the Rajah,

smiling; 'how did you fare against King Jewel-plume's fellows?'

'Very scurvily,' replied Long-bill. "Thou rascal Crane," they cried,

"dost thou feed on his soil, and revile our Sovereign? That is past

bearing!" And thereat they all pecked at me. Then they began again:

"Thou thick-skulled Crane! that King of thine is a goose--a web-footed

lord of littleness--and thou art but a frog in a well to bid us serve

him--- him forsooth!--

'Serving narrow-minded masters dwarfs high natures to their size:--

Seen before a convex mirror, elephants do show as mice.'

Bad kings are only strong enough to spoil good vassals--as a fiction

once was mightier than a herd of elephants. You know it, don't you?--

'Mighty may prove things insignificant:--

A tale of moonshine turned an elephant.'

'No! how was that?' I asked.

The birds related--

THE STORY OF THE OLD HARE AND THE ELEPHANTS

"Once on a time, very little rain had fallen in the due season; and the

Elephants being oppressed with thirst, thus accosted their

leader:--'Master, how are we to live? The small creatures find something

to wash in, but we cannot, and we are half dead in consequence; whither

shall we go then, and what shall we do?' Upon that the King of the

Elephants led them away a little space; and showed them a beautiful pool

of crystal water, where they took their ease. Now it chanced that a

company of Hares resided on the banks of the pool, and the going and

coming of the elephants trampled many of them to death, till one of

their number named Hard-head grumbled out, 'This troop will be coming

here to water every day, and every one of our family will be crushed.'

'Do not disquiet yourself,' said an old buck named Good-speed, 'I will

contrive to avert it,' and so saying, he set off, bethinking himself on

his way how he should approach and accost a herd of elephants; for,

'Elephants destroy by touching, snakes with point of tooth beguile;

Kings by favor kill, and traitors murder with a fatal smile.'

'I will get on the top of a hill,' he thought, 'and address the

Elephants thence.'

"This being done, and the Lord of the herd perceiving him, it was asked

of the Hare, 'Who art thou? and whence comest thou?'

'I am an ambassador from his Godship the Moon,' replied Good-speed.

'State your business,' said the Elephant-king.

'Sire,' began the Hare, 'an ambassador speaks the truth safely by

charter of his name. Thus saith the Moon, then: "These hares were the

guardians of my pool, and thine elephants in coming thither have scared

them away. This is not well. Am I not Sasanka, whose banner bears a

hare, and are not these hares my votaries?"'

'Please your worship,' said the Elephant-king with much trepidation, 'we

knew nothing of this; we will go there no more.'

'It were well,' said the sham ambassador, 'that you first made your

apologies to the Divinity, who is quaking with rage in his pool, and

then went about your business.'

'We will do so,' replied the Elephant with meekness; and being led by

night to the pool, in the ripples of which the image of the Moon was

quivering, the herd made their prostrations; the Hare explaining to the

Moon that their fault was done in ignorance, and thereupon they got

their dismissal.'

'Nay,' I said, 'my Sovereign is no fiction, but a great King and a

noble, and one that might govern the Three Worlds, much more a kingdom,'

'Thou shalt talk thy treason in the presence,' they cried; and therewith

I was dragged before King Jewel-plume.

'Who is this?' asked the Rajah.

'He is a servant of King Silver-sides, of the Island of Camphor,' they

replied; 'and he slights your Majesty, on your Majesty's own land.'

'Sirrah Crane!' said the Prime Minister, a Vulture, 'who is chief

officer in that court?'

'A Brahmany Goose,' I answered, 'named "Know-all"; and he does know

every possible science.'

'Sire,' broke in a Parrot, 'this Camphor-isle and the rest are poor

places, and belong to Jambudwipa. Your Majesty has but to plant the

royal foot upon them.'

'Oh! of course,' said the King.

'Nay,' said I, 'if talking makes your Majesty King of Camphor-island, my

Liege may be lord of Jambudwipa by a better title.'

'And that?' said the Parrot.

'Is fighting!' I responded.

'Good!' said the King, with a smile; 'bid your people prepare for war.'

'Not so,' I replied; 'but send your own ambassador.'

'Who will bear the message?' asked the Rajah. 'He should be loyal,

dexterous, and bold.'

'And virtuous,' said the Vulture, 'and therefore a Brahman:--

'Better Virtue marked a herald than that noble blood should deck;

Shiva reigns forever Shiva while the sea-wave stains his neck.'

'Then let the Parrot be appointed,' said the Rajah.

'I am your Majesty's humble servant,' replied the Parrot; 'but this

Crane is a bad character, and with the bad I never like to travel. The

ten-headed Ravana carried off the wife of Ramchundra! It does not do,

'With evil people neither stay nor go;

The Heron died for being with the Crow.'

'How did that befall?' asked the King. The Parrot related:--

THE STORY OF THE HERON AND THE CROW

'The high-road to Oogein is a very unshaded and sultry one; but there

stands upon it one large Peepul-tree, and therein a Crow and a Heron had

their residence together. It was in the hot weather that a tired

traveller passed that way, and, for the sake of the shade, he laid his

bow and arrows down, and dropped asleep under the tree. Before long the

shadow of the tree shifted, and left his face exposed to the glare;

which the Heron perceiving, like the kindly bird he was, perched on the

Peepul-tree, and spread his wings out so as to cast a shadow on the

traveller's face. There the poor fellow, weary with his travel,

continued to sleep soundly, and snored away comfortably with open mouth.

The sight of his enjoyment was too much for the malevolent Crow, who,

perching over him, dropped an unwelcome morsel into the sleeper's mouth,

and straightway flew off. The traveller, starting from his slumber,

looked about, and, seeing no bird but the Heron, he fitted an arrow and

shot him dead. No!' concluded the Parrot, 'I like the society of honest

folk.'

'But why these words, my brother?' I said; 'his Majesty's herald is to

me even as his Majesty.'

'Very fine!' replied the Parrot; 'but--

'Kindly courtesies that issue from a smiling villain's mouth

Serve to startle, like a flower blossoming in time of drouth.'

Needs must that thou art a bad man; for by thy talk war will have

arisen, which a little conciliation had averted:--

'Conciliation!--weapon of the wise!

Wheedled therewith, by woman's quick device,

The Wheelwright let his ears betray his eyes.'

'How came that about?' asked the King. The Parrot related:--

THE STORY OF THE APPEASED WHEELWRIGHT

"There was a Wheelwright in Shri-nuggur, whose name was 'Heavy-head,' He

had good reason to suspect the infidelity of his wife, but he had no

absolute proof of it. One day he gave out that he should go to a

neighboring town, and he started accordingly; but he went a very little

way, and then returning, hid himself in his wife's chamber. She being

quite satisfied that he was really gone away, invited her gallant to

pass the evening with her, and began to spend it with him in

unrestrained freedom. Presently, by chance, she detected the presence of

her husband, and her manner instantly changed.

'Life of my soul! what ails you?' said her lover; 'you are quite dull

to-night.'

'I am dull,' she replied, 'because the lord of my life is gone. Without

my husband the town is a wilderness. Who knows what may befall him, and

whether he will have a nice supper?'

'Trouble thyself no more about the quarrelsome dullard,' said her

gallant.

'Dullard, quotha!' exclaimed the wife. 'What matter what he is, since he

is my all? Knowest thou not--

'Of the wife the lord is jewel, though no gems upon her beam;

Lacking him, she lacks adornment, howsoe'er her jewels gleam?'

Thou, and the like of thee, may serve a whim, as we chew a betel-leaf

and trifle with a flower; but my husband is my master, and can do with

me as he will. My life is wrapped up in him--and when he dies, alas! I

will certainly die too. Is it not plainly said--

'Hairs three-crore, and half-a-crore hairs, on a man so many grow--

And so many years to Swerga shall the true wife surely go?'

And better still is promised; as herein--

'When the faithful wife,[17] embracing tenderly her husband dead,

Mounts the blazing pile beside him, as it were the bridal-bed;

Though his sins were twenty thousand, twenty thousand times o'er-told,

She shall bring his soul to splendor, for her love so large and bold.'

All this the Wheelwright heard. 'What a lucky fellow I am,' he thought,

'to have a wife so virtuous,' and rushing from his place of concealment,

he exclaimed in ecstasy to his wife's gallant, 'Sir I saw you ever truer

wife than mine?'

'When the story was concluded,' said Long-bill, 'the King, with a

gracious gift of food, sent me off before the Parrot; but he is coming

after me, and it is now for your Majesty to determine as it shall please

you.'

'My Liege,' observed the Brahmany-goose with a sneer, 'the Crane has

done the King's business in foreign parts to the best of his power,

which is that of a fool.'

"Let the past pass," replied the King, "and take thought for the

present."

"Be it in secret, then, your Majesty," said the Brahmany-goose--

'Counsel unto six ears spoken, unto all is notified:--

When a King holds consultation, let it be with one beside,'

Thereupon all withdrew, but the Rajah and the Minister.

'What think you?' said Silver-sides.

'That the Crane has been employed to bring this about,' replied the

other.

'What shall we do?' asked the King.

'Despatch two spies--the first to inform and send back the other, and

make us know the enemy's strength or weakness. They must be such as can

travel by land and water, so the Crane will serve for one, and we will

keep his family in pledge at the King's gate. The other must be a very

reserved character; as it is said--

'Sick men are for skilful leeches--prodigals for prisoning--

Fools for teachers--and the man who keeps a secret, for a King,'

'I know such a one,' said his Majesty, after a pause.

'It is half the victory,' responded the Minister.

At this juncture a chamberlain entered with a profound obeisance, and

announced the arrival from Jambudwipa of the Parrot.

'Let him be shown to a reception-room,' commanded the Goose, in reply to

a look from the King. 'He shall presently have audience.'

'War is pronounced, then,' said the King, as the attendant withdrew.

'It is offered, my Liege; but must not be rashly accepted,' replied the

other--

'With gift, craft, promise, cause thy foe to yield;

When these have failed thee, challenge him a-field.'

To gain time for expedients is the first point. Expedients are good for

great and little matters equally, like

'The subtle wash of waves, that smoothly pass,

But lay the tree as lowly as the grass.'

Let his Excellency the Parrot, then, be cajoled and detained here, while

we place our fort in condition to be useful. Is it not said--

'Ten true bowmen on a rampart fifty's onset may sustain;

Fortalices keep a country more than armies in the plain?'

And your Majesty,' continued the Goose, 'will recall the points of a

good fortress--

'Build it strong, and build it spacious, with an entry and retreat;

Store it well with wood and water, fill its garners full with wheat.'

'Whom, then, shall we entrust with this work?' asked King Silver-sides.

'The Paddy-bird[18] is a good bird, and a skilful,' replied his

Minister.

'Let him be summoned!' said the King. And upon the entrance of the

Paddy-bird, the superintendence of the fortress was committed to him,

and accepted with a low prostration.

'As to the fort, Sire!' remarked the Paddy-bird, 'it exists already in

yonder large pool; the thing is to store the island in the middle of it

with provisions--

'Gems will no man's life sustain;

Best of gold is golden grain.'

'Good!' said King Silver-sides; 'let it be looked to.' Thereupon, as the

Paddy-bird was retiring, the Usher entered again, and making

prostration, said: 'May it please your Majesty, the King of all the

Crows, Night-cloud by name, has just arrived from Singhala-dwipa, and

desires to lay his homage at your Majesty's feet.'

'He is a wise bird, and a far-travelled,' said the King; 'I think we

must give him audience.'

Nevertheless, Sire,' interrupted the Goose, 'we must not forget that he

is a land-bird, and therefore not to be received as a water-fowl. Your

royal memory doubtless retains the story of

'The Jackal's fate, who being colored blue,

Leaving his party, left his own life too.'

'No! How was that?' asked King Silver-sides. The Goose related--

THE STORY OF THE DYED JACKAL

"A Jackal once on a time, as he was prowling about the suburbs of a

town, slipped into an indigo-tank; and not being able to get out he laid

himself down so as to be taken for dead. The dyer presently coming and

finding what seemed a dead Jackal, carried him into the jungle and then

flung him away. Left to himself, the Jackal found his natural color

changed to a splendid blue. 'Really,' he reflected, 'I am now of a most

magnificent tint; why should I not make it conduce to my elevation?'

With this view, he assembled the other Jackals, and thus harangued

them:--

'Good people, the Goddess of the Wood, with her own divine hand, and

with every magical herb of the forest, has anointed me King. Behold the

complexion of royalty!--and henceforward transact nothing without my

imperial permission."

"The Jackals, overcome by so distinguished a color, could do nothing but

prostrate themselves and promise obedience. His reign, thus begun,

extended in time to the lions and tigers; and with these high-born

attendants he allowed himself to despise the Jackals, keeping his own

kindred at a distance, as though ashamed of them. The Jackals were

indignant, but an old beast of their number thus consoled them:--

"Leave the impudent fellow to me. I will contrive his ruin. These tigers

and the rest think him a King, because he is colored blue; we must show

them his true colors. Do this, now!--in the evening-time come close

about him, and set up a great yell together--he is sure to join in, as

he used to do--

'Hard it is to conquer nature: if a dog were made a King,

Mid the coronation trumpets, he would gnaw his sandal-string.'

And when he yells the Tigers will know him for a Jackal and fall upon

him.'

'The thing befell exactly so, and the Jackal,' concluded the Minister,

'met the fate of one who leaves his proper party.'

'Still,' said the King, 'the Crow has come a long way, and we might see

him, I think.'

'Admit the Parrot first, Sire,' said the Goose; 'the fort has been put

in order and the spy despatched.'

"Thereupon a Court was called, and the Parrot introduced, followed by

Night-cloud, the Crow. A seat was offered to the parrot, who took it,

and, with his beak in the air, thus delivered his mission:--

'King Silver-sides!--My master, the King Jewel-plume, Lord of Lords,

bids thee, if life and lands be dear to thee, to come and make homage at

his august feet; and failing this to get thee gone from Camphor-island.'

'S'death!' exclaimed the Rajah, 'is there none that will silence this

traitor?'

'Give the sign, your Majesty,' said the Crow, starting up, 'and I will

despatch this audacious bird.'

'Sir,' said the Goose, 'be calm! and Sire, deign to listen--

''Tis no Council where no Sage is--'tis no Sage that fears not Law;

'Tis no Law which Truth confirms not--'tis no Truth which Fear can

awe.'

An ambassador must speak unthreatened--

'Though base be the Herald, nor hinder nor let,

For the mouth of a king is he;

The sword may be whet, and the battle set,

But the word of his message is free.'

Thereat the Rajah and Night-cloud resumed their composure; and the

Parrot took his departure, escorted by the Minister, and presented with

complimentary gifts of gold and jewels. On reaching the palace of

Jewel-plume, the King demanded his tidings, and inquired of the country

he had visited.

'War must be prepared, may it please you,' said the Parrot: 'the

country is a country of Paradise.'

'Prepare for war, then!' said the King.

'We must not enter on it in the face of destiny,' interposed the

Vulture-Minister, whose title was 'Far-sight.'

'Let the Astrologer then discover a favorable conjuncture for the

expedition, and let my forces be reviewed meantime,' said the King.

'We must not march without great circumspection,' observed Far-sight.

'Minister!' exclaimed the King, 'you chafe me. Say, however, with what

force we should set out.'

'It should be well selected, rather than unwieldy,' replied the

Vulture--

'Better few and chosen fighters than of shaven crowns a host,

For in headlong flight confounded, with the base the brave are lost.'

And its commanders must be judiciously appointed; for it is said--

'Ever absent, harsh, unjustly portioning the captured prey--

These, and cold or laggard leaders make a host to melt away.'

'Ah!' interrupted the Rajah, 'what need of so much talk? We will go,

and, if Váchaspati please, we will conquer.'

Shortly afterwards the Spy returned to Camphor-island. 'King

Silver-sides,' he cried, 'the Rajah, Jewel-plume, is on his way hither,

and has reached the Ghauts. Let the fort be manned, for that Vulture is

a great minister; and I have learned, too, that there is one among us

who is in his pay.'

'King!' said the Goose, 'that must be the Crow.'

'But whence, then, did he show such willingness to punish the Parrot?'

objected his Majesty. 'Besides, war was declared long after the Crow

came to Court.'

'I misdoubt him,' said the Minister, 'because he is a stranger.'

'But strangers surely may be well-disposed,' replied the King. 'How say

the books?--

'Kind is kin, howe'er a stranger--kin unkind is stranger shown;

Sores hurt, though the body breeds them--drugs relieve, though

desert-grown.'

Have you never heard of King Sudraka and the unknown Servant, who gave

his son's life for the King?

'Never,' answered the Goose.

THE STORY OF THE FAITHFUL RAJPOOT

"I will tell you the tale," said the King, "as I heard it from

'Lilyflower,' daughter of the Flamingo 'White-flag,' of whom I was once

very fond:--A soldier presented himself one morning at King Sudraka's

gate, and bade the porter procure an audience for 'Vira-vara, a

Rajpoot,'[19] who sought employment. Being admitted to the presence, he

thus addressed the King:--

'If your Highness needs an attendant, behold one!'

'What pay do you ask?' inquired the King.

'Five hundred pieces of gold a day,' said Vira-vara.

'And your accoutrements?' asked the King.

'Are these two arms, and this sabre, which serve for a third,' said

Vira-vara, rolling up his sleeve.

'I cannot entertain you,' rejoined his Majesty; and thereupon the

Rajpoot made salaam, and withdrew. Then said the Ministers, 'If it

please your Majesty, the stipend is excessive, but give him pay for four

days, and see wherein he may deserve it.' Accordingly, the Rajpoot was

recalled, and received wages for four days, with the complimentary

betel.--Ah! the rare betel! Truly say the wise of it--

'Betel-nut is bitter, hot, sweet, spicy, binding, alkaline--

A demulcent--an astringent--foe to evils intestine;

Giving to the breath a fragrance--to the lips a crimson red;

A detergent, and a kindler of Love's flame that lieth dead.

Praise the gods for the good Betel!--these be thirteen virtues given,

Hard to meet in one thing blended, even in their happy heaven.'

'Now the King narrowly watched the spending of Vira-vara's pay, and

discovered that he bestowed half in the service of the Gods and the

support of Brahmans, a fourth part in relieving the poor, and reserved a

fourth for his sustenance and recreation. This daily division made, he

would take his stand with his sabre at the gate of the palace; retiring

only upon receiving the royal permission.

'It was on the fourteenth night of the dark half of the month that King

Sudraka heard below a sound of passionate sobbing. 'Ho! there,' he

cried, 'who waits at the gate?'

'I,' replied Vira-vara, 'may it please you.'

'Go and learn what means this weeping,' said the King.

'I go, your Majesty,' answered the Rajpoot, and therewith departed.

'No sooner was he gone than the King repented him of sending one man

alone into a night so dark that a bodkin might pierce a hole in it, and

girding on his scimitar, he followed his guard beyond the city gates.

When Vira-vara had gone thus far he encountered a beautiful and

splendidly dressed lady who was weeping bitterly; and accosting her, he

requested to know her name, and why she thus lamented.

'I am the Fortune of the King Sudraka,' answered she; 'a long while I

have lived happily in the shadow of his arm; but on the third day he

will die, and I must depart, and therefore lament I.'

'Can nothing serve, Divine Lady, to prolong thy stay?' asked the

Rajpoot.

'It might be,' replied the Spirit, 'if thou shouldst cut off the head of

thy first-born Shaktidhar, that hath on his body the thirty-two

auspicious marks of greatness. Were his head offered to the all-helpful

Durga, the Rajah should live a hundred years, and I might tarry beside

him.'

'So speaking, she disappeared, and Vira-vara retraced his steps to his

own house and awoke his wife and son. They arose, and listened with

attention until Vira-vara had repeated all the words of the vision. When

he had finished, Shaktidhar exclaimed, 'I am thrice happy to be able to

save the state of the King. Kill me, my father, and linger not; to give

my life in such a cause is good indeed,' 'Yes,' said the Mother, 'it is

good, and worthy of our blood; how else should we deserve the King's

pay?' Being thus agreed, they repaired together at once to the temple of

the Goddess Durga, and having paid their devotions and entreated the

favor of the deity on behalf of the King, Vira-vara struck off his son's

head, and laid it as an offering upon the shrine. That done, Vira-vara

said, 'My service to the King is accomplished, and life without my boy

is but a burden,' and therewith he plunged his sword in his own breast

and fell dead. Overpowered with grief for her husband and child, the

mother also withdrew the twice-blooded weapon, and slew herself with it

on the bodies of Vira-vara and Shaktidhar.

'All this was heard and seen by King Sudraka, and he stood aghast at the

sad sight. 'Woe is me!' he exclaimed--

'Kings may come, and Kings may go;

What was I, to bring these low?

Souls so noble, slain for me,

Were not, and will never be!'

What reck I of my realm, having lost these?' and thereat he drew his

scimitar to take his own life also. At that moment there appeared to him

the Goddess, who is Mistress of all men's fortunes. 'Son,' said she,

staying his lifted hand, 'forbear thy rash purpose, and bethink thee of

thy kingdom.'

"The Rajah fell prostrate before her, and cried--'O Goddess! I am done

with life and wealth and kingdom! If thou hast compassion on me, let my

death restore these faithful ones to life; anywise I follow the path

they have marked,' 'Son,' replied the Goddess, 'thine affection is

pleasing to me: be it as thou wilt! The Rajpoot and his house shall be

rendered alive to thee.' Then the King departed, and presently saw

Vira-vara return, and take up again his station as before at the

palace-gate.

'Ho! there, Vira-vara!' cried the King, 'what meant the weeping?'

'Let your Majesty rest well!' answered the Rajpoot, 'it was a woman who

wept, and disappeared on my approach.' This answer completed the Rajah's

astonishment and delight; for we know--

'He is brave whose tongue is silent of the trophies of his sword;

He is great whose quiet bearing marks his greatness well assured.'

So when the day was come, he called a full council, and, declaring

therein all the events of the night, he invested the faithful guard with

the sovereignty of the Carnatic.

"Thus, then," concluded King Silver-sides, "in entertaining strangers a

man may add to his friends."

"It may well be," replied the Goose; "but a Minister should advise what

is expedient, and not what is pleasing in sentiment:--

'When the Priest, the Leech, the Vizir of a King his flatterers be,

Very soon the King will part with health, and wealth, and piety.'

'Let it pass, then,' said Silver-sides, 'and turn we to the matter in

hand. King Jewel-plume is even now pitched under the Ghauts. What think

you?'

'That we shall vanquish him,' replied the Goose; 'for he disregards, as

I learn, the counsel of that great statesman, the Vulture Far-sight; and

the wise have said--

'Merciless, or money-loving, deaf to counsel, false of faith,

Thoughtless, spiritless, or careless, changing course with every

breath,

Or the man who scorns his rival--if a prince should choose a foe,

Ripe for meeting and defeating, certes he would choose him so.

He is marching without due preparation; let us send the Paddy-bird at

the head of a force and attack him on his march."

Accordingly the Paddy-bird, setting out with a force of water-fowl, fell

upon the host of the Peacock-king, and did immense execution.

Disheartened thereat, King Jewel-plume summoned Far-sight, his Minister,

and acknowledged to him his precipitation.

'Wherefore do you abandon us, my father?' he said. 'Correct for us what

has been done amiss.

'My Liege,' replied the Vulture, 'it has been well observed--

'By the valorous and unskilful great achievements are not wrought;

Courage, led by careful Prudence, unto highest ends is brought.'

You have set Strength in the seat of Counsel, your Majesty, and he hath

clumsily spoiled your plans. How indeed could it fall otherwise? for--

'Grief kills gladness, winter summer, midnight-gloom the light of day,

Kindnesses ingratitude, and pleasant friends drive pain away;

Each ends each, but none of other surer conquerors can be

Than Impolicy of Fortune--of Misfortune Policy.'

I have said to myself, 'My Prince's understanding is affected--how else

would he obscure the moonlight of policy with the night-vapors of talk;'

in such a mood I cannot help him--

'Wisdom answers all who ask her, but a fool she cannot aid;

Blind men in the faithful mirror see not their reflection made.'

And therefore I have been absent.'

'My father!' said the King, joining his palms in respect, 'mine is all

the fault! Pardon it, and instruct me how to withdraw my army without

further loss.'

Then the Vulture's anger melted, and he reflected--

'Where the Gods are, or thy Guru--in the face of Pain and Age,

Cattle, Brahmans, Kings, and Children--reverently curb thy rage.'

And with a benignant smile, he answered the King thus, 'Be of good

heart, my Liege; thou shalt not only bring the host back safely, but

thou shalt first destroy the castle of King Silver-sides.'

'How can that be, with my diminished forces?' asked the Rajah.

'It will come to pass!' answered the Vulture. 'Break up to-day for the

blockade of the fort.'

Now, when this was reported by the spies to King Silver-sides, he was

greatly alarmed. 'Good Goose!' said he, 'what is to be done? Here is the

King of the Peacocks at hand, to blockade us--by his Minister's advice,

too.'

'Sire,' replied the Goose, 'separate the efficient and the inefficient

in your force; and stimulate the loyalty of the first, with a royal

bounty of gold and dresses, as each may seem to merit. Now is the time

for it--

'Oh, my Prince! on eight occasions prodigality is none--

In the solemn sacrificing, at the wedding of a son,

When the glittering treasure given makes the proud invader bleed,

Or its lustre bringeth comfort to the people in their need,

Or when kinsmen are to succor, or a worthy work to end,

Or to do a mistress honor, or to welcome back a friend.'

'But is this expenditure needed?' said the King.

'It is needed, my Liege,' said the Goose, 'and it befits a Monarch;

for--

'Truth, munificence, and valor, are the virtues of a King;

Royalty, devoid of either, sinks to a rejected thing.'

'Let it be incurred then!' replied the King.

At this moment Night-cloud, the Crow, made his appearance. 'Deign me one

regard, Sire,' said he, 'the insolent enemy is at our gates; let your

Majesty give the word, and I will go forth and show my valor and

devotion to your Crown.'

'It were better to keep our cover,' said the Goose. 'Wherefore else

builded we this fortalice? Is it not said?--

'Hold thy vantage!--alligators on the land make none afraid;

And the lion's but a jackal that hath left his forest-shade.'

But go, your Majesty, and encourage our warriors." Thereupon they

repaired to the Gateway of the Fort, and all day the battle raged there.

It was the morning after, when King Jewel-plume spake thus to his

Minister the Vulture--'Good sir, shall thy promise be kept to us?'

'It shall be kept, your Majesty,' replied the Vulture; 'storm the fort!'

'We will storm it!' said the Peacock-king. The sun was not well-risen

accordingly when the attack was made, and there arose hot fighting at

all the four gates. It was then that the traitorous Crows, headed by

their Monarch, Night-cloud, put fire to every dwelling in the citadel,

and raised a shout of 'The Fort is taken! it is taken!' At this terrible

sound the soldiers of the Swan-king forsook their posts, and plunged

into the pool.

Not thus King Silver-sides:--retiring coolly before the foe, with his

General the Paddy-bird, he was cut off and encircled by the troopers of

King Jewel-plume, under the command of his Marshal, the Cock.

'My General,' said the King, 'thou shalt not perish for me. Fly! I can

go no farther. Fly! I bid thee, and take counsel with the Goose that

Crest-jewel, my son, be named King!'

'Good my Lord,' replied the Paddy-bird, 'speak not thus! Let your

Majesty reign victorious while the sun and moon endure. I am governor of

your Majesty's fortress, and if the enemy enter it he shall but do so

over my body; let me die for thee, my Master!--

'Gentle, generous, and discerning; such a Prince the Gods do give!'

'That shalt thou not,' replied the Rajah--

'Skilful, honest, and true-hearted; where doth such a Vassal live?'

'Nay! my royal Lord, escape!' cried the Paddy-bird; a king's life is the

life of his people--

'The people are the lotus-leaves, their monarch is the sun--

When he doth sink beneath the waves they vanish every one.

When he doth rise they rise again with bud and blossom rife,

To bask awhile in his warm smile, who is their lord and life.'

'Think no more of me.' At this instant the Cock rushing forward,

inflicted a wound with his sharp spurs on the person of the King; but

the Paddy-bird sprang in front of him, and receiving on his body the

blows designed for the Rajah, forced him away into the pool. Then

turning upon the Cock, he despatched him with a shower of blows from his

long bill; and finally succumbed, fighting in the midst of his enemies.

Thus the King of the Peacocks captured the fortress; and marched home

with all the treasure in it, amid songs of victory.

Then spake the Princes: "In that army of the Swans there was no soldier

like the Paddy-bird, who gave his own life for the King's."

"There be nowhere many such," replied Vishnu-Sarman; "for

'All the cows bring forth are cattle--only now and then is born

An authentic lord of pastures, with his shoulder-scratching horn.'[20]

"It is well spoken," said the Princes.

"But for him that dares to die so," added the Sage, "may an eternal

heaven be reserved, and may the lustrous Angels of Paradise, the

Apsaras, conduct him thither! Is it not so declared, indeed?--

'When the soldier in the battle lays his life down for his king,

Unto Swerga's perfect glory such a deed his soul shall bring.'

"It is so declared," said the Rajah's sons.

"And now, my Princes," concluded Vishnu-Sarman, "you have listened to

'War.'"

"We have listened, and are gratified," replied the sons of the King.

"Let me end then," said their Preceptor, "with this--

'If the clouds of Battle lower

When ye come into your power,

Durga grant the foes that dare you

Bring no elephants to scare you;

Nor the thunderous rush of horses,

Nor the footmen's steel-fringed forces:

But overblown by Policy's strong breath,

Hide they in caverns from the avenging death.'

[16] The peacock is wild in most Indian jungles. The swan is a species

of flamingo of a white color. The voice and gait of a beautiful woman

are likened by the Hindoo poets to those of the swan.

[17] By such a death as that alluded to, she earns the title of Sati,

the "excellent."

[18] The common Indian crane; a graceful white bird, seen everywhere in

the interior of Hindoostan.

[19] A man of military caste.

[20] Large branching horns which reach backward and rub upon his

shoulders.

PEACE

When the time came for resuming instruction, the King's sons said to

Vishnu-Sarman, "Master, we have heard of War, we would now learn

somewhat of the treaties which follow war." "It is well asked," replied

the Sage; "listen therefore to 'Peace,' which hath this commencement--

'When those great Kings their weary war did cease,

The Vulture and the Goose concluded Peace.'

'How came that?' asked the Princes.

Vishnu-Sarman related:--

THE TREATY BETWEEN THE PEACOCKS AND THE SWANS

"So soon as King Jewel-plume had retreated, the first care of King

Silver-sides was the discovery of the treason that had cost him the

fort.

'Goose,' he said to his Minister, 'who put the fire to our citadel,

think you? Was it an enemy or an inmate?'

'Sire,' replied the Goose, 'Night-cloud and his followers are nowhere to

be seen--it must needs be his work.'

'It must needs be,' sighed the King, after a pause; 'but what

ill-fortune!'

'If it please your Majesty, no,' replied the Minister; 'it is written--

"'Tis the fool who, meeting trouble, straightway destiny reviles;

Knowing not his own misdoing brought his own mischance the whiles."

You have forgotten the saying--

'Who listens not, when true friends counsel well,

Must fall, as once the foolish Tortoise fell.'

'I never heard it,' said the King. 'How was that?' The Goose related--

THE STORY OF THE TORTOISE AND THE GEESE

"There is a pool in South Behar called the 'Pool of the Blue Lotus,' and

two Geese had for a long time lived there. They had a friend in the pool

who was a Tortoise, and he was known as 'Shelly-neck,' It chanced one

evening that the Tortoise overheard some fishermen talking by the water.

'We will stop here to-night,' they said, 'and in the morning we will

catch the fish, the tortoises, and such like.' Extremely alarmed at

this, the Tortoise repaired to his friends the Geese, and reported the

conversation.

'What ever am I to do, Gossips?' he asked.

'The first thing is to be assured of the danger,' said the Geese.

'I am assured,' exclaimed the Tortoise; 'the first thing is to avoid it:

don't you know?--

'Time-not-come' and 'Quick-at-peril,' these two fishes 'scaped the net;

'What-will-be-will-be,' he perished, by the fishermen beset.'

'No,' said the Geese,' how was it?' Shelly-neck related:--

THE STORY OF FATE AND THE THREE FISHES

"It was just such a pool as this, and on the arrival at it of just such

men as these fishermen, that three fishes, who had heard their designs,

held consultation as to what should be done.

'I shall go to another water,' said "Time-not-come," and away he went.

'Why should we leave unless obliged?' asked "Quick-at-peril." 'When the

thing befalls I shall do the best I can--

'Who deals with bad dilemmas well, is wise.

The merchant's wife, with womanly device,

Kissed--and denied the kiss--under his eyes.'

'How was that?' asked the other fish. Quick-at-peril related:--

THE STORY OF THE UNABASHED WIFE

"There was a trader in Vikrama-poora, who had a very beautiful wife, and

her name was Jewel-bright. The lady was as unfaithful as she was fair,

and had chosen for her last lover one of the household servants. Ah!

womankind!--

'Sex, that tires of being true,

Base and new is brave to you!

Like the jungle-cows ye range,

Changing food for sake of change.'

Now it befell one day that as Jewel-bright was bestowing a kiss on the

mouth of the servant, she was surprised by her husband; and seeing him

she ran up hastily and said, 'My lord, here is an impudent varlet! he

eats the camphor which I procured for you; I was actually smelling it on

his lips as you entered.' The servant catching her meaning, affected

offence. 'How can a man stay in a house where the mistress is always

smelling one's lips for a little camphor?' he said; and thereat he was

for going off, and was only constrained by the good man to stay, after

much entreaty. 'Therefore,' said Quick-at-peril, 'I mean to abide here,

and make the best I can of what befalls, as she did.'

'Yes, yes,' said What-will-be-will-be, 'we all know

'That which will not be will not be, and what is to be will be:--

Why not drink this easy physic, antidote of misery?'

'When the morning came, the net was thrown, and both the fishes

inclosed. Quick-at-peril, on being drawn up, feigned himself dead; and

upon the fisherman's laying him aside, he leaped off again into the

water. As to What-will-be-will-be, he was seized and forthwith

dispatched.--And that,' concluded the Tortoise, 'is why I wish to devise

some plan of escape.'

'It might be compassed if you could go elsewhere,' said the Geese, 'but

how can you get across the ground?'

'Can't you take me through the air?' asked the Tortoise.

'Impossible!' said the Geese.

'Not at all!' replied the Tortoise; 'you shall hold a stick across in

your bills, and I will hang on to it by my mouth--and thus you can

readily convey me,'

'It is feasible,' observed the Geese, 'but remember,

'Wise men their plans revolve, lest ill befall;

The Herons gained a friend, and so, lost all.'

'How came that about?' asked the Tortoise. The Geese related:--

THE STORY OF THE HERONS AND THE MONGOOSE

"Among the mountains of the north there is one named Eagle-cliff, and

near it, upon a fig-tree, a flock of Herons had their residence. At the

foot of the tree, in a hollow, there lived a serpent; and he was

constantly devouring the nestlings of the Herons. Loud were the

complaints of the parent birds, until an old Heron thus advised

them:--'You should bring some fishes from the pool, and lay them one by

one in a line from the hole of yonder Mongoose to the hollow where the

Serpent lives. The Mongoose will find him when it comes after the fish,

and if it finds him it will kill him.' The advice seemed good, and was

acted upon; but in killing the Snake the Mongoose overheard the cry of

the young Herons; and climbing the tree daily, he devoured all that the

Snake had left. Therefore,' concluded the Geese, 'do we bid you look

well into your plan: if you should open your mouth, for instance, as we

carry you, you will drop and be killed.'

'Am I a fool,' cried the Tortoise, 'to open my mouth? Not I! Come now,

convey me!'

'Thereupon the Geese took up the stick; the Tortoise held fast with his

mouth, and away they flew. The country people, observing this strange

sight, ran after.

'Ho! ho!' cried one, 'look at the flying Tortoise!'

'When he falls we'll cook and eat him here,' said another.

'No; let us take him home for dinner!' cried a third.

'We can light a fire by the pool, and eat him,' said the first.

'The Tortoise heard these unkind remarks in a towering passion. 'Eat

me!--eat ashes!' he exclaimed, opening his mouth--and down he fell

directly, and was caught by the countrymen.--Said I not well,' concluded

the Goose-Minister, 'that to scorn counsel is to seek destruction?'

'You have well said,' replied King Silver-sides, disconsolately.

'Yes, your Majesty,' interposed the Crane, who was just returned, 'if

the Fort had been cleared, Night-cloud could not have fired it, as he

did, by the Vulture's instigation.'

'We see it all,' sighed the King, 'but too late!'

'Whoso trusts, for service rendered, or fair words, an enemy,

Wakes from folly like one falling in his slumber from a tree.'

'I witnessed Night-cloud's reception,' continued the Crane. 'King

Jewel-plume showed him great favor, and was for anointing him Rajah of

Camphor-island.'

'Hear you that, my Liege?' asked the Goose.

'Go on; I hear!' said Silver-sides.

'To that the Vulture demurred,' continued the Crane:--'"favor to low

persons," he said, "was like writing on the sea-sand. To set the

base-born in the seat of the great was long ago declared impolitic--

'Give mean men power, and give thy throat to the knife;

The Mouse, made Tiger, sought his master's life.'

'How was that?' asked King Jewel-plume. The Vulture related--

THE STORY OF THE RECLUSE AND THE MOUSE

"In the forest of the Sage Gautama there dwelt a Recluse named

Mighty-at-Prayer. Once, as he sat at his frugal meal, a young mouse

dropped beside him from the beak of a crow, and he took it up and fed it

tenderly with rice grains. Some time after the Saint observed a cat

pursuing his dependent to devour it, whereupon he changed the mouse into

a stout cat. The cat was a great deal harassed by dogs, upon which the

Saint again transformed it into a dog. The dog was always in danger of

the tigers, and his protector at last gave him the form of a

tiger--considering him all this while, and treating him withal, like

nothing but a mouse. The country-folk passing by would say, 'That a

tiger! not he; it is a mouse the Saint has transformed.' And the mouse

being vexed at this, reflected, 'So long as the Master lives, this

shameful story of my origin will survive!' With this thought he was

about to take the Saint's life, when he, who knew his purpose, turned

the ungrateful beast by a word to his original shape. Besides, your

Majesty," continued the Vulture, "it may not be so easy to take in

Camphor-island--

'Many fine fishes did the old Crane kill,

But the Crab matched him, maugre all his bill.'

'How came that to pass?' asked Jewel-plume.

'The Vulture related:--

THE STORY OF THE CRANE AND THE CRAB

"There was an old Crane at a mere called Lily-water, in Malwa, who stood

one day in the shallows with a most dejected look and drooping bill. A

Crab observed him and called out, 'Friend Crane! have you given up

eating, that you stand there all day?' 'Nay, sir!' replied the old

Crane; 'I love my dish of fish, but I have heard the fishermen say that

they mean to capture every one that swims in this water; and as that

destroys my hope of subsistence, I am resigning myself to death.' All

this the fishes overheard. 'In this matter certainly,' they said, 'his

interest is ours; we ought to consult him; for it is written--

'Fellow be with kindly foemen, rather than with friends unkind;

Friend and foeman are distinguished not by title but by mind.'

Thereupon they repaired to him: 'Good Crane,' they said, 'what course is

there for safety?'

'Course of safety there is,' replied the Crane, 'to go elsewhere; and I

will carry you one by one to another pool, if you please.'

'Do so,' said the trembling fishes.

"The Crane accordingly took one after another, and having eaten them

returned with the report that he had safely deposited each. Last of all,

the Crab requested to be taken; and the Crane, coveting his tender

flesh, took him up with great apparent respect. On arriving at the spot,

which was covered with fish-bones, the Crab perceived the fate reserved

for him; and turning round he fastened upon the Crane's throat and tore

it so that he perished.'

'Well, but,' said King Jewel-plume, 'we can make Night-cloud viceroy

here, to send over to Vindhya all the productions of Camphor-isle!'

'Then the Vulture Far-sight laughed a low laugh and said--

'Who, ere he makes a gain has spent it,

Like the pot-breaker will repent it.'

'What was that?' asked the King. Far-sight related:--

THE STORY OF THE BRAHMAN AND THE PANS

"There was a Brahman in the city of Vána, whose name was Deva Sarman. At

the equinoctial feast of the Dussera, he obtained for his duxina-gift a

dish of flour, which he took into a potter's shed; and there lay down in

the shade among the pots, staff in hand. As he thus reclined he began to

meditate, 'I can sell this meal for ten cowrie-shells, and with them I

can purchase some of these pots and sell them at an advance. With all

that money I shall invest in betel-nuts and body-cloths and make a new

profit by their sale; and so go on trafficking till I get a lakh of

rupees--what's to prevent me? Then I shall marry four wives--and one at

least will be beautiful and young, and she shall be my favorite. Of

course the others will be jealous; but if they quarrel, and talk, and

trouble me I will belabor them like this--and this'--and therewith he

flourished his staff to such a purpose as to smash his meal-dish and

break several of the potter's jars. The potter, rushing out, took him by

the throat, and turned him off; and so ended his speculations. I smiled,

my Liege,' concluded the Vulture, 'at your precipitancy, thinking of

that story.'

'Tell me, then, my Father, what should be done,' said the King.

'Tell me first, your Majesty, what took the fortress: strength or

stratagem?'

'It was a device of yours,' said the King.

'It is well,' replied the Minister, 'and my counsel now is to return

before the rainy season, while we can return; and to make peace. We have

won renown and taken the enemy's stronghold; let it suffice. I speak as

a faithful adviser; and it is written--

'Whoso setting duty highest, speaks at need unwelcome things,

Disregarding fear and favor, such a one may succor kings.'

Oh, my Liege! war is uncertain! Nay, it may ruin victor and

vanquished--

'Sunda the strong, and giant Upasunda,

Contending, like the lightning and the thunder,

Slew each the other. Learn, the while you wonder.'

'Tell me that,' said the King of the Peacocks.

'The Vulture related--

THE DUEL OF THE GIANTS

"Long ago, my Liege, there were two Daityas named Sunda and Upasunda,

the which with penance and fasting worshipped that God who wears the

moon for his forehead-jewel; desiring to win his favor, and thereby the

lordship of the Three Worlds. At last the God, propitiated by their

devotion, spake thus unto them:--

'I grant a boon unto ye--choose what it shall be.'

'And they, who would have asked dominion, were suddenly minded of

Saraswati--who reigns over the hearts and thoughts of men--to seek a

forbidden thing.

'If,' said they, 'we have found favor, let the Divinity give us his own

cherished Parvati, the Queen of Heaven!'

'Terribly incensed was the God, but his word had passed, and the boon

must be granted; and Parvati the Divine was delivered up to them. Then

those two world-breakers, sick at heart, sin-blinded, and afire with the

glorious beauty of the Queen of Life--began to dispute, saying one to

another: 'Mine is she! mine is she!' At the last they called for an

umpire, and the God himself appeared before them as a venerable Brahman.

'Master,' said they, 'tell us whose she is, for we both won her by our

might.'

'Then spake that Brahman:--

'Brahmans for their lore have honor; Kshattriyas for their bravery;

Vaisyas for their hard-earned treasure; Sudras for humility,'

Ye are Kshattriyas--and it is yours to fight; settle, then, this

question by the sword.'

'Thereupon they agreed that he spoke wisely, and drew and battled; and

being of equal force, they fell at the same moment by an exchange of

blows. Good my Lord,' concluded the Minister, 'peace is a better thing

than war,'

'But why not say so before?' asked Jewel-plume.

'I said it at the first,' replied the Minister. 'I knew King

Silver-sides for a just King, upon whom it was ill to wage battle. How

say the Scriptures?--

'Seven foemen of all foemen, very hard to vanquish be:

The Truth-teller, the Just-dweller, and the man from passion free,

Subtle, self-sustained, and counting frequent well-won victories,

And the man of many kinsmen--keep the peace with such as these.'

The Swan-king has friends and kinsmen, my Liege:--

'And the man with many kinsmen answers with them all attacks;

As the bambu, in the bambus safely sheltered, scorns the axe.'

'My counsel then is that peace be concluded with him,' said the Vulture.

'All this King Silver-sides and his Minister the Goose heard attentively

from the Crane.

'Go again!' said the Goose to Long-bill, 'and bring us news of how the

Vulture's advice is received.'

'Minister!' began the King, upon the departure of the Crane, 'tell me as

to this peace, who are they with whom it should not be concluded?'

'They be twenty, namely----'

'Tarry not to name them,' said the King; 'and what be the qualities of a

good ally?'

'Such should be learned in Peace and War,' replied the Goose, 'in

marching and pitching, and seasonably placing an army in the field; for

it is said--

'He who sets his battle wisely, conquers the unwary foe;

As the Owl, awaiting night-time, slew the overweening Crow.'

Counsel, my Liege, is quintuple--Commencing, providing, dividing,

repelling, and completing,'

'Good!' said the King.

'Power is triple,' continued the Goose, 'being of Kings, of counsels,

and of constant effort.'

'It is so!' said the King.

'And expedients, my Liege,' continued the Goose, 'are quadruple, and

consist of conciliation, of gifts, of strife-stirring, and of force of

arms; for thus it is written--

'Whoso hath the gift of giving wisely, equitably, well;

Whoso, learning all men's secrets, unto none his own will tell;

Whoso, ever cold and courtly, utters nothing that offends,

Such a one may rule his fellows unto Earth's extremest ends.'

'Then King Jewel-plume would be a good ally,' observed the Swan-king.

'Doubtless!' said the Goose, 'but elated with victory, he will hardly

listen to the Vulture's counsel; we must make him do it.'

'How?' asked the King.

'We will cause our dependent, the King of Ceylon, Strong-bill the Stork,

to raise an insurrection in Jambudwipa.'

'It is well-conceived,' said the King. And forthwith a Crane, named

Pied-body, was dismissed with a secret message to that Rajah.

'In course of time the first Crane, who had been sent as a spy, came

back, and made his report. He related that the Vulture had advised his

Sovereign to summon Night-cloud, the Crow, and learn from him regarding

King Silver-sides' intentions. Night-cloud attended accordingly.

'Crow!' asked King Jewel-plume, 'what sort of a Monarch is the Rajah

Silver-sides?'

'Truthful, may it please you,' replied the Crow; 'and therewithal noble

as Yudisthira himself.'

'And his Minister, the Goose?'

'Is a Minister unrivalled, my Liege,' said the Crow-king.

'But how then didst thou so easily deceive them?'

'Ah! your Majesty,' said the Crow, 'there was little credit in that. Is

it not said?--

'Cheating them that truly trust you, 'tis a clumsy villainy!

Any knave may slay the child who climbs and slumbers on his knee.'

Besides, the Minister detected me immediately. It was the King whose

innate goodness forbade him to suspect evil in another:--

'Believe a knave, thyself scorning a lie,

And rue it, like the Brahman, by and by.'

'What Brahman was that?' asked the King. Night-cloud replied:--

THE STORY OF THE BRAHMAN AND THE GOAT

"A Brahman that lived in the forest of Gautama, your Majesty. He had

purveyed a goat to make pooja, and was returning home with it on life

shoulder when he was descried by three knaves. 'If we could but obtain

that goat,' said they, 'it would be a rare trick'; and they ran on, and

seated themselves at the foot of three different trees upon the

Brahman's road. Presently he came up with the first of them, who

addressed him thus: 'Master! why do you carry that dog on your

shoulder?' 'Dog!' said the Brahman, 'it is a goat for sacrifice!' With

that he went on a coss, and came to the second knave; who called

out--'What doest thou with that dog, Master?' The Brahman laid his goat

upon the ground, looked it all over, took it up again upon his back, and

walked on with his mind in a whirl; for--

'The good think evil slowly, and they pay

A price for faith--as witness "Crop-ear" may.'

'Who was Crop-ear?' asked the King of the Peacocks.

THE STORY OF THE CAMEL, THE LION, AND HIS COURT

"A Camel, may it please you," replied Night-cloud, "who strayed away

from a kafila, and wandered into the forest. A Lion, named

'Fierce-fangs,' lived in that forest; and his three courtiers, a Tiger,

a Jackal, and a Crow, met the Camel, and conducted him to their King.

His account of himself was satisfactory, and the Lion took him into his

service under the name of Crop-ear. Now it happened that the rainy

season was very severe, and the Lion became indisposed, so that there

was much difficulty in obtaining food for the Court. The courtiers

resolved accordingly to prevail on the Lion to kill the Camel; 'for what

interest have we,' they said, 'in this browser of thistles?'

'What, indeed!' observed the Tiger; 'but will the Rajah kill him after

his promise of protection, think you?'

'Being famished he will,' said the Crow. 'Know you not?--

'Hunger hears not, cares not, spares not; no boon of the starving beg;

When the snake is pinched with craving, verily she eats her egg.'

Accordingly they repaired to the Lion.

'Hast brought me food, fellow?' growled the Rajah.

'None, may it please you,' said the Crow.

'Must we starve, then?' asked his Majesty.

'Not unless you reject the food before you, Sire,' rejoined the Crow.

'Before me! how mean you?'

'I mean,' replied the Crow (and he whispered it in the Lion's ear),

'Crop-ear, the Camel!'

'Now!' said the Lion, and he touched the ground, and afterwards both

ears, as he spoke, 'I have given him my pledge for his safety, and how

should I slay him?'

'Nay, Sire! I said not slay,' replied the Crow; 'it may be that he will

offer himself for food. To that your Majesty would not object?'

'I am parlous hungry,' muttered the Lion.

'Then the Crow went to find the Camel, and, bringing all together before

the King under some pretence or other, he thus addressed him:--

'Sire! our pains are come to nothing: we can get no food, and we behold

our Lord falling away,

'Of the Tree of State the root

Kings are--feed what brings the fruit.'

Take me, therefore, your Majesty, and break your fast upon me."

'Good Crow,' said the Lion, 'I had liefer die than do so.'

'Will your Majesty deign to make a repast upon me?' asked the Jackal.

'On no account!' replied the Lion.

'Condescend, my Lord,' said the Tiger, 'to appease your hunger with my

poor flesh.'

'Impossible!' responded the Lion.

'Thereupon Crop-ear, not to be behind in what seemed safe, made offer of

his own carcase, which was accepted before he had finished; the Tiger

instantly tearing his flank open, and all the rest at once devouring

him.

'The Brahman,' continued Night-cloud, 'suspected nothing more than did

the Camel; and when the third knave had broken his jest upon him for

bearing a dog, he threw it down, washed himself clean of the

contamination, and went home; while the knaves secured and cooked his

goat.'

'But, Night-cloud,' asked the Rajah, 'how couldst thou abide so long

among enemies, and conciliate them?'

'It is easy to play the courtier for a purpose,' said Night-cloud--

'Courtesy may cover malice; on their heads the woodmen bring,

Meaning all the while to burn them, logs and fagots--oh, my King!

And the strong and subtle river, rippling at the cedar's foot,

While it seems to lave and kiss it, undermines the hanging root.'

Indeed, it has been said--

'A wise man for an object's sake

His foe upon his back will take,

As with the Frogs once did the Snake.'

'How was that?' asked the Peacock-King. The Crow related:--

THE STORY OF THE FROGS AND THE OLD SERPENT

"In a deserted garden there once lived a Serpent, 'Slow-coil' by name;

who had reached an age when he was no longer able to obtain his own

food. Lying listlessly by the edge of a pond, he was descried by a

certain Frog, and interrogated--

'Have you given up caring for food, Serpent?'

'Leave me, kindly Sir,' replied the subtle reptile; 'the griefs of a

miserable wretch like me cannot interest your lofty mind.'

'Let me at least hear them,' said the Frog, somewhat flattered.

'You must know, then, gracious Sir,' began the Serpent, 'that it is now

twenty years since here, in Brahmapoora, I bit the son of Kaundinya, a

holy Brahman; of which cruel bite he died. Seeing his boy dead,

Kaundinya abandoned himself to despair, and grovelled in his distress

upon the ground. Thereat came all his kinsmen, citizens of Brahmapoora,

and sat down with him, as the manner is--

'He who shares his brother's portion, be he beggar, be he lord,

Comes as truly, comes as duly, to the battle as the board;

Stands before the King to succor, follows to the pile to sigh;

He is friend and he is kinsman--less would make the name a lie.'

Then spoke a twice-passed Brahman,[21] Kapila by name, 'O Kaundinya!

thou dost forget thyself to lament thus. Hear what is written--

'Weep not! Life the hired nurse is, holding us a little space;

Death, the mother who doth take us back into our proper place.'

'Gone, with all their gauds and glories: gone, like peasants, are the

Kings,

Whereunto the world is witness, whereof all her record rings.'

What, indeed, my friend, is this mortal frame, that we should set store

by it?--

'For the body, daily wasting, is not seen to waste away,

Until wasted, as in water set a jar of unbaked clay.'

'And day after day man goeth near and nearer to his fate,

As step after step the victim thither where its slayers wait.'

Friends and kinsmen--they must all be surrendered! Is it not said--

'Like as a plank of drift-wood

Tossed on the watery main,

Another plank encountered,

Meets--touches--parts again;

So tossed, and drifting ever,

On life's unresting sea,

Men meet, and greet, and sever,

Parting eternally.'

Thou knowest these things, let thy wisdom chide thy sorrow, saying--

'Halt, traveller! rest i' the shade: then up and leave it!

Stay, Soul! take fill of love; nor losing, grieve it!'

But in sooth a wise man would better avoid love; for--

'Each beloved object born

Sets within the heart a thorn,

Bleeding, when they be uptorn.'

And it is well asked--

'When thine own house, this rotting frame, doth wither,

Thinking another's lasting--goest thou thither?'

What will be, will be; and who knows not--

'Meeting makes a parting sure,

Life is nothing but death's door.'

For truly--

'As the downward-running rivers never turn and never stay,

So the days and nights stream deathward, bearing human lives away.'

And though it be objected that--

'Bethinking him of darkness grim, and death's unshunned pain,

A man strong-souled relaxes hold, like leather soaked in rain.'

Yet is this none the less assured, that--

'From the day, the hour, the minute,

Each life quickens in the womb;

Thence its march, no falter in it,

Goes straight forward to the tomb.'

Form, good friend, a true idea of mundane matters; and bethink thee that

regret is after all but an illusion, an ignorance--

'An 'twere not so, would sorrow cease with years?

Wisdom sees aright what want of knowledge fears.'

'Kaundinya listened to all this with the air of a dreamer. Then rising

up he said, 'Enough! the house is hell to me--I will betake me to the

forest.'

'Will that stead you?' asked Kapila; 'nay--

'Seek not the wild, sad heart! thy passions haunt it;

Play hermit in thine house with heart undaunted;

A governed heart, thinking no thought but good,

Makes crowded houses holy solitude.'

To be master of one's self--to eat only to prolong life--to yield to

love no more than may suffice to perpetuate a family--and never to speak

but in the cause of truth, this,' said Kapila, 'is armor against grief.

What wouldst thou with a hermit's life--prayer and purification from

sorrow and sin in holy streams? Hear this!--

'Away with those that preach to us the washing off of sin--

Thine own self is the stream for thee to make ablutions in:

In self-restraint it rises pure--flows clear in tide of truth,

By widening banks of wisdom, in waves of peace and ruth.

Bathe there, thou son of Pandu! with reverence and rite,

For never yet was water wet could wash the spirit white.'

Resign thyself to loss. Pain exists absolutely. Ease, what is it but a

minute's alleviation?'

'It is nothing else,' said Kaundinya: 'I will resign myself!'

Thereupon,' the Serpent continued, 'he cursed me with the curse that I

should be a carrier of frogs, and so retired--and here remain I to do

according to the Brahman's malediction.'

'The Frog, hearing all this, went and reported it to Web-foot the

Frog-King, who shortly came himself for an excursion on the Serpent. He

was carried delightfully, and constantly employed the conveyance. But

one day observing the Serpent to be sluggish, he asked the reason.

'May it please you,' explained the Serpent, 'your slave has nothing to

eat.'

'Eat a few of my frogs,' said the King. 'I give you leave.'

'I thank your Majesty!' answered the Serpent, and forthwith he began to

eat the frogs, until the pond becoming clear, he finished with their

monarch himself. 'I also,' said Night-cloud, 'stooped to conquer, but

King Silver-sides is a good King, and I would your Majesty were at peace

with him.'

'Peace!' cried King Jewel-plume, 'shall I make peace with my vassal! I

have vanquished him--let him serve me!'

"At this moment the Parrot came in. 'Sire!' said he, breathlessly,' the

Stork Strong-bill, Rajah of Ceylon, has raised the standard of revolt in

Jambudwipa, and claims the country.'

'What! what!' cried the King in a fury.

'Excellent good, Goose!' muttered the Minister. 'This is thy work!'

'Bid him but await me!' exclaimed the King, 'and I will tear him up like

a tree!'

'Ah, Sire,' said the Minister--

'Thunder for nothing, like December's cloud,

Passes unmarked: strike hard, but speak not loud.'

We cannot march without making peace first; our rear will be attacked.'

'Must it be so?' asked the King.

'My Liege, it must,' replied the Vulture.

'Make a peace then,' said the King, 'and make an end.'

'It is well,' observed the Minister, and set out for the Court of the

King Silver-sides. While he was yet coming, the Crane announced his

approach.

'Ah!' said the Swan-King, 'this will be another designing spy from the

enemy.'

'Misdoubt him not!' answered the Goose, smiling, 'it is the Vulture

Far-sight, a spirit beyond suspicion. Would your Majesty be as the Swan

that took the stars reflected in the pool for lily-buds, and being

deceived, would eat no lily-shoots by day, thinking them stars?'

'Not so! but treachery breeds mistrust,' replied the Rajah; is it not

written--

'Minds deceived by evil natures, from the good their faith withhold;

When hot conjee once has burned them, children blow upon the cold.'

'It is so written, my Liege,' said the Minister. 'But this one may be

trusted. Let him be received with compliments and a gift.'

'Accordingly the Vulture was conducted, with the most profound respect,

from the fort to the King's audience-hall, where a throne was placed for

him.

'Minister,' said the Goose, 'consider us and ours at thy disposal.'

'So consider us,' assented the Swan-King.

'I thank you,' said Far-sight; 'but--

'With a gift the miser meet;

Proud men by obeisance greet;

Women's silly fancies soothe;

Give wise men their due--the truth.'

'I am come to conclude a peace, not to claim your kingdom. By what mode

shall we conclude it?'

'How many modes be there?' asked King Silver-sides.

'Sixteen,' replied the Vulture.

'Are the alliances numbered therein?' asked the King.

'No! these be four,' answered the Vulture, 'namely--of mutual help--of

friendship--of blood--and of sacrifice.'

'You are a great diplomatist!' said the King. 'Advise us which to

choose!'

'There is no Peace like the Golden "Sangata," which is made between good

men, based on friendly feeling, and preceded by the Oath of Truth,'

replied the Vulture.

'Let us make that Peace!' said the Goose. Far-sight accordingly, with

fresh presents of robes and jewels, accompanied the Goose to the camp of

the Peacock-King. The Rajah, Jewel-plume, gave the Goose a gracious

audience, accepted his terms of Peace, and sent him back to the

Swan-King, loaded with gifts and kind speeches. The revolt in Jambudwipa

was suppressed, and the Peacock-King retired to his own kingdom.

"And now," said Vishnu-Sarman, "I have told your Royal Highnesses all.

Is there anything remaining to be told?"

"Reverend Sir!" replied the Princes, "there is nothing. Thanks to you,

we have heard and comprehended the perfect cycle of kingly duty, and are

content."

"There remains but this, then," said their Preceptor:--

'Peace and Plenty, all fair things,

Grace the realm where ye reign Kings;

Grief and loss come not anigh you,

Glory guide and magnify you;

Wisdom keep your statesmen still

Clinging fast, in good or ill,

Clinging, like a bride new-wed,

Unto lips, and breast, and head:

And day by day, that these fair things befall,

The Lady Lukshmi give her grace to all.'

[21] A young Brahman, being invested with the sacred thread, and having

concluded his studies, becomes of the second order: a householder.

NALA AND DAMAYANTI

[_Selected from the "Mahâbhârata" Translation by Sir Edwin Arnold_]

INTRODUCTION

The "Mahâbhârata" is the oldest epic in Sanscrit literature, and is

sevenfold greater in bulk than the "Iliad" and "Odyssey" taken together.

This remarkable poem contains almost all the history of ancient India,

so far as it can be recovered, together with inexhaustible details of

its political, social, and religious life--in fact, the antique Hindoo

world stands epitomized in it. The Old Testament is not more interwoven

with the Jewish race, nor the New Testament with the civilization of

Christendom, nor even the Koran with the records and destinies of Islam,

than is this great Sanscrit poem with the unchanging and teeming

population of Hindostan. The stories, songs, and ballads, the

genealogies, the nursery tales and religious discourses, the art, the

learning, the philosophy, the creeds, the modes of thought, the very

phrases and daily ideas of the Hindoo people are taken from this poem.

Their children are named after its heroes; so are their cities, streets,

and even cattle. It is the spiritual life of the Hindoo people. It is

personified, worshipped, and cited as being something divine. To read,

or even to listen, is to the devout Hindoo sufficiently meritorious to

bring prosperity to the fireside in this world, and happiness in the

world to come.

The western world has as yet only received the "Mahâbhârata" in

fragments--mere specimens, bearing to those vast treasures of Sanscrit

literature such small proportion as cabinet samples of ore have to the

riches of a mine. Such knowledge as we have of the great Indian epics is

largely due to Sir William Jones, and the host of translators who

followed him.

In its present shape the "Mahâbhârata" contains some two hundred

thousand verses. The style is forcible, often terse and nervous: the

action is well sustained, and the whole effect produced is that of a

poem written in commemoration of actual conflict between members of

rival clans who lived somewhere southeast of the Punjab. In portrayal of

character the Hindoo poem somewhat resembles its Grecian

counterpart--the "Iliad"; the noble devotion and chivalric character of

its chief hero, Arjuna, reminds us of Hector--and the wily, sinful

Duryodhana, is a second Ulysses. The "Mahâbhârata" was probably begun in

the third or fourth century B.C., and completed soon after the beginning

of the Christian era.

The "Bhârata" war is a war between rival cousins of the house of

Bhârata, a race of heroes mentioned in the Rig-veda collection.

Duryodhana deprives his cousin Yudhisthira of his throne by inducing him

to squander his fortune, kingdom, family, and self--and then banishes

Yudhisthira and the latter's four brothers for twelve years. The

gambling was conducted in an unfair manner, and the cousins feel that

their banishment was the result of treachery, although pretended to be

mercy in lieu of death. When the twelve years are over they collect

armies of sympathizers, and on the Sacred Plain of the Kurus (the Holy

Land of India) the great war is fought out. The good prevails,

Duryodhana is slain, and Yudhisthira recovers his kingdom. This story is

told so graphically that the "Mahâbhârata" still has the charm that

comes from plot and action, as well as that of poetic beauty.

A concluding passage of this great poem says: "The reading of this

'Mahâbhârata' destroys all sin and produces virtue, so much so that the

pronunciation of a single shloka is sufficient to wipe away much guilt.

It has bound human beings in a chain, of which one end is life and the

other death. If a man reads the 'Mahâbhârata' and has faith in its

doctrines, he is free from all sin and ascends to heaven after his

death."

The present selection is the episode of Nala and Damayanti. It is one of

the most charming of the "Mahâbhârata" stories, and its Oriental flavor

and delicacy have been well preserved by the translator, Sir Edwin

Arnold.

L.F.C.

THE MAHÂBHÂRATA

NALA AND DAMAYANTI

Part I

A prince there was, named Nala, Virasen's noble breed,

Goodly to see, and virtuous; a tamer of the steed;

As Indra 'midst the gods, so he of kings was kingliest one,

Sovereign of men, and splendid as the golden, glittering sun;

Pure, knowing scripture, gallant; ruling nobly Nishadh's lands;

Dice-loving, but a proud, true chief of her embattled bands;

By lovely ladies lauded; free, trained in self-control;

A shield and bow; a Manu on earth; a royal soul!

And in Vidarbha's city the Raja Bhima dwelled;

Save offspring, from his perfect bliss no blessing was withheld;

For offspring, many a pious rite full patiently he wrought,

Till Damana the Brahman unto his house was brought.

Him Bhima, ever reverent, did courteously entreat,

Within the Queen's pavilion led him, to rest and eat;

Whereby that sage, grown grateful, gave her--for joy of joys--

A girl, the gem of girlhood, and three brave lusty boys--

Damana, Dama, Dânta, their names:--Damayanti she;

No daughter more delightful, no sons could goodlier be.

Stately and bright and beautiful did Damayanti grow;

No land there was which did not the Slender-waisted know;

A hundred slaves her fair form decked with robe and ornament--

Like Śachi's self to serve her a hundred virgins bent;

And 'midst them Bhima's daughter, in peerless glory dight,

Gleamed as the lightning glitters against the murk of night;

Having the eyes of Lakshmi, long-lidded, black, and bright--

Nay--never Gods, nor Yakshas, nor mortal men among

Was one so rare and radiant e'er seen, or sued, or sung

As she, the heart-consuming, in heaven itself desired.

And Nala, too, of princes the Tiger-Prince, admired

Like Kama was; in beauty an embodied lord of love:

And ofttimes Nala praised they all other chiefs above

In Damayanti's hearing; and oftentimes to him,

With worship and with wonder, her beauty they would limn;

So that, unmet, unknowing, unseen, in each for each

A tender thought of longing grew up from seed of speech;

And love (thou son of Kunti!) those gentle hearts did reach.

Thus Nala--hardly bearing in his heart

Such longing--wandered in his palace-woods,

And marked some water-birds, with painted plumes,

Disporting. One, by stealthy steps, he seized;

But the sky-traveller spake to Nala this:--

"Kill me not, Prince, and I will serve thee well.

For I, in Damayanti's ear, will say

Such good of Nishadh's lord, that nevermore

Shall thought of man possess her, save of thee."

Thereat the Prince gladly gave liberty

To his soft prisoner, and all the swans

Flew, clanging, to Vidarbha--a bright flock--

Straight to Vidarbha, where the Princess walked;

And there, beneath her eyes, those winged ones

Lighted. She saw them sail to earth, and marked--

Sitting amid her maids--their graceful forms;

While those for wantonness 'gan chase the swans,

Which fluttered this and that way through the grove:

Each girl with tripping feet her bird pursued,

And Damayanti, laughing, followed hers;

Till--at the point to grasp--the flying prey

Deftly eluding touch, spake as men speak,

Addressing Bhima's daughter:--

"Lady dear!

Loveliest Damayanti! Nala dwells

In near Nishadha: oh, a noble Prince,

Not to be matched of men; an Aświn he,

For goodliness. Incomparable maid!

Wert thou but wife to that surpassing chief,

Rich would the fruit grow from such lordly birth,

Such peerless beauty. Slender-waisted one,

Gods, men, and Gandharvas have we beheld,

But never none among them like to him.

As thou art pearl of princesses, so he

Is crown of princes; happy would it fall,

One such perfection should another wed."

And when she heard that bird (O King of men!)

The Princess answered: "Go, dear swan, and tell

This same to Nala;" and the egg-born said,

"I go"--and flew; and told the Prince of all.

But Damayanti, having heard the bird,

Lived fancy-free no more; by Nala's side

Her soul dwelt, while she sat at home distraught,

Mournful and wan, sighing the hours away,

With eyes upcast, and passion-laden looks;

So that, eftsoons, her limbs failed, and her mind--

With love o'erweighted--found no rest in sleep,

No grace in company, no joy at feasts.

Nor night nor day brought peace; always she heaved

Sigh upon sigh, till all her maidens knew--

By glance and mien and moan--how changed she was,

Her own sweet self no more. Then to the King

They told how Damayanti loved the Prince.

Which thing when Bhima from her maidens heard,

Deep pondering for his child what should be done,

And why the Princess was beside herself,

That lord of lands perceived his daughter grown,

And knew that for her high Swayamvara

The time was come.

So, to the Rajas all

The King sent word: "Ye Lords of Earth, attend

Of Damayanti the Swayamvara."

And when these learned of her Swayamvara,

Obeying Bhima, to his court they thronged--

Elephants, horses, cars--over the land

In full files wending, bearing flags and wreaths

Of countless hues, with gallant companies

Of fighting men. And those high-hearted chiefs

The strong-armed King welcomed with worship fair,

As fitted each, and led them to their seats.

Now at that hour there passed towards Indra's heaven,

Thither from earth ascending, those twain saints--

The wise, the pure, the mighty-minded ones,

The self-restrained--Narad and Parvata.

The mansion of the Sovereign of the Gods

In honor entered they; and he, the Lord

Of Clouds, dread Indra, softly them salutes,

Inquiring of their weal, and of the world

Wherethrough their name was famous, how it fares.

Then Narad said: "Well is it, Lord of Gods,

With us, and with our world; and well with those

Who rule the peoples, O thou King in Heaven!"

But He that slew the Demons spake again:--

"The princes of the earth, just-minded, brave,

Those who, in battle fearing not to fall,

See death on the descending blade, and charge

Full front against it, turning not their face--

Theirs is this realm eternal, as to me

The cow of plenty, Kâmadhuk, belongs.

Where be my Kshatriya warriors? Wherefore now

See I none coming of those slaughtered lords,

Chiefs of mankind, our always honored guests?"

And unto Indra Narad gave reply:--

"King of the Air! no wars are waged below;

None fall in fight, to enter here. The Lord

Of high Vidarbha hath a daughter, famed

For loveliness beyond all earthly maids,

The Princess Damayanti, far-renowned.

Of her, dread Sakra! the Swayamvara

Shall soon befall, and thither now repair

The kings and princes of all lands, to woo--

Each for himself--this pearl of womanhood.

For oh, thou Slayer of the Demons, all

Desire the maid."

Drew round, while Narad spake,

The Masters, th'Immortals, pressing in

With Agni and the Greatest, near the throne,

To listen to the speech of Narada;

Whom having heard, all cried delightedly,

"We, too, will go." Thereupon those high gods,

With chariots, and with heavenly retinues,

Sped to Vidarbha, where the kings were met.

And Nala, knowing of this kingly tryst,

Went thither joyous, heart-full with the thought

Of Damayanti.

Thus it chanced the gods

Beheld the Prince wending along his road,

Goodly of mien, as is the Lord of Love.

The world's Protectors saw him, like a sun

For splendor; and, in very wonder, paused

Some time irresolute, so fair he was;

Then in mid-sky their golden chariots stayed,

And through the clouds descending called to him:--

"Abo! Nala of Nishadha! Noblest Prince,

Be herald for us; bear our message now."

"Yea!" Nala made reply, "this will I do"--

And then--palm unto palm in reverence pressed--

Asked: "Shining Ones, who are ye? Unto whom,

And what words bearing, will ye that I go?

Deign to instruct me what it is ye bid."

Thus the Prince spake, and Indra answered him:--

"Thou seest th'immortal gods. Indra am I,

And this is Agni, and the other here,

Varuna, Lord of Waters; and beyond,

Yama, the King of Death, who parteth souls

From mortal frames. To Damayanti go;

Tell our approach. Say this: 'The world's dread lords,

Wishful to see thee, come; desiring thee--

Indra, Varuna, Agni, Yama, all.

Choose of these powers to which thou wilt be given.'"

But Nala, hearing that, joined palms again,

And cried: "Ah, send me not, with one accord

For this, most mighty Gods! How should a man

Sue for another, being suitor too?

How bear such errand? Have compassion, Gods!"

Then spake they: "Yet thou saidst, 'This shall I do,'

Nishadha's Prince! and wilt thou do it not,

Forswearing faith? Nay, but depart, and soon!"

So bid, but lingering yet again, he said:--

"Well guarded are the gates; how shall I find

Speech with her?"

"Thou shalt find," Indra replied.

And, lo! upon that word Nala was brought

To Damayanti's chamber. There he saw

Vidarbha's glory, sitting 'mid her maids,

In majesty and grace surpassing all;

So exquisite, so delicate of form,

Waist so fine-turned, such limbs, such lighted eyes,

The moon hath meaner radiance than she.

Love at the sight of that soft smiling face

Sprang to full passion, while he stood and gazed.

Yet, faith and duty urging, he restrained

His beating heart; but when those beauteous maids

Spied Nala, from their cushions they uprose,

Startled to see a man, yet startled more

Because he showed so heavenly bright and fair.

In wondering pleasure each saluted him,

Uttering no sound, but murmuring to themselves:--

"Aho! the grace of him: aho! the brilliance;

Aho! what glorious strength lives in his limbs!

What is he? Is he God, Gandharva, Yaksha?"

But this unspoken, for they dared not breathe

One syllable, all standing shyly there

To see him, and to see his youth so sweet.

Yet, softly glancing back to his soft glance,

The Princess, presently, with fluttering breath,

Accosted Nala, saying: "Fairest Prince,

Who by thy faultless form hath filled my heart

With sudden joy, coming as come the gods,

Unstayed, I crave to know thee, who thou art;

How didst thou enter? how wert thou unseen?

Our palace is close-guarded, and the King

Hath issued mandates stern."

Tenderly spake

The Prince, replying to those tender words:--

"Most lovely! I am Nala. I am come

A herald of the gods unto thee here.

The gods desire thee, the immortal Four--

Indra, Varuna, Yama, Agni. Choose,

O Brightest! one from these to be thy lord.

By their help is it I have entered in

Unseen; none could behold me at thy gates,

Nor stay me, passing; and to speak their will

They sent me, fairest one and best. Do thou,

Knowing the message, judge as seemeth well."

She bowed her head, hearing the great gods named,

And then, divinely smiling, said to him:--

"Pledge thyself faithfully to me, and I

Will seek, O Raja, only how to pay

That debt with all I am, with all I have;

For I and mine are thine--in full trust thine.

Make me that promise, Prince. Thy gentle name--

Sung by the swan--first set my thoughts afire;

And for thy sake--only for thee--sweet Lord,

The kings were summoned hither. If, alas!

Fair Prince, thou dost reject my sudden love,

So proffered, then must poison, flame, or flood,

Or knitted cord, be my sad remedy."

So spake Vidarbha's Pride; and Nala said:--

"With gods so waiting--with the world's dread lords

Hastening to woo, canst thou desire a man?

Bethink! I, unto these, that make and mar,

These all-wise ones, almighty, am like dust

Under their feet: lift thy heart to the height

Of what I bring. If mortal man offend

The most high gods, death is what springs of it.

Spare me to live, thou faultless lady! Choose

Which of these excellent great gods thou wilt;

Wear the unstained robes! bear on thy brows

The wreaths which never fade, of heavenly blooms!

Be, as thou mayest, a goddess, and enjoy

Godlike delights! Him who enfolds the earth,

Creating and consuming, Brightest Power,

Hutâsa, Eater of the Sacrifice,

What woman would not take? Or him whose rod

Herds all the generations forward still

On virtue's path, Red Yama, King of Death,

What woman would affront? Or him, the all-good,

All-wise destroyer of the Demons, first

In heaven, Mahendra--who of womankind

Is there that would not wed? Or, if thy mind

Incline, doubt not to choose Varuna; he

Is of these world-protectors. From a heart

Full friendly cometh what I tell thee now."

Unto Nishadha's Prince the maid replied--

Tears of distress dimming her lustrous eyes---

"Humbly I reverence these mighty gods;

But thee I choose, and thee I take for lord;

And this I vow!"

With folded palms she stood,

And trembling lips, while his faint answer fell:--

"Sent on such embassy, how shall I dare

Speak, sweetest Princess, for myself to thee?

Bound by my promise for the gods to sue,

How can I be a suitor for myself?

Silence is here my duty; afterwards,

If I shall come, in mine own name I'll come,

Mine own cause pleading. Ah, might that so be!"

Checking her tears, Damayanti sadly smiled,

And said full soft: "One way of hope I see,

A blameless way, O Lord of men! wherefrom

No fault shall rise, nor any danger fall.

Thou also, Prince, with Indra and these gods,

Must enter in where my Swayamvara

Is held; then I, in presence of those gods,

Will choose thee, dearest, for my lord; and so

Blame shall not light on thee,"

With which sweet words

Soft in his ears, Nishadha straight returned

There where the gods were gathered, waiting him;

Whom the world's masters, on his way, perceived,

And, spying, questioned, asking for his news:--

"Saw'st thou her, Prince? Didst see the sweet-lipped one?

What spake she of us? Tell us true; tell all!"

Quoth Nala: "By your worshipful behest

Sent to her house, the great gates entered I,

Though the gray porters watched; but none might spy

My entering, by your power, O radiant Ones,

Saving the Raja's daughter; her I saw

Amid her maidens, and by them was seen.

On me with much amazement they did gaze

Whilst I your high Divinities extolled.

But she that hath the lovely face, with mind

Set upon me, hath chosen me, ye Gods.

For thus she spake, my Princess: 'Let them come,

And come thou, like a lordly tiger, too,

Unto the place of my Swayamvara;

There will I choose thee in their presence, Prince,

To be my lord; and so there will not fall

Blame, thou strong-armed! to thee,' This she did say

Even as I tell it; and what shall be next,

To will is yours, O ye immortal Ones!"

Soon, when the moon was good, and day and hour

Were found propitious, Bhima, King of men,

Summoned the chiefs to the Swayamvara;

Upon which message all those eager lords

For love of Damayanti hastened there.

Glorious with gilded pillars was the court,

Whereto a gate-house opened, and thereby

Into the square, like lions from the hills,

Paced the proud guests; and there their seats they took,

Each in his rank, the masters of the lands,

With crowns of fragrant blossoms garlanded,

And polished jewels swinging in their ears.

Of some the thews, knitted and rough, stood forth

Like iron maces; some had slender limbs,

Sleek and fine-turned like the five-headed snake;

Lords with long-flowing hair; glittering lords;

High-nosed, and eagle-eyed, and heavy-browed;

The faces of those kings shone in a ring

As shine at night the stars; and that great square

As thronged with Rajas was as Naga-land

Is full of serpents; thick with warlike chiefs

As mountain-caves with panthers. Unto these

Entered, in matchless majesty of form,

The Princess Damayanti. As she came,

The glory of her ravished eyes and hearts,

So that the gaze of all those haughty kings,

Fastening upon her loveliness, grew fixed--

Not moving save with her--step after step

Onward and always following the maid.

But while the styles and dignities of all

Were cried aloud (O son of Bhârat!), lo!

The Princess marked five of that throng alike

In form and garb and visage. There they stood,

Each from the next undifferenced, but each

Nala's own self;--yet which might Nala be

In nowise could that doubting maid descry.

Who took her eye seemed Nala while she gazed,

Until she looked upon his like; and so

Pondered the lovely lady, sore-perplexed,

Thinking, "How shall I tell which be the gods,

And which is noble Nala?" Deep-distressed

And meditative waxed she, musing hard

What those signs were, delivered us of old,

Whereby gods may be known: "Of all those signs

Taught by our elders, lo! I see not one

Where stand yon five." So murmured she, and turned

Over and over every mark she knew.

At last, resolved to make the gods themselves

Her help at need, with reverent air and voice

Humbly saluted she those heavenly ones,

And with joined palms and trembling accents spake:--

"As, when I heard the swans, I chose my Prince,

By that sincerity I call ye, Gods,

To show my Love to me and make me know!

As in my heart and soul and speech I stand

True to my choice, by that sincerity

I call the all-knowing gods to make me know!

As the high gods created Nishadha's chief

To be my lord, by their sincerity

I bid them show themselves, and make me know!

As my vow, sealed to him, must be maintained

For his name, and for mine, I call the gods

By such sincerity to make me know!

Let them appear, the masters of the world--

The high gods--each one in his proper shape,

That I may see Nishadha's chief, my choice,

Whom minstrels praise, and Damayanti loves."

Hearing that earnest speech--so passion-fraught,

So full of truth, of strong resolve, of love,

Of singleness of soul and constancy--

Even as she spake, the gods disclosed themselves.

By well-seen signs the effulgent Ones she knew.

Shadowless stood they, with unwinking eyes,

And skins which never moist with sweat; their feet

Light-gliding o'er the ground, not touching it;

The unfading blossoms on their brows not soiled

By earthly dust, but ever fair and fresh.

Whilst, by their side, garbed so and visaged so,

But doubled by his shadow, stained with dust,

The flower-cups wiltering in his wreath, his skin

Pearly with sweat, his feet upon the earth,

And eyes a-wink, stood Nala. One by one

Glanced she on those divinities, then bent

Her gaze upon the Prince, and, joyous, said:--

"I know thee, and I name my rightful lord,

Taking Nishadha's chief." Therewith she drew

Modestly nigh, and held him by the cloth,

With large eyes beaming love, and round his neck

Hung the bright chaplet, love's delicious crown;

So choosing him--him only--whom she named

Before the face of all to be her lord.

Oh, then brake forth from all those suitors proud,

"Ha!" and "Aho!" But from the gods and saints,

"Sadhu! well done! well done!" And all admired

The happy Prince, praising the grace of him;

While Virasena's son, delightedly,

Spake to the slender-waisted these fond words:--

"Fair Princess! since, before all gods and men,

Thou makest me thy choice, right glad am I

Of this thy mind, and true lord will I be.

For so long, loveliest, as my breath endures,

Thine am I! Thus I plight my troth to thee."

So, with joined palms, unto that beauteous maid

His gentle faith he pledged, rejoicing her;

And, hand in hand, radiant with mutual love,

Before great Agni and the gods they passed,

The world's protectors worshipping.

Then those,

The lords of life, the powerful Ones, bestowed--

Being well-pleased--on Nala, chosen so,

Eight noble boons. The boon which Indra gave

Was grace, at times of sacrifice, to see

The visible god approach, with step divine;

And Agni's boon was this, that he would come

Whenever Nala called--for everywhere

Hutâsa shineth, and all worlds are his;

Yama gave skill in cookery, steadfastness

In virtue; and Varuna, King of Floods,

Bade all the waters ripple at his call.

These boons the high gods doubled by the gift

Of bright wreaths wove with magic blooms of heaven;

And those bestowed, ascended to their seats.

Also with wonder and with joy returned

The Rajas and the Maharajas all,

Full of the marriage-feast; for Bhima made,

In pride and pleasure, stately nuptials;

So Damayanti and the Prince were wed.

Then, having tarried as is wont, that lord--

Nishadha's chief--took the King's leave, and went

Unto his city, bringing home with him

His jewel of all womanhood, with whom

Blissful he lived, as lives by Śachi's side

The slayer of the Demons. Like a sun

Shone Nala on his throne, ruling his folk

In strength and virtue, guardian of his state.

Also the Aśwamedha Rite he made

Greatest of rites, the Offering of the Horse,

As did Yayâti; and all other acts

Of worship; and to sages gave rich gifts.

Many dear days of much delicious love,

In pleasant gardens and in shadowy groves,

Passed they together, sojourning like gods.

And Damayanti bore unto her lord

A boy named Indrasen, and next, a girl

Named Indrasena. So in happiness

The good Prince governed, seeing all his lands

Wealthy and well, in piety and peace.

Now at the choosing of Nishadha's chief

By Bhima's daughter, when those lords of life--

The effulgent gods--departed, Dwapara

They saw with Kali, coming. Indra said--

The Demon-slayer--spying these approach:--

"Whither, with Dwapara, goest thou to-day,

O Kali?" And the sombre Shade replied:--

"To Damayanti's high Swayamvara

I go, to make her mine, since she hath passed

Into my heart." But Indra, laughing, said:--

"Ended is that Swayamvara; for she

Hath taken Raja Nala for her lord,

Before us all," But Kali, hearing this,

Breaks into wrath--while he stood worshipping

That band divine--and furiously cries:--

"If she hath set a man above the gods,

To wed with him, for such sin let there fall

Doom, rightful, swift, and terrible, on her!"

"Nay," answered unto him those heavenly ones,

"But Damayanti chose with our good-will;

And what maid but would choose so fair a prince,

Seeing he hath all qualities, and knows

Virtue, and rightly practises the vows,

And reads the four great Vedas, and, what's next,

The Holy Stories, whilst, perpetually,

The gods are honored in his house with gifts?

No hurt he does, kind to all living things;

True of word is he, faithful, liberal, just;

Steadfast and patient, temperate and pure;

A king of men is Nala, like the gods.

He that would curse a prince of such a mould,

Thou foolish Kali, lays upon himself

A sin to crush himself; the curse comes back

And sinks him in the bottomless vast gulf

Of Narak."

Thus the gods to Kali spake,

And mounted heavenward; whereupon that Shade,

Frowning, to Dwapara burst forth: "My rage

Beareth no curb. Henceforth in Nala I

Will dwell; his kingdom I will make to fall;

His bliss with Damayanti I will mar;

And thou within the dice shalt enter straight,

And help me, Dwapara! to drag him down,"

Into which compact entering, those repaired--

Kali and Dwapara--to Nala's house,

And haunted in Nishadha, where he ruled,

Seeking occasion 'gainst the blameless Prince.

Long watched they; twelve years rolled ere Kali saw

The fateful fault arrive; Nishadha's Lord,

Easing himself, and sprinkling hands and lips

With purifying water, passed to prayer,

His feet unwashed, offending. Kali straight

Possessed the heedless Raja, entering him.

That hour there sat with Nala, Pushkara

His brother; and the evil spirit hissed

Into the ear of Pushkara: "Ehi!

Arise, and challenge Nala at the dice.

Throw with the Prince! it may be thou shalt win

(Luck helping thee, and I) Nishadha's throne,

Town, treasures, palace--thou mayest gain them all."

And Pushkara, hearing Kali's evil voice,

Made near to Nala, with the dice in hand

(A great piece for the "Bull," and little ones

For "Cows," and Kali hiding in the Bull).

So Pushkara came to Nala's side and said:--

"Play with me, brother, at the 'Cows and Bull';"

And, being put off, cried mockingly, "Nay, play!"

Shaming the Prince, whose spirit chafed to leave

A gage unfaced; but when Vidarbha's gem,

The Princess, heard that challenge, Nala rose:

"Yea, Pushkara, I will play!" fiercely he said;

And to the game addressed.

His gems he lost,

Armlets and belt and necklet; next the gold

Of the palace and its vessels; then the cars

Yoked with swift steeds; and last, the royal robes:

For, cast by cast, the dice against him fell,

Bewitched by Kali; and, cast after cast,

The passion of the dice kept hold on him,

Until not one of all his faithfullest

Could stay the madman's hand and gamester's heart

Of who was named "Subduer of his Foes."

The townsmen gathered with the ministers:

Into that palace gate they thronged (my King!)

To see their lord, if so they might abate

This sickness of his soul. The charioteer,

Forth standing from their midst, low worshipping,

Spake thus to Damayanti: "Great Princess,

Before thy door all the grieved city sits.

Say to our lord for us, 'Thy folk are here;

They mourn that evil fortunes hold their liege,

Who was so high and just,'" Then she, deject,

Passed in, and to Nishadha's ruler said,

Her soft voice broken, and her bright eyes dimmed:--

"Raja, the people of thy town are here;

Before our gates they gather, citizens

And counsellors, desiring speech with thee;

In lealty they come. Wilt thou be pleased

We open to them? Wilt thou?" So she asked

Again and yet again; but not one word

To that sad lady with the lovely brows

Did Nala answer, wholly swallowed up

Of Kali and the gaming; so that those--

The citizens and counsellors--cried out,

"Our lord is changed! He is not Nala now!"

And home returned, ashamed and sorrowful;

Whilst ceaselessly endured that foolish play

Moon after moon--the Prince the loser still.

Then Damayanti, seeing so estranged

Her lord, the praised in song, the chief of men,

Watching, all self-possessed, his fantasy,

And how the gaming held him; sad, and 'feared,

The heavy fortunes pondering of her Prince;

Hating the fault, but to the offender kind;

And fearing Nala should be stripped of all,

This thing devised: Vrihatsenâ she called--

Her foster-nurse and faithful ministrant--

True, skilful at all service, soft of speech,

Kind-hearted; and she said, "Vrihatsenâ,

Go call the ministers to council now,

As though 'twere Nala bade; and make them count

What store is gone of treasure, what abides."

So went Vrihatsenâ, and summoned those;

And when they knew all things, as from the Prince,

"Truly we, too, shall perish!" cried they then;

And all to Nala went, and all the town,

A second time assembling, thronged his gates:--

Which Bhima's daughter told; but not one word

Answered the Prince. And when she saw her lord

Put by her plea, utterly slighting it,

Back to her chamber, full of shame, she goes,

And there still hears the dice are falling ill;

Still hears of Nala daily losing more;

So that again unto her nurse she spake:--

"Send to Varshneya, good Vrihatsenâ;

Say to the charioteer--in Nala's name--

'A great thing is to do. Come thou!'" And this--

So soon as Damayanti uttered it--

Vrihatsenâ, by faithful servants, told

Unto the son of Vrishni, who, being come

In fitting time and place, heard the sweet Queen

In mournful music speak these wistful words:--

"Thou knowest how thy Raja trusted thee;

Now he hath fall'n on evil; succor him!

The more that Pushkara conquers in the play,

The wilder rage of gaming takes thy lord--

The more for Pushkara the dice light well,

More contrary they happen to the Prince:

Nor heeds he, as were meet, kindred or friends;

Nay, of myself he putteth by the prayer

Unanswered, being bewitched; for well I deem

This is not noble-minded Nala's sin,

But some ill spell possesseth him to shut

His ears to me. Thou, therefore, charioteer!

Our refuge be; do what I shall command;

My heart is dark with fear. Yea, it may fall

Our lord will perish. Wherefore, harnessing

His chosen steeds, which fly as swift as thought.

Take these our children in the chariot

And drive to Kundina, delivering there

Unto my kin the little ones, and car,

And horses. Afterwards abide thou there,

Or otherwhere depart."

Varshneya heard

The words of Damayanti, and forthwith

In Nala's council-hall recounted them,

The chief men being present; who, thus met,

And long debating, gave him leave to go.

So with that royal pair to Bhima's town

Drove he, and at Vidarbha rendered up,

Together with the swift steeds and the car,

That sweet maid Indrasena, and the Prince

Indrasen, and made reverence to the King,

Saddened for sake of Nala. Afterwards

Taking his leave, unto Ayodhyâ

Varshneya went, exceeding sorrowful,

And with King Rituparna (O my Prince!)

Took service as a charioteer.

These gone--

The praised-of-poets, Nala, still played on,

Till Pushkara his kingdom's wealth had won,

And whatso was to lose beside. Thereat

With scornful laugh mocked he that beggared Prince,

Saying, "One other throw; once more!--Yet sooth,

What canst thou stake? Nothing is left for thee

Save Damayanti; all the rest is mine.

Play we for Damayanti, if thou wilt."

But hearing this from Pushkara, the Prince

So in his heart by grief and shame was torn,

No word he uttered--only glared in wrath

Upon his mocker, upon Pushkara.

Then, his rich robes and jewels stripping off,

Uncovered, with one cloth, 'mid waiting friends

Sorrowful passed he forth, his great state gone;

The Princess, with one garment, following him,

Piteous to see. And there without the gates

Three nights they lay--Nashadha's King and Queen.

Upon the fourth day Pushkara proclaimed,

Throughout the city, "Whoso yieldeth help

To Nala, dieth! Let my will be known!"

So, for this bitter word of Pushkara's power

(O Yudhisthir!) the townsmen rendered not

Service nor love, but left them outcast there,

Unhelped, whom all the city should have helped.

Yet three nights longer tarried he, his drink

The common pool, his meat such fruits and roots

As miserable hunger plucks from earth:

Then fled they from those walls, the Prince going first,

The Princess following.

After grievous days,

Pinched ever with sharp famine, Nala saw

A flock of gold-winged birds lighting anigh,

And to himself the famished Raja said:--

"Lo! here is food; this day we shall have store;"

Then lightly cast his cloth and covered them.

But these, fluttering aloft, bore with them there

Nala's one cloth; and, hovering overhead,

Uttered sharp-stinging words, reviling him

Even as he stood, naked to all the airs,

Downcast and desperate: "Thou brain-sick Prince!

We are the dice; we come to ravish hence

Thy last poor cloth; we were not well content

Thou shouldst depart owning a garment still."

And when he saw the dice take wings and fly,

Leaving him bare, to Damayanti spake

This melancholy Prince: "O Blameless One,

They by whose malice I am driven forth,

Finding no sustenance, sad, famine-gaunt--

They whose decree forbade Nishadha's folk

Should succor me, their Raja--these have come--

Demon and dice--and like to winged birds

Have borne away my cloth. To such shame fall'n,

Such utmost woe, wretched, demented--I

Thy lord am still, and counsel thee for good.

Attend! Hence be there many roads which go

Southwards: some pass Avanti's walls, and some

Skirt Rikshavan, the forest of the bears;

This wends to Vindhya's lofty peaks, and this

To the green banks where quick Payoshni runs

Seaward, between her hermitages, rich

In fruits and roots; and yon path leadeth thee

Unto Vidarbha; that to Kosala,

And therefrom southward--southward--far away."

So spake he to the Princess wistfully,

Between his words pointing along the paths,

Which she should take (O King!). But Bhima's child

Made answer, bowed with grief, her soft voice choked

With sobs, these piteous accents uttering:--

"My heart beats quick; my body's force is gone,

Thinking, dear Prince, on this which thou hast said,

Pointing along the paths. What! robbed of realm,

Stripped of thy wealth, bare, famished, parched with thirst,

Thus shall I leave thee in the untrodden wood?

Ah, no! While thou dost muse on dear days fled,

Hungry and weeping, I in this wild waste

Will charm thy griefs away, solacing thee.

The wisest doctors say, 'In every woe

No better physic is than wifely love,'

And, Nala, I will make it true to thee."

"Thou mak'st it true," he said; "thou sayest well,

Sweet Damayanti; neither is there friend

To sad men given better than a wife.

I had not thought to leave thee, foolish Love!

Why didst thou fear? Alas, 't is from myself

That I would fly--not thee, thou Faultless One!"

"Yet, if," the Princess answered, "Maharaja!

Thou hadst no thought to leave me, why by thee

Was the way pointed to Vidarbha's walls?

I know thou wouldst not quit me, noblest Lord,

Being thyself, but only if thy mind

Were sore distraught; and see, thou gazest still

Along the southward road, my dread thereby

Increasing, thou that wert as are the gods!

If it be thy fixed thought, 'Twere best she went

Unto her people'--be it so; I go;

But hand in hand with thee. Thus let us fare

Unto Vidarbha, where the King, my sire,

Will greet thee well, and honor thee; and we

Happy and safe within his gates shall dwell."

"As is thy father's kingdom," Nala said,

"So, once, was mine. Be sure, whatever betide,

Never will I go thither! How, in sooth,

Should I, who came there glorious, gladdening thee,

Creep back, thy shame and scorn, disconsolate?"

So to sweet Damayanti spake the Prince,

Beguiling her, whom now one cloth scarce clad--

For but one garb they shared; and thus they strayed

Hither and thither, faint for meat and drink,

Until a little hut they spied; and there,

Nishadha's monarch, entering, sat him down

On the bare ground, the Princess by his side--

Vidarbha's glory, wearing that scant cloth,

Without a mat, soiled by the dust and mire.

At Damayanti's side he sank asleep,

Outworn; and beauteous Damayanti slept,

Spent with strange trials--- she so gently reared,

So soft and holy. But while slumbering thus,

No peaceful rest knew Nala. Trouble-tossed

He woke, forever thinking of his realm

Lost, lieges estranged, and all the griefs

Of that wild wood. These on his heart came back,

And, "What if I shall do it? What, again,

If I shall do it not?" So murmured he.

"Would death be better, or to leave my Love?

For my sake she endures this woe, my fate

Too fondly sharing; freed from me, her steps

Would turn unto her people. At my side,

Sure suffering is her portion; but apart,

It might be she would somewhere comfort find."

Thus with himself debating o'er and o'er,

The Prince resolves abandonment were best.

"For how," saith he, "should any in the wood

Harm her, so radiant in her grace, so good,

So noble, virtuous, faithful, famous, pure?"

Thus mused his miserable mind, seduced

By Kali's cursed mischiefs to betray

His sleeping wife. Then, seeing his loin-cloth gone,

And Damayanti clad, he drew anigh,

Thinking to take of hers, and muttering,

"May I not rend one fold, and she not know?"

So meditating, round the cabin crept

Prince Nala, feeling up and down its walls;

And, presently, within the purlieus found

A naked knife, keen-tempered; therewithal

Shred he away a piece, and bound it on;

Then made with desperate steps to seek the waste,

Leaving the Princess sleeping; but, anon,

Turns back again in changeful mood and glides

Into the hut, and, gazing wistfully

On slumbering Damayanti, moans with tears:--

"Ah, Sweetheart! whom nor wind nor sun before

Hath ever rudely touched; thou to be couched

In this poor hut, its floor thy bed, and I,

Thy lord, deserting thee, stealing from thee

Thy last robe! O my Love with the bright smile,

My slender-waisted Queen! Will she not wake

To madness? Yea, and when she wanders lone

In the dark wood, haunted with beasts and snakes,

How will it fare with Bhima's tender child,

The bright and peerless? O my life, my wife!

May the great sun, may the Eight Powers of air,

The Rudras, Maruts, and the Aświns twain,

Guard thee, thou true and dear one, on thy way!"

So to his sleeping Queen--on all the earth

Unmatched for beauty--spake he piteously;

Then breaks away once more, by Kali driven.

But yet another and another time

Stole back into the hut, for one last gaze--

That way by Kali dragged, this way by love.

Two hearts he had--the trouble-stricken Prince--

One beating "Go," one throbbing "Stay"; and thus

Backwards and forwards swung his mind between,

Till, mastered by the sorrow and the spell,

Frantic flies Nala, leaving there alone

That tender-sleeper, sighing as she slept.

He flies--the soulless prey of Kali flies;

Still, while he hurries through the forest drear,

Thinking upon that sweet face he hath left.

Far distant (King!) was Nala, when, refreshed,

The slender-waisted wakened, shuddering

At the wood's silence; but when, seeking him,

She found no Nala, sudden anguish seized

Her frightened heart, and, lifting high her voice,

Loud cries she: "Maharaja! Nishadha's Prince!

Ha, Lord! ha, Maharaja! ha, Master! why

Hast thou abandoned me? Now am I lost,

Am doomed, undone, left in this lonesome gloom.

Wert thou not named, O Nala, true and just?

Yet art thou such, to quit me while I slept?

And hast thou so forsaken me, thy wife--

Thine own fond wife--who never wrought thee wrong

When by all others wrong was wrought on thee?

Mak'st thou it good to me, now, Lord of men,

That love which long ago before the gods

Thou didst proclaim? Alas! Death will not come,

Except at his appointed time to men,

And therefore for a little I shall live,

Whom thou hast lived to leave. Nay, 't is a jest!

Ah, Truant, Runaway, enough thou play'st!

Come forth, my Lord!--I am afraid! Come forth!

Linger not, for I see--I spy thee there;

Thou art within yon thicket! Why not speak

One word, Nishadha? Nala, cruel Prince!

Thou know'st me, lone, and comest not to calm

My terrors, and be with me in my need.

Art gone indeed? Then I'll not mourn myself,

For whatso may befall me; I must think

How desolate thou art, and weep for thee.

What wilt thou do, thirsty and hungry, spent

With wandering, when, at nightfall, 'mid the trees

Thou hast me not, sweet Prince, to comfort thee?"

Thereat, distracted by her bitter fears,

Like one whose heart is fire, forward and back

She runs, hither and thither, weeping, wild.

One while she sinks to earth, one while she springs

Quick to her feet; now utterly overcome

By fear and fasting, now by grief driven mad,

Wailing and sobbing; till anon, with moans

And broken sighs and tears, Bhima's fair child,

The ever-faithful wife, speaks thus again:--

"By whomsoever's spell this harm hath fall'n

On Nishadha's Lord, I pray that evil one

May bear a bitterer plague than Nala doth!

To him, whoever set my guileless Prince

On these ill deeds, I pray some direr might

May bring far darker days, and life to live

More miserable still!"

Thus, woe-begone,

Mourned that great-hearted wife her vanished lord,

Seeking him ever in the gloomy shades,

By wild beasts haunted. Roaming everywhere,

Like one possessed, frantic, disconsolate,

Went Bhima's daughter. "Ha, ha! Maharaja!"

So crying runs she, so in every place

Is heard her ceaseless wail, as when is heard

The fish-hawk's cry, which screams, and circling screams,

And will not stint complaining.

Suddenly,

Straying too near his den, a serpent's coils

Seized Bhima's daughter. A prodigious snake,

Glittering and strong, and furious for food,

Knitted about the Princess. She, o'erwhelmed

With horror, and the cold enfolding death,

Spends her last breaths in pitiful laments

For Nala, not herself. "Ah, Prince!" she cried,

"That would have saved me, who must perish now,

Seized in the lone wood by this hideous snake,

Why art thou not beside me? What will be

Thy thought, Nishadha! me remembering

In days to come, when, from the curse set free,

Thou hast thy noble mind again, thyself,

Thy wealth--all save thy wife? Then thou'lt be sad,

Be weary, wilt need food and drink; but I

Shall minister no longer. Who will tend

My Love, my Lord, my Lion among kings,

My blameless Nala--Damayanti dead?"

That hour a hunter, roving through the brake,

Heard her bewailing, and with quickened steps

Made nigh, and, spying a woman, almond-eyed,

Lovely, forlorn, by that fell monster knit,

He ran, and, as he came, with keen shaft clove,

Through gaping mouth and crown, th'unwitting worm,

Slaying it. Then the woodman from its folds

Freed her, and laved the snake's slime from her limbs

With water of the pool, comforting her

And giving food; and afterwards (my King!)

Inquiry made: "What doest, in this wood,

Thou with the fawn's eyes? And how earnest thou,

My mistress, to such pit of misery?"

And Damayanti, spoken fair by him,

Recounted all which had befallen her.

But, gazing on her graces, scantly clad

With half a cloth, those smooth, full sides, those breasts

Beauteously swelling, form of faultless mould,

Sweet youthful face, fair as the moon at full,

And dark orbs, by long curving lashes swept;

Hearing her tender sighs and honeyed speech,

The hunter fell to hot desire; he dared

Essay to woo, with whispered words at first,

And next by amorous approach, the Queen;

Who, presently perceiving what he would,

And all that baseness of him--being so pure,

So chaste, and faithful--like a blazing torch

Took fire of scorn and anger 'gainst the man,

Her true soul burning at him, till the wretch,

Wicked in heart, but impotent of will,

Glared on her, splendidly invincible

In weakness, loftily defying wrong,

A living flame of lighted chastity.

She then--albeit so desolate, so lone,

Abandoned by her lord, stripped of her state--

Like a proud princess stormed, flinging away

All terms of supplication, cursing him

With wrath which scorched: "If I am clean in heart

And true in thought unto Nishadha's King,

Then mayest thou, vile pursuer of the beasts,

Sink to the earth, stone dead!"

While she did speak,

The hunter breathless fell to earth, stone dead,

As falls a tree-trunk blasted by the bolt.

That ravisher destroyed, the lotus-eyed

Fared forward, threading still the fearful wood,

Lonely and dim, with trill of jhillikas[22]

Resounding, and fierce noise of many beasts

Laired in its shade, lions and leopards, deer,

Close-hiding tigers, sullen bisons, wolves,

And shaggy bears. Also the glades of it

Were filled with fowl which crept, or flew, and cried.

A home for savage men and murderers,

Thick with a world of trees, whereof was sal,

Sharp-seeded, weeping gum; knotted bambus,

Dhavas with twisted roots; smooth aswatthas,

Large-leaved, and creeping through the cloven rocks;

Tindukas, iron-fibred, dark of grain;

Ingudas, yielding oil; and kinsukas,

With scarlet flowerets flaming. Thronging these

Were arjuns and arishta-clumps, which bear

The scented purple clusters; syandans,

And tall silk-cotton trees, and mango-belts

With silvery spears; and wild rose-apple, blent

'Mid lodhra-tufts and khadirs, interknit

By clinging rattans, climbing everywhere

From stem to stem. Therewith were intermixed--

Round pools where rocked the lotus--âmalaks,

Plakshas with fluted leaves, kadambas sweet,

Udumbaras; and, on the jungle-edge,

Tangles of reed and jujube, whence there rose

Bel-trees and nyagrodhas, dropping roots

Down from the air; broad-leaved priyâlas, palms

And date-trees, and the gold myrobalan,

With copper-leaved vibhîtikas. All these

Crowded the wood; and many a crag it held,

With precious ore of metals interveined;

And many a creeper-covered cave wherein

The spoken word rolled round; and many a cleft

Where the thick stems were like a wall to see;

And many a winding stream and reedy jheel,

And glassy lakelet, where the woodland beasts

In free peace gathered.

Wandering onward thus,

The Princess saw far-gliding forms of dread--

Pisâchas, Rakshasas, ill sprites and fiends

Which haunt, with swinging snakes, the undergrowth.

Dark pools she saw, and drinking-holes, and peaks

Wherefrom break down in tumbling cataracts

The wild white waters, marvellous to hear.

Also she passed--this daughter of a king--

Where snorted the fierce buffaloes, and where

The gray boars rooted for their food, and where

The black bears growled, and serpents in the grass

Rustled and hissed. But all along that way

Safe paced she in her majesty of grace,

High fortune, courage, constancy, and right--

Vidarbha's glory--seeking, all alone,

Lost Nala; and less terror at these sights

Came to sad Damayanti for herself--

Threading this dreadful forest--than for him.

Most was her mind on Nala's fate intent.

Bitterly grieving stood the sweet Princess

Upon a rock, her tender limbs a-thrill

With heavy fears for Nala while she spake:--

"Broad-chested Chief! my long-armed Lord of men!

Nishadha's King! Ah! whither art thou gone.

Leaving me thus in the unpeopled wood?

The Aśwamedha sacrifice thou mad'st,

And all the rites and royal gifts hast given,

A lion-hearted Prince, holy and true

To all save me! That which thou didst declare,

Hand in hand with me--once so fond and kind--

Recall it now--thy sacred word, thy vow,

Whithersoever, Raja, thou art fled.

Think how the message of the gold-winged swans

Was spoken, by thine own lips, then to me!

True men keep faith; this is the teaching taught

In Vedas, Angas, and Upangas all,

Hear which we may; wilt thou not, therefore, Prince--

Wilt thou not, terror of thy foes, keep faith,

Making thy promise good to cleave to me?

Ha, Nala, Lord! Am I not surely still

Thy chosen, thy beloved? Answerest not

Thy wife in this dark, horror-haunted shade?

The tyrant of the jungle, fierce and fell,

With jaws agape to take me, crouches nigh,

And thou not here to rescue me--not thou,

Who saidst none other in the world was dear

But Damayanti! Prove the fond speech true,

Uttered so often! Why repliest not

To me, thy well-beloved; me, distraught,

Longed for and longing; me, my Prince and pride,

That am so weary, weak, and miserable,

Stained with the mire, in this torn cloth half clad,

Alone and weeping, seeing no help near?

Ah, stag of all the herd! leav'st thou thy hind

Astray, regarding not these tears which roll?

My Nala, Maharaja! It is I

Who cry, thy Damayanti, true and pure,

Lost in the wood, and still thou answerest not!

High-born, high-hearted, full of grace and strength

In all thy limbs, shall I not find thee soon

On yonder hill? Shall I not see, at last,

In some track of this grim, beast-peopled wood,

Standing, or seated, or upon the leaves

Lying, or coming, him who is of men

The glory, but for me the grief-maker?

If not, whom shall I question, woe-begone,

Saying, 'In any region of this wood

Hast thou, perchance, seen Nala?' Is there none,

In all the forest, would reply to me

With tidings of my lord, wandered away,

Kingly in mind and form, of hosts of foes

The conqueror? Who will say, with blessed voice,

'That Raja with the lotus-eyes is near,

Whom thou dost seek'?--Nay, here comes one to ask,

The yellow forest-king, his great jaws armed

With fourfold fangs. A tiger standeth now

Face to face on my path; I'll speak with him

Fearlessly: 'Dreadful chief of all this waste,

Thou art the sovereign of the beasts, and I

Am daughter of Vidarbha's King; my name,

The Princess Damayanti; know thou me,

Wife of Nishadha's Lord--of Nala--styled

"Subduer of his Foes"? Him seek I here--

Abandoned, sorrow-stricken, miserable.

Comfort me, mighty beast, if so thou canst,

Saying thou hast seen Nala; but if this

Thou canst not do, then, ah, thou savage lord,

Terrible friend, devour me, setting me

Free from all woes!' The tiger answereth not;

He turns, and quits me in my tears, to stalk

Down where the river glitters through the reeds,

Seeking its seaward way. Then will I pray

Unto yon sacred mount of clustered crags,

Broad-shouldered, shining, lifting high to heaven

Its diverse-colored peaks, where the mind climbs

Its hid heart rich with silver veins, and gold,

And stored with many a precious gem unseen.

Clear towers it o'er the forest, broad and bright

Like a green banner; and the sides of it

House many a living thing--lions and boars,

Tigers and elephants, and bears and deer.

Softly around me from its feathered flocks

The songs ring, perched upon the kinsuk trees,

The asokas, vakuls, and punnâga boughs,

Or hidden in the karnikara leaves,

And tendrils of the dhava or the fig;

Full of great glens it soars, where waters leap

And bright birds lave. This king of hills I sue

For tidings of my lord. O Mountain Lord,

Far-seen and celebrated hill! that cleav'st

The blue of the sky, refuge of living things,

Most noble eminence, I worship thee;

Thee I salute, who am a monarch's child,

The daughter and the consort of a prince,

The high-born Damayanti, unto whom

Bhima, Vidarbha's chief--that puissant lord--

Was sire, renowned o'er earth. Protector he

Of the four castes, performer of the rites

Called Rajasuya and the Aśwamedha--

A bounteous giver, first of rulers, known

For his large shining eyes; holy and just,

Fast to his word, unenvious, sweet of speech,

Gentle and valiant, dutiful and pure;

The guardian of Vidarbha, of his foes

The slayer. Know me, O Majestic Mount!

For that King's daughter, bending low to thee.

In Nishadha lived the father of my lord,

The Maharaja Virasena named,

Wealthy and great; whose son, of regal blood,

High-fortuned, powerful, and noble-souled,

Ruleth by right the realm paternal: he

Is Nala, terror of all enemies;

Dark Nala, praised-in-song; Nala the just,

The pure; deep-seen in scriptures, sweet of speech,

Drinker of Soma-juice, and worshipper

Of Agni; sacrificing, giving gifts;

First in the wars, a perfect, princely lord.

His wife am I, Great Mountain! and come here

Fortuneless, husbandless, and spiritless,

Everywhere seeking him, my best of men.

O Mount, whose doubled ridge stamps on the sky

Yon line, by fivescore splendid pinnacles

Indented! tell me, in this gloomy wood

Hast thou seen Nala? Nala, wise and bold,

Like a tusked elephant for might; long armed,

Indomitable, gallant, glorious, true;

Nala, Nishadha's chief--hast thou seen him?

O Mountain, why consolest thou me not,

Answering one word to sorrowful, distressed,

Lonely, lost Damayanti?"

Then she cried:--

"But answer for thyself, Hero and Lord!

If thou art in the forest, show thyself!

Alas! when shall I hear that voice, as low,

As tender as the murmur of the rain

When great clouds gather; sweet as Amrit-drink?

Thy voice, once more, my Nala, calling to me

Full softly, 'Damayanti!'--dearest Prince,

That would be music soothing to these ears

As sound of sacred Veda; that would stay

My pains and comfort me, and bring me peace."

Thereafter, turning from the mount, she went

Northwards, and journeying on three nights and days

Came to a green incomparable grove

By holy men inhabited; a haunt

Placid as Paradise, whose indwellers

Like to Vaśistha, Bhrigu, Atri, were--

Those ancient saints. Restraining sense they lived,

Heedful in meats, subduing passion, pure,

Breathing within; their food water and herbs;

Ascetics; very holy; seeking still

The heavenward road; clad in the bark of trees

And skins--all gauds of earth being put by.

This hermitage, peopled by gentle ones,

Glad Damayanti spied, circled with herds

Of wild things grazing fearless, and with troops

Of monkey-folk o'erheard; and when she saw,

Her heart was lightened, for its quietness.

So drew she nigh--that lovely wanderer--

Bright-browed, long-tressed, large-hipped, full-bosomed, fair,

With pearly teeth and honeyed mouth, in gait

Right queenly still, having those long black eyes--

The wife of Virasena's son, the gem

Of all dear women, glory of her time;

Sad Damayanti entered their abode,

Those holy men saluting reverently,

With modest body bowed. Thus stood she there

And all the saints spake gently, "_Swâgatam_--

Welcome!" and gave the greetings which are meet;

And afterwards, "Repose thyself," they said;

"What wouldst thou have of us?" Then, with soft words

The slender-waisted spake: "Of all these here,

So worshipful in sacrifice and rite--

'Mid gentle beasts and birds--in tasks and toils

And blameless duties--is it well?" And they

Answered: "We thank you, noble lady, well.

Tell us, most beauteous one, thy name, and say

What thou desirest. Seeing thee so fair,

So worthy, yet so sorrowful, our minds

Are lost in wonder. Weep not. Comfort take.

Art thou the goddess of the wood? Art thou

The Mountain-Yakshi, or, belike, some sprite

Which lives under the river? Tell us true,

Gentle and faultless form!"

Whereat reply

Thus made she to the Rishis: "None of these

Am I, good saints. No goddess of the wood,

Nor yet a mountain nor a river sprite;

A woman ye behold, most only ones,

Whose moving story I will tell you true.

The Raja of Vidarbha is my sire,

Bhima his name, and--Best of Twice-born!--know

My husband is Nishadha's Chief, the famed,

The wise and valiant and victorious Prince,

The high and lordly Nala; of the gods

A steadfast worshipper; of Bráhmanas

The friend; his people's shield; honored and strong,

Truth-speaking, skilled in arms, sagacious, just;

Terrible to his foes, fortunate, lord

Of many conquered towns; a godlike man,

Princeliest of princes--Nala--one that hath

A countenance like the full moon's for light,

And eyes of lotus. This true offerer

Of sacrifices, this close votary

Of Vedas and Vedângas, in the war

Deadly to enemies, like sun and moon

For splendor--by some certain evil ones

Being defied to dice, my virtuous Prince

Was, by their wicked acts, of realm despoiled--

Wealth, jewels, all. I am his woful wife,

The Princess Damayanti. Seeking him

Through thickets have I roamed, over rough hills,

By crag and river and the reedy lake,

By marsh and waterfall and jungle-bush,

In quest of him--my lord, my warrior,

My hero--and still roam, uncomforted.

Worshipful brethren! say if he hath come--

Nishadha's Chief, my Nala, hitherward

Unto your pleasant homes--he, for whose sake

I wander in the dismal pathless wood

With bears and tigers haunted--terrible!

Ah! if I find him not, ere there be passed

Many more nights and days, peace will I win;

For death shall set my mournful spirit free.

What cause have I to live, lacking my Prince?

Why should I longer breathe, whose heart is dead

With sorrow for my lord?"

To Bhima's child,

So in the wood bewailing, made reply

Those holy, truthful men: "Beautiful One!

The future is for thee; fair will it fall!

Our eyes, by long devotions opened, see--

Even now--thy lord; thou shalt behold him soon,

Nishadha's chief, the famous Nala, strong

In battle, loving justice. Yea, this Prince

Thou wilt regain, Bhima's sad daughter! freed

From troubles, purged of sin; and witness him--

With all his gems and glories--governing

Nishadha once again, invincible,

Joy of his friends and terror of his foes.

Yea, Noblest, thou shalt have thy love anew

In days to come."

So speaking, from the sight

Of Damayanti, at that instant, passed

Hermits, with hermitage and holy fires,

Evanishing. In wonderment she stood,

Gazing bewildered. Then the Princess cried:--

"Was it in dream I saw them? Whence befell

This unto me? Where are the brethren gone,

The ring of huts, the pleasant stream that ran

With birds upon its crystal banks, the grove

Delightful, with its fruits and flowers?" Long while

Pondered and wondered Damayanti there,

Her bright smile fled, pale, strengthless, sorrowful;

Then to another region of the wood,

With sighs, and eyes welling great tears, she passed,

Lamenting; till a beauteous tree she spied--

The Asoka, best of trees. Fair rose it there

Beside the forest, glowing with the flame

Of golden and crimson blossoms, and its boughs

Full of sweet-singing birds.

"_Ahovat_--Look!"

She cried: "Ah, lovely tree, that wavest here

Thy crown of countless, shining, clustering blooms

As thou wert woodland king--Asoka tree,

Tree called 'the sorrow-ender,' heart's-ease tree!

Be what thy name saith--end my sorrow now,

Saying, ah, bright Asoka! thou hast seen

My Prince, my dauntless Nala; seen that lord

Whom Damayanti loves and his foes fear;

Seen great Nishadha's Chief, so dear to me,

His tender princely skin in rended cloth

Scantily clad. Hath he passed wandering

Under thy branches, grievously forlorn?

Answer, Asoka! 'Sorrow-ender,' speak!

That I go sorrowless, O heart's-ease, be

Truly heart-easing--ease my heart of pain."

Thus, wild with grief, she spake unto the tree,

Round and round walking, as to reverence it;

And then, unanswered, the sweet lady sped

Through wastes more dreadful, passing many a

Many still-gliding rillets, many a peak

Tree-clad, with beasts and birds of wondrous kind,

In dark ravines, and caves, and lonely glooms.

These things saw Damayanti, Bhima's child,

Seeking her lord.

At last, on the long road,

She, whose soft smile was once so beautiful,

A caravan encountered. Merchantmen

With trampling horses, elephants, and wains,

Made passage of a river, running slow

In cool, clear waves. The quiet waters gleamed,

Shining and wide outspread, between the canes

Which bordered it, wherefrom echoed the cries

Of fish-hawks, curlews, and red chakravâks,

With sounds of leaping fish and water-snakes,

And tortoises, amid its shoals and flats

Sporting or feeding.

When she spied that throng--

Heart-maddened with her anguish, weak and wan,

Half clad, bloodless and thin, her long black locks

Matted with dust--breathlessly breaks she in

Upon them--Nala's wife--so beauteous once,

So honored. Seeing her, some fled in fear;

Some gazed, speechless with wonder; some called out,

Mocking the piteous face by words of scorn;

But some (my King!) had pity of her woe,

And spake her fair, inquiring: "Who art thou?

And whence? And in this grove what seekest thou,

To come so wild? Thy mien astonisheth.

Art of our kind, or art thou something strange,

The spirit of the forest, or the hill,

Or river valley? Tell us true; then we

Will buy thy favor. If, indeed, thou art

Yakshini, Rakshasi, or she-creature

Haunting this region, be propitious! Send

Our caravan in safety on its path,

That we may quickly, by thy fortune, go

Homeward, and all fair chances fall to us."

Hereby accosted, softly gave response

That royal lady--weary for her lord--

Answering the leader of the caravan,

And those that gathered round, a marvelling throng

Of men and boys and elders: "Oh, believe

I am as you, of mortal birth, but born

A Raja's child, and made a Raja's wife.

Him seek I, Chieftain of Nishadha, named

Prince Nala--famous, glorious, first in war.

If ye know aught of him, my king, my joy,

My tiger of the jungle, my lost lord,

Quick, tell me, comfort me!"

Then one who led

Their line--the merchant Śuchi--answering,

Spake to the peerless Princess: "Hear me now.

I am the captain of this caravan,

But nowhere any named by Nala's name

Have I, or these, beheld. Of evil beasts

The woods were full--cheetahs and bears and cats,

Tigers and elephants, bison and boar;

Those saw we in the brake on every side,

But nowhere nought of human shape, save thee.

May Manibhadra have us in his grace--

The Lord of Yakshas--as I tell thee truth!"

Then sadly spake she to the trader-chief

And to his band: "Whither wend ye, I pray?

Please ye, acquaint me where this Sârthâ[23] goes."

Replied the captain: "Unto Chedi's realm,

Where rules the just Subâhu, journey we,

To sell our merchandise, daughter of men!"

Thus by the chieftain of the band informed,

The peerless Princess journeyed with them, still

Seeking her lord. And at the first the way

Fared through another forest, dark and deep;

Afterwards came the traders to a pool

Broad, everywhere delightful, odorous

With cups of opened lotus, and its shores

Green with rich grass, and edged with garden trees--

A place of flowers and fruits and singing birds.

So cool and clear and peacefully it gleamed,

That men and cattle, weary with the march,

Clamored to pitch; and, on their chieftain's sign,

The pleasant hollow entered they, and camped--

All the long caravan--at sunset's hour.

There, in the quiet of the middle night,

Deep slumbered these; when, sudden on them fell

A herd of elephants, thirsting to drink,

In rut, the mada[24] oozing from their heads.

And when those great beasts spied the caravan,

And smelled the tame cows of their kind, they rushed

Headlong, and, mad with must, overwhelming all,

With onset vast and irresistible.

As when from some tall peak into the plain

Thunder and smoke and crash the rolling rocks,

Through splintered stems and thorns breaking their path,

So swept the herd to where, beside the pool,

Those sleepers lay; and trampled them to earth

Half-risen, helpless, shrieking in the dark,

"Haha! the elephants!" Of those unslain,

Some in the thickets sought a shelter; some,

Yet dazed with sleep, stood panic-stricken, mute;

Till here with tusks, and there with trunks, the beasts

Gored them, and battered them, and trod them flat

Under their monstrous feet. Then might be seen

Camels with camel-drivers, perishing,

And men flying in fear, who struck at men--

Terror and death and clamor everywhere:

While some, despairing, cast themselves to earth;

And some, in fleeing, fell and died; and some

Climbed to the tree-tops. Thus on every side

Scattered and ruined was that caravan--

Cattle and merchants--by the herd assailed.

So hideous was the tumult,-all three worlds

Seemed filled with fright; and one was heard to cry:--

"The fire is in the tents! fly for your lives!

Stay not!" And others cried: "Look where we leave

Our treasures trodden down; gather them! Halt!

Why run ye, losing ours and yours? Nay, stay!

Stand ye, and we will stand!" And then to these

One voice cried, "Stand!" another, "Fly! we die!"

Answered by those again who shouted, "Stand!

Think what we lose, O cowards!"

While this rout

Raged, amid dying groans and sounds of fear,

The Princess, waking startled, terror-struck,

Saw such a sight as might the boldest daunt--

Such scene as those great lovely lotus-eyes

Ne'er gazed upon before. Sick with new dread--

Her breath suspended 'twixt her lips--she rose

And heard, of those surviving, some one moan

Amidst his fellows: "From whose evil act

Is this the fruit? Hath worship not been paid

To mighty Manibhadra? Gave we not

The reverence due to Vaishravan, that King

Of all the Yakshas? Was not offering made

At outset to the spirits which impede?

Is this the evil portent of the birds?

Were the stars adverse? or what else hath fall'n?"

And others said, wailing for friends and goods:--

"Who was that woman, with mad eyes, that came

Into our camp, ill-favored, hardly cast

In mortal mould? By her, be sure, was wrought

This direful sorcery. Demon or witch,

Yakshî or Rakshasî, or gliding ghost,

Or something frightful, was she. Hers this deed

Of midnight murders; doubt there can be none.

Ah, if we could espy that hateful one,

The ruin of our march, the woe-maker,

With stones, clods, canes, or clubs, nay, with clenched fists,

We'd strike her dead, the murderess of our band!"

Trembling the Princess heard those angry words;

And--saddened, maddened, shamed--breathless she fled

Into the thicket, doubtful if such sin

Might not be hers, and with fresh dread distressed.

"Aho!" she weeps, "pitiless grows the wrath

Of Fate against me. Not one gleam of good

Arriveth. Of what fault is this the fruit?

I cannot call to mind a wrong I wrought

To any--even a little thing--in act

Or thought or word; whence then hath come this curse?

Belike from ill deeds done in by-gone lives

It hath befall'n, and what I suffer now

Is payment of old evils undischarged.

Grievous the doom--my palace lost, my lord,

My children, kindred; I am torn away

From home and love and all, to roam accurst

In this plague-haunted waste!"

When broke the day,

Those which escaped alive, with grievous cries

Departed, mourning for their fellows slain.

Each one a kinsman or a friend laments--

Father or brother, son, or comrade dear.

And Damayanti, hearing, weeps anew,

Saying: "What dreadful sin was that I wrought

Long, long ago, which, when I chance to meet

These wayfarers in the unpeopled wood,

Dooms them to perish by the elephants,

In my dark destiny enwrapped? No doubt

More and more sorrow I shall bear, or bring,

For none dies ere his time; this is the lore

Of ancient sages; this is why--being glad

If I could die--I was not trampled down

Under the elephants. There haps to man

Nothing unless by destiny. Why else,

Seeing that never have I wrought one wrong,

From childhood's hours, in thought or word or deed,

Hath this woe chanced? May be--meseems it may!--

The mighty gods, at my Swayamvara

Slighted by me for Nala's dearest sake,

Are wroth, and by their dread displeasure thus

To loss and loneliness I am consigned!"

So--woe-begone and wild--this noble wife,

Deserted Damayanti, poured her griefs:

And afterwards, with certain Bráhmanas

Saved from the rout--good men who knew the Veds--

Sadly her road she finished, like the moon

That goeth clouded in the month of rain.

Thus travelling long, the Princess drew at last

Nigh to a city, at the evening hour.

The dwelling-place it was of Chedi's Chief,

The just Subâhu. Through its lofty gates

Painfully passed she, clad in half a cloth;

And as she entered--sorrow-stricken, wan,

Foot-weary, stained with mire, with unsmoothed hair,

Unbathed, and eyes of madness--those who saw,

Wondered and stared, and watched her as she toiled

Down the long city street. The children break

From play, and--boys with girls--followed her steps,

So that she came--a crowd encompassing--

Unto the King's door. On the palace roof

The mother of the Maharaja paced,

And marked the throng, and that sad wayfarer.

Then to her nurse spake the queen-mother this:--

"Go thou, and bring yon woman unto me!

The people trouble her; mournful she walks,

Seeming unfriended, yet bears she a mien

Made for a king's abode, and, all so wild,

Still are her wistful eyes like the great eyes

Of Lakshmi's self." So downwards went the nurse,

Bidding the rude folk back; and to the roof

Of the great palace led that wandering one--

Desolate Damayanti--whom the Queen

Courteous besought: "Though thou art wan of face,

Thou wear'st a noble air, which through thy griefs

Shineth as lightning doth behind its cloud.

Tell me thy name, and whose thou art, and whence.

No lowborn form is thine, albeit thou com'st

Wearing no ornaments; and all alone

Wanderest--not fearing men--by some spell safe."

Hearing which words, the child of Bhima spake

Gratefully this: "A woful woman I,

And woful wife, but faithful to my vows;

High-born, but like a servant, like a slave,

Lodging where it may hap, and finding food

From the wild roots and fruits wherever night

Brings me my resting-place. Yet is my lord

A prince noble and great, with countless gifts

Endued; and him I followed faithfully

As 't were his shadow, till hard fate decreed

That he should fall into the rage of dice:--

And, worsted in that play, into the wood

He fled, clad in one cloth, frenzied and lone.

And I his steps attended in the wood,

Comforting him, my husband. But it chanced,

Hungry and desperate, he lost his cloth;

And I--one garment bearing--followed still

My unclad lord, despairing, reasonless,

Through many a weary night not slumbering.

But when, at length, a little while I slept,

My Prince abandoned me, rending away

Half of my garment, leaving there his wife,

Who never wrought him wrong. That lord I seek

By day and night, with heart and soul on fire--

Seek, but still find not; though he is to me

Brighter than light which gleams from lotus-cups,

Divine as are the immortals, dear as breath,

The master of my life, my pride, my joy!"

Whom, grieving so, her sweet eyes blind with tears,

Gently addressed Subâhu's mother--sad

To hear as she to tell. "Stay with us here,

Thou ill-starred lady. Great the friendliness

I have for thee. The people of our court

Shall thy lost husband seek; or, it may be,

He too will wander hither of himself

By devious paths: yea, mournful one, thy lord

Thou wilt regain, abiding with us here."

And Damayanti, bowing, answered thus

Unto the Queen: "I will abide with thee,

O mother of illustrious sons, if so

They feed me not on orts, nor seek from me

To wash the feet of comers, nor that I

Be set to speak with any stranger-men

Before the curtain; and, if any man

Sue me, that he be punished; and if twice,

Then that he die, guilty of infamy.

This is my earnest prayer; but Bráhmanas

Who seek my husband, or bear news of him,

Such will I speak with. If it may be thus,

Gladly would I abide, great lady, here;

If otherwise, it is not on my mind

To sojourn longer."

Very tenderly

Quoth the queen-mother: "All that thou dost ask

We will ordain. The gods reward thy love,

Which hath such honor!" Comforting her so,

To the king's daughter, young Sunandâ, spake

The Maharajni: "See, Sunandâ, here

Clad as a handmaid, but in form divine,

One of thy years, gentle and true. Be friends;

Take and give pleasure in glad company

Each with the other, keeping happy hearts."

So went Sunandâ joyous to her house,

Leading with loving hand the Princess in,

The maidens of the court accompanying.

Part II.

Not long (O Maharaja!) was Nala fled

From Damayanti, when, in midmost gloom

Of the thick wood a flaming fire he spied,

And from the fire's heart heard proceed a voice

Of one imperilled, crying many times:--

"Haste hither, Punyashloka, Nala, haste!"

"Fear not," the Prince replied; "I come!" and sprang

Across the burning bushes, where he saw

A snake--a king of serpents--lying curled

In a great ring, which reared its dancing crest

Saluting, and in human accents spoke:--

"Maharaja, kindly lord, I am the snake

Karkôtaka; by me was once betrayed

The famous Rishi Narada; his wrath

Doomed me, thou Chief of men! to bear this spell--

'Coil thy false folds,' said he, 'forever here,

A serpent, motionless upon this spot,

Till it shall chance that Nala passeth by

And bears thee hence; then only from my curse

Canst thou be freed,' And prisoned by that curse

I have no power to stir, though the wood burns;

Nay, not a coil! good fellowship I'll show

If thou wilt succor me. I'll be to thee

A faithful friend, as no snake ever yet.

Lift me, and quickly from the flames bear forth:

For thee I shall grow light." Thereat shrank up

That monstrous reptile to a finger's length;

And grasping this, unto a place secure

From burning, Nala bore it, where the air

Breathed freshly, and the fire's black path was stayed.

Then made the Prince to lay the serpent down,

But yet again it speaks: "Nishadha's Lord,

Grasp me and slowly go, counting thy steps;

For, Raja, thou shalt have good fortune hence."

So Nala slowly went, counting his steps;

And when the tenth pace came, the serpent turned

And bit the Prince. No sooner pierced that tooth

Than all the likeness of Nishadha changed;

And, wonder-struck, he gazed upon himself;

While from the dust he saw the snake arise

A man, and, speaking as Karkôtaka,

Comfort him thus:--

"Thou art by me transformed

That no man know thee: and that evil one

(Possessing, and undoing thee, with grief)

Shall so within thee by my venom smart,

Shall through thy blood so ache, that--till he quit--

He shall endure the woe he did impart.

Thus by my potent spell, most noble Prince!

(Who sufferest too long) thou wilt be freed

From him that haunts thee. Fear no more the wood,

Thou tiger of all princes! fear thou not

Horned nor fanged beasts, nor any enemies,

Though they be Bráhmans! safe thou goest now,

Guarded from grief and hurt--Chieftain of men!

By this kind poison. In the fields of war

Henceforth the victory always falls to thee;

Go joyous, therefore, Prince; give thyself forth

For 'Vahûka, the charioteer:' repair

To Rituparna's city, who is skilled

In play, and dwells in fair Ayodhyâ.

Wend thou, Nishadha! thither; he will teach

Great subtlety in numbers unto thee,

Exchanging this for thine own matchless gift

Of taming horses. From the lordly line

Descended of Ikshvaku, glad and kind

The King will be; and thou, learning of him

His deepest act of dice, wilt win back all,

And clasp again thy Princess. Therefore waste

No thought on woes. I tell thee truth! thy realm

Thou shalt regain; and when the time is come

That thou hast need to put thine own form on,

Call me to mind, O Prince, and tie this cloth

Around thy body. Wearing it, thy shape

Thou shalt resume."

Therewith the serpent gave

A magic twofold robe, not wove on earth,

Which (O thou son of Kuru!) Nala took;

And so the snake, transformed, vanished away.

The great snake being gone, Nishadha's Chief

Set forth, and on the tenth day entered in

At Rituparna's town; there he besought

The presence of the Raja, and spake thus:--

"I am the chariot-driver, Vahûka.

There is not on this earth another man

Hath gifts like mine to tame and guide the steed;

Moreover, thou mayest use me in nice needs

And dangerous, where kings lack faithful hearts.

Specially skilful I am in dressing meats;

And whatso other duties may befall,

Though they be weighty, I shall execute,

If, Rituparna, thou wilt take me in."

"I take thee," quoth the King. "Dwell here with me.

Such service as thou knowest, render us.

'Tis, Vahûka, forever in my heart

To have my steeds the swiftest; be thy task

To train me horses like the wind for speed;

My charioteer I make thee, and thy wage

Ten thousand gold suvernas. Thou wilt have

For fellows, Varshneya and Jivala;

With those abiding, lodge thou happy here."

So entertained and honored of the King,

In Rituparna's city Nala dwelled,

Lodging with Varshneya and Jivala.

There sojourned he (my Raja!), thinking still

Of sweet Vidarbha's Princess day by day;

And sunset after sunset one sad strain

He sang: "Where resteth she that roamed the wood

Hungry and parched and worn, but always true?

Doth she remember yet her faultful lord?

Ah, who is near her now?" So it befell

Jivala heard him ever sighing thus,

And questioned: "Who is she thou dost lament?

Say, Vahûka! fain would I know her name.

Long life be thine; but tell me who he is,

The faultful man that was the lady's lord."

And Nala answered him: "There lives a man,

Evil and rash, that had a noble wife.

False to his word he was; and thus it fell

That somewhere, for some reason (ask not me!),

He quitted her, this rash one. And--so wrenched

Apart from hers--his spirit, bad and sad,

Muses and moans, with grief's slow fire consumed

Night-time and day-time. Thence it is he sings

At every sunset this unchanging verse,

An outcast on the earth, by hazard led

Hither and thither. Such a man thou seest

Woful, unworthy, holding in his heart

Always that sin. I was that lady's lord,

Whom she did follow through the dreadful wood,

Living by me abandoned, at this hour;

If yet, in truth, she lives--youthful, alone,

Unpractised in the ways, not meriting

Fortunes so hard. Ah, if indeed she lives,

Who roamed the thick and boundless forest, full

Of prowling beasts--roamed it, my Jivala,

Unguarded by her guilty lord--forsook,

Betrayed, good friend!"

Thus did Nishadha grieve,

Calling sweet Damayanti to his mind.

So tarried he within the Raja's house,

And no man knew his place of sojourning.

While, stripped of state, the Prince and Princess thus

Were sunk to servitude, Bhima made quest,

Sending his Bráhmans forth to search for them

With straight commands, and for their road-money

Liberal store. "Seek everywhere," said he

Unto the twice-born, "Nala--everywhere

My daughter Damayanti. Whoso comes

Successful in this quest, discovering her--

With lost Nishadha's Lord--and bringing them,

A thousand cows to that man will I give,

And village-lands whence shall be revenue

As great as from a city. If so be

Ye cannot bring me Nala and my child,

To him that learns their refuge I will give

The thousand cows."

Thereby rejoiced, they went,

Those Bráhmans, hither and thither, up and down,

Into all regions, rajaships, and towns,

Seeking Nishadha's Chieftain, and his wife.

But Nala nowhere found they; nowhere found

Sweet Damayanti, Bhima's beauteous child--

Until, straying to pleasant Chedipur,

One day a twice-born came, Sudêva named,

And entered it; and, spying round about

(Upon a feast-day by the King proclaimed),

He saw forth-passing through the palace gate

A woman--Bhima's daughter--side by side

With young Sunandâ. Little praise had now

That beauty which in old days shone so bright;

Marred with much grief it was, like sunlight dimmed

By fold on fold of wreathed and creeping mists.

But when Sudêva marked the great dark eyes--

Lustreless though they were, and she so worn,

So listless--"Lo, the Princess!" whispered he;--

"'Tis the King's daughter," quoth he to himself;

And thus mused on:--

"Yea! as I used to see,

'Tis she! no other woman hath such grace!

My task is done; I gaze on that one form,

Which is like Lakshmi's, whom all worlds adore.

I see the bosoms, rounded, dark, and smooth,

As they were sister-moons; the soft moon-face

Which with its queenly light makes all things bright

Where it doth gleam; the large deep lotus-eyes,

That, like to Rati's own, the Queen of Love,

Beam, each a lovelit star, filling the worlds

With longing. Ah, fair lotus-flower, plucked up

By Fate's hard grasp from far Vidarbha's pool,

How is thy cup muddied and slimed to-day!

Ah, moon, how is thy night like to the eclipse

When Rahu swallows up the silver round!

Ah, tearless eyes, reddened with weeping him,

How are ye like to gentle streams run dry!

Ah, lake of lilies, where grief's elephant

Hath swung his trunk, and turned the crystal black,

And scattered all the blue and crimson cups,

And frightened off the birds! Ah, lily-cup,

Tender, and delicately leaved, and reared

To blossom in a palace built of gems,

How dost thou wither here, wrenched by the root,

Sun-scorched and faded! Noblest, loveliest, best!--

Who bear'st no gems, yet so becomest them--

How like the new moon's silver horn thou art,

When envious black clouds blot it! Lost for thee

Are love, home, children, friends, and kinsmen; lost

All joy of that fair body thou dost wear

Only that it may last to find thy lord.

Truly a woman's ornament is this:--

The husband is her jewel; lacking him

She hath none, though she shines with priceless pearls;

Piteous must be her state! And, torn from her,

Doth Nala cling to life; or, day by day,

Waste with long yearning? Oh, as I behold

Those black locks, and those eyes--dark and long-shaped

As are the hundred-petalled lotus-leaves--

And watch her joyless who deserves all joy,

My heart is sore! When will she overpass

The river of this sorrow, and come safe

Unto its farther shore? When will she meet

Her lord, as moon and moon-star in the sky

Mingle? For, as I think, in winning her,

Nala would win his happy days again,

And--albeit banished now--have back his lands.

Alike in years and graces, and alike

In lordly race these were: no bride could seem

Worthy Nishadha, if it were not she;

Nor husband worthy of Vidarbha's Pride,

Save it were Nala. It is meet I bring

Comfort forthwith to yon despairing one,

The consort of the just and noble Prince,

For whom I see her heart-sick. I will go

And speak good tidings to this moon-faced Queen,

Who once knew nought of sorrows, but to-day

Stands yonder, plunged heart-deep in woful thought."

So, all those signs and marks considering

Which stamped her Bhima's child, Sudêva drew

Nearer, and said: "Vidarbhi, Nala's wife,

I am the Bráhmana Sudêva, friend

Unto my lord, thy brother, and I come

By royal Bhima's mandate, seeking thee.

That Maharaja, thy father, dwells in health;

Thy mother and thy house are well; and well--

With promise of long years--thy little ones,

Sister and brother. Yet, for thy sake, Queen,

Thy kindred sit as men with spirit gone;

In search of thee a hundred twice-born rove

Over all lands."

But (O King Yudhisthir!)

Hardly one word she heard before she broke

With question after question on the man,

Asking of this dear friend and that and this;

All mingled with quick tears, and tender sighs,

And hungry gazing on her brother's friend,

Sudêva--best of Bráhmanas--come there.

Which soon Sunandâ marked, watching them speak

Apart, and Damayanti all in tears.

Then came she to her mother, saying: "See,

The handmaid thou didst give me talks below

With one who is a Bráhman, all her words

Watered with weeping; if thou wilt, demand

What this man knows."

Therewith swept forth amazed

The mother of the Raja, and beheld

How Nala's wife spake with the Bráhmana.

Whom straight she bade them summon; and, being brought,

In this wise questioned: "Knowest thou whose wife,

Whose daughter, this one is; and how she left

Her kin; and wherefore, being heavenly-eyed

And noble-mannered, she hath wandered here?

I am full fain to hear this; tell me all,

No whit withholding; answer faithfully--

Who is our slave-girl with the goddess gait?"

The Bráhmana Sudêva, so addressed,

Seating himself at ease, unto the Queen

Told Damayanti's story, how all fell.

Sudêva said: "There reigns in majesty

King Bhima at Vidarbha; and of him

The Princess Damayanti here is child;

And Virasena's son, Nala, is Lord

Over Nishadha, praised-in-song and wise;

And of that Prince this lady is the wife.

In play his brother worsted Nala--stripped

Of lands and wealth the Prince; who fled his realm,

Wandering with Damayanti--where, none knew.

In quest of Damayanti we have roamed

The earth's face o'er, until I found her here

In thy son's house, the King's--the very same,

Since like to her for grace no woman lives

Of all fair women. Where her eyebrows meet

A pretty mole, born with her, should be seen

A little lotus-bud--not visible

By reason of the dust of toil which clouds

Her face and veils its moon-like beauty--that

The wondrous Maker on the rare work stamped

To be His Mark. But as the waxing moon

Goes thin and darkling for awhile, then rounds

The crescent's rims with splendors, so this Queen

Hath lost not queenliness. Being now obscured,

Soiled with the grime of chores, unbeautified,

She shows true gold. The fire which trieth gold

Denoteth less itself by instant heat

Than Damayanti by her goodlihood.

As first sight knew I her. She bears that mole."

Whilst yet Sudêva spake (O King of men!),

Sunandâ from the slave's front washed away

The gathered dust, and forth that mark appeared

'Twixt Damayanti's brows, as when clouds break,

And in the sky the moon, the night-maker,

Glitters to view. Seeing the spot awhile,

Sunandâ and the mother of the King

Gazed voiceless; then they clasped her neck and wept

Rejoicing, till the Queen, staying her tears,

Exclaimed: "My sister's daughter, dear! thou art,

By this same mark. Thy mother and myself

Were sisters by one father--he that rules

Daśarna, King Sudâman. She was given

To Bhima, and to Virabahu I.

Once at Daśarna, in my father's house,

I saw thee, newly born. Thy race and mine,

Princess, are one: henceforward, therefore, here

As I am, Damayanti, shalt thou be."

With gladdened heart did Damayanti bend

Before her mother's sister, answering thus:--

"Peaceful and thankful dwelled I here with thee,

Being unknown, my every need supplied,

My life and honor by thy succor safe,

Yet, Maharajni, even than this dear home

One would be dearer: 'tis so many days

Since we were parted. Suffer me to go

Where those my tender little ones were led;

So long--poor babes!--of me and of their sire

Bereft. If, lady, thou dost think to show

Kindness to me, this is my wish: to wend

Unto Vidarbha swiftly; wilt thou bid

They bear me thither?"

Was no sooner heard

That fond desire, than the queen-mother gave

Willing command; and soon an ample troop,

The King consenting, gathered for her guard.

So was she sent upon a palanquin,

With soldiers, pole-bearers, and meat and drink,

And garments as befitted--happier--home.

Thus to Vidarbha came its Pride again,

By no long road; and joyously her kin

Brought the sweet Princess in, and welcomed her.

In peace and safety all her house she found;

Her children well;--father and mother, friends.

The gods she worshipped, and to Bráhmanas

Due reverence made, and whatso else was meet

That Damayanti did, regal in all.

To wise Sudêva fell the thousand cows

By Bhima granted, with the village-lands,

And goodly gifts beside.

But when there passed

One night of rest within the palace-walls,

The wistful Princess to her mother said:--

"If thou wouldst have me live, I tell thee true,

Dear mother, it must be by bringing back

My Nala, my own lord; and only so."

When this she spake, right sorrowful became

The Rani, weeping silently, nor gave

One word of answer; and the palace-girls,

Seeing this grief, sat round them, weeping too,

And crying: "Haha! where is gone her lord?"

And loud the lamentation was of all.

Afterwards to the Maharaja his Queen

Told what was said: "Lord! all uncomforted

Thy daughter Damayanti weeps and grieves,

Lacking her husband. Even to me she spake

Before our damsels, laying shame aside:--

'Find Nala; let the people of the court

Strive day and night to learn where Nala is.'"

Then Bhima, hearing, called his Bráhmanas

Patient and wise, and issued hest to go

Into all regions, seeking for the Prince.

But first, by mandate of the Maharaja,

To Damayanti all those twice-born came,

Saying: "Now we depart!" Then Bhima's child

Gave ordinance: "To whatsoever lands

Ye wend, say this--wherever gather men,

Say this--in every place these verses speak:--

Whither art thou departed, cruel lover,

Who stole the half of thy belovèd's cloth,

And left her to awaken, and discover

The wrong thou wroughtest to the love of both?

She, as thou didst command, a sad watch keepeth,

With woful heart wearing the rended dress.

Prince, hear her cry who thus forever weepeth;

Be mindful, hero; comfort her distress!

And, furthermore," the Princess said, "since fire

Leaps into flame when the wind fans the spark,

Be this too spoken, that his heart may burn:--

By every husband nourished and protected

Should every wife be. Think upon the wood!

Why these thy duties hast thou so neglected,

Prince, that was called noble and true and good?

Art then become compassionate no longer,

Shunning, perchance, my fortune's broken way?

Ah, husband, love is most! let love be stronger;

_Ahimsa paro dharma_,[25] thou didst say.

These verses while ye speak," quoth the Princess,

"Should any man make answer, note him well

In any place; and who he is, and where

He dwells. And if one listens to these words

Intently, and shall so reply to them,

Good Bráhmans, hold ye fast his speech, and bring,

Breath by breath, all of it unto me here;

But so that he shall know not whence ye speak,

If ye go back. Do this unweariedly;

And if one answer--be he high or low,

Wealthy or poor--learn all he was and is,

And what he would."

Hereby enjoined, they went,

Those twice-born, into all the lands to seek

Prince Nala in his loneliness. Through towns,

Cities and villages, hamlets and camps,

By shepherds' huts and hermits' caves, they passed,

Searching for Nala; yet they found him not;

Albeit in every region (O my king!)

The words of Damayanti, as she taught,

Spake they again in hearing of all men.

Suddenly--after many days--there came

A Bráhman back, Parnâda he was called,

Who unto Bhima's child in this wise spake:--

"O Damayanti, seeking Nala still,

Ayodhyâ's streets I entered, where I saw

The Maharaja; he--noble-minded one!--

Heard me thy verses say, as thou hadst said;

Great Rituparna heard those very words,

Excellent Princess; but he answered nought;

And no man answered, out of all the throng

Ofttimes addressed. But when I had my leave

And was withdrawn, a man accosted me

Privately--one of Rituparna's train,

Vahûka named, the Raja's charioteer

(Something misshapen, with a shrunken arm,

But skilled in driving, very dexterous

In cookery and sweetmeats). He--with groans,

And tears which rolled and rolled--asked of my health,

And then these verses spake full wistfully:--

'Even when their loss is largest, noble ladies

Keep the true treasure of their hearts unspent,

Attaining heaven through faith, which undismayed is

By wrong, unaltered by abandonment;

Such an one guards with virtue's golden shield

Her name from harm; pious and pure and tender;

And, though her lord forsook her, will not yield

To wrath, even against that vile offender--

Even against the ruined, rash, ungrateful,

Faithless, fond Prince from whom the birds did steal

His only cloth, whom now a penance fateful

Dooms to sad days, that dark-eyed will not feel

Anger; for if she saw him she should see

A man consumed with grief and loss and shame;

Ill or well lodged, ever in misery,

Her unthroned lord, a slave without a name.'

Such words I heard him speak," Parnâda said,

"And, hastening thence, I tell them to thee, here;

Thou knowest; thou wilt judge; make the King know."

But Damayanti listened, with great eyes

Welling quick tears, while thus Parnâda spake,

And afterwards crept secretly and said

Unto her mother: "Breathe no word hereof,

Dear mother, to the King, but let me speak

With wise Sudêva in thy presence here;

Nothing should Bhima know of what I plan,

But, if thou lovest me, by thee and me

This shall be wrought. As I was safely led

By good Sudêva home, so let him go--

With not less happy fortune--to bring back,

Ere many days, my Nala; let him seek

Ayodhyâ, mother dear, and fetch my Prince!"

But first Parnâda, resting from his road--

That best of twice-borns--did the Princess thank

With honorable words and gifts: "If home

My Nala cometh, Bráhman!" so she spake,

"Great guerdon will I give. Thou hast well done

For me herein--- better than any man;

Helping me find again my wandered lord."

To which fair words made soft reply, and prayers

For "peace and fortune," that high-minded one,

And so passed home, his service being wrought.

Next to Sudêva spake the sad Princess

This (O my King!), her mother standing by:--

"Good Bráhman, to Ayodhyâ's city go.

Say in the ears of Raja Rituparna,

As though thou cam'st a simple traveller,

'The daughter of King Bhima once again

Maketh to hold her high Swayamvara.

The kings and princes from all lands repair

Thither; the time draws nigh; to-morrow's dawn

Shall bring the day. If thou wouldst be of it,

Speed quickly, conquering King! at sunsetting

Another lord she chooseth for herself;

Since whether Nala liveth or is dead,

None knoweth.'"

These the words which he should say;

And, learning them, he sped, and thither came--

That Bráhmana Sudêva--and he spake

To Maharaja Rituparna so.

Now when the Raja Rituparna heard

Sudêva's words, quoth he to Vahûka

Full pleasantly: "Much mind I have to go

Where Damayanti holds Swayamvara,

If to Vidarbha, in a single day,

Thou deemest we might drive, my charioteer!"

Of Nala, by his Raja thus addressed,

Torn was the heart with anguish; for he thought:--

"Can Damayanti purpose this? Could grief

So change her? Is it not some fine device

For my sake schemed? Or doth my Princess seek,

All holy as she was, this guilty joy,

Being so wronged of me, her rash weak lord?

Frail is a woman's heart, and my fault great!

Thus might she do it, being far from home,

Bereft of friends, desolate with long woes

Of love for me--my slender-waisted one!

Yet no, no, no! she would not--she that is

My children's mother! Be it false or true,

Best shall I know in going; therefore now

The will of Rituparna must I serve."

Thus pondering in his mind, the troubled Prince

With joined palms meekly to his master said:--

"I shall thy hest accomplish! I can drive

In one day, Raja, to Vidarbha's gates."

Then in the royal stables--steed by steed,

Stallions and mares, Vahûka scanned them all,

By Rituparna prayed quickly to choose.

Slowly he picked four coursers, under-fleshed,

But big of bone and sinew; fetlocked well

For journeying; high-bred, heavy-framed; of blood

To match the best, yet gentle; blemish-free;

Broad in the jaw, with scarlet nostrils spread;

Bearing the _Avarthas_, the ten true marks--

Reared on the banks of Indus, swift as wind.

Which, when the Raja looked upon, he cried,

Half-wrathful: "What thing thinkest thou to do?

Wilt thou betray me? How should sorry beasts,

Lean-ribbed and ragged, take us all that way,

The long road we must swiftly travel hence?"

Vahûka answered: "See on all these four

The ten sure marks: one curl upon each crest,

Two on the cheeks, two upon either flank,

Two on the breast, and on each crupper one.[26]

These to Vidarbha--doubt it not--will go;

Yet, Raja, if thou wilt have others, speak;

And I shall yoke them."

Rituparna said:--

"I know thou hast deep skill in stable-craft;

Yoke therefore such four coursers as thou wilt,

But quickly!"

Thus those horses, two by two,

High-mettled, spare, and strong, Prince Nala put

Under the bars; and when the car was hitched,

And eagerly the Raja made to mount,

At sign the coursers bent their knees, and lay

Along the earth. Then Nala (O my King!),

With kindly voice cheering the gaunt bright steeds,

Loosed them, and grasped the reins, and bade ascend

Varshneya: so he started, headlong, forth.

At cry of Vahûka the four steeds sprung

Into the air, as they would fly with him;

And when the Raja felt them, fleet as wind,

Whirling along, mute sat he and amazed;

And much Varshneya mused to hear and see

The thundering of those wheels; the fiery four

So lightly held; Vahûka's matchless art.

"Is Mâtali, who driveth Indra's car,

Our charioteer? for all the marks of him

Are here! or Sâlihotra can this be,

The god of horses, knowing all their ways,

Who here in mortal form his greatness hides?

Or is it--can it be--Nala the Prince,

Nala the steed-tamer?" Thus pondered he:--

"Whatever Nala knew this one doth know.

Alike the mastery seems of both; alike

I judge their years. If this man be not he,

Two Nalas are there in the world for skill.

They say there wander mighty powers on earth

In strange disguises, who, divinely sprung,

Veil themselves from us under human mould;

Bewilderment it brings me, this his shape

Misshappen--from conclusion that alone

Withholds me; yet I wist not what to think,

In age and manner like--and so unlike

In form! Else Vahûka I must have deemed

Nala, with Nala's gifts."

So in his heart,

Varshneya, watching, wondered--being himself

The second charioteer. But Rituparna

Sat joyous with the speed, delightedly

Marking the driving of the Prince: the eyes

Attent; the hand so firm upon the reins;

The skill so quiet, wise, and masterful;

Great joy the Maharaja had to see.

By stream and mountain, woodland-path and pool,

Swiftly, like birds that skim in air, they sped;

Till, as the chariot plunged, the Raja saw

His shoulder-mantle falling to the ground;

And--loath to lose the robe--albeit so pressed,

To Nala cried he, "Let me take it up;

Check the swift horses, wondrous charioteer;

And bid Varshneya light, and fetch my cloth,"

But Nala answered: "Far it lies behind;

A yojana already we have passed;

We cannot turn again to pick it up."

A little onward Riturparna saw

Within the wood a tall Myrobolan

Heavy with fruit; hereat, eager he cried:--

"Now, Vahûka, my skill thou mayest behold

In the Arithmic. All arts no man knows;

Each hath his wisdom, but in one man's wit

Is perfect gift of one thing, and not more.

From yonder tree how many leaves and fruits,

Think'st thou, lie fall'n there upon the earth?

Just one above a thousand of the leaves,

And one above a hundred of the fruits;

And on those two limbs hang, of dancing leaves,

Five crores exact; and shouldst thou pluck yon boughs

Together with their shoots, on those twain boughs

Swing twice a thousand nuts and ninety-five!"

Vahûka checked the chariot wonderingly,

And answered: "Imperceptible to me

Is what thou boastest, slayer of thy foes!

But I to proof will put it, hewing down

The tree, and, having counted, I shall know.

Before thine eyes the branches twain I'll lop:

How prove thee, Maharaja, otherwise,

Whether this be or be not? I will count

One by one--fruits and leaves--before thee, King;

Varshneya, for a space, can rein the steeds."

To him replied the Raja: "Time is none

Now to delay."

Vahûka answered quick

(His own set purpose serving): "Stay this space,

Or by thyself drive on! The road is good,

The son of Vrishni will be charioteer!"

On that the Raja answered soothingly:--

"There is not in the earth another man

That hath thy skill; and by thy skill I look

To reach Vidarbha, O thou steed-tamer!

Thou art my trust; make thou not hindrance now!

Yet would I suffer, too, what thou dost ask,

If thou couldst surely reach Vidarbha's gate

Before yon sun hath sunk."

Nala replied:--

"When I have counted those vibhîtak boughs,

Vidarbha I will reach; now keep thy word."

Ill pleased, the Raja said: "Halt then, and count!

Take one bough from the branch which I shall show,

And tell its fruits, and satisfy thy soul."

So leaping from the car--eager he shore

The boughs, and counted; and all wonder-struck

To Rituparna spake: "Lo, as thou saidst

So many fruits there be upon this bough!

Exceeding marvellous is this thy gift,

I burn to know such learning, how it comes."

Answered the Raja, for his journey fain:--

"My mind is quick with numbers, skilled to count;

I have the science."

"Give it me, dear Lord!"

Vahûka cried: "teach me, I pray, this lore,

And take from me my skill in horse-taming."

Quoth Rituparna--impatient to proceed--

Yet of such skill desirous: "Be it so!

As thou hast prayed, receive my secret art,

Exchanging with me here thy mastery

Of horses."

Thereupon did he impart

His rules of numbers, taking Nala's too.

But wonderful! So soon as Nala knew

That hidden gift, the accursed Kali leapt

Forth from his breast, the evil spirit's mouth

Spewing the poison of Karkôtaka

Even as he issued. From the afflicted Prince

That bitter plague of Kali passed away;

And for a space Prince Nala lost himself,

Rent by the agony. But when he saw

The evil one take visible shape again--

Free from the serpent's poison--Nishadha's Lord

Had thought to curse him then; but Kali stood

With clasped palms trembling, and besought the Prince,

Saying: "Thy wrath restrain, Sovereign of men!

I will repay thee well. Thy virtuous wife,

Indrasen's angered mother, laid her ban

Upon me when thou didst forsake her; since

Within thee have I dwelled in anguish sore,

Tortured and tossed and burning, night and day,

With venom from the great snake's fang, which passed

Into me by thy blood. Be pitiful!

I take my refuge in thy mercy! Hear

My promise, Prince! Wherever men henceforth

Shall name thee before people, praising thee,

This shall protect them from the dread of me;

Nala shall guard from Kali, if so now

Thou spare to curse me, seeking grace of thee."

Thus supplicated, Nala stayed his wrath,

Acceding; and the direful Kali fled

Into the wounded tree, possessing it.

But of no eyes, save Nala's, was he seen,

Nor heard of any other; and the Prince,

His sorrows shaking off, when Kali passed,

After that numbering of the leaves, in joy

Unspeakable, and glowing with new hope,

Mounted the car again, and urged his steeds.

But from that hour the tall Myrobolan,

Possessed by Kali, stood there, sear and dead.

Then onward, onward, speeding like the birds,

Those coursers flew; and fast and faster still

The glad Prince cheered them forward, all elate:

And proudly rode the Raja towards the walls

Of high Vidarbha. Thus did journey down

Exultant Nala, free of trouble now,

Quit of the evil spell, but bearing still

His form misshapen, and the shrunken limb.

At sunset in Vidarbha (O great King!)

The watchers on the walls proclaimed, "There comes

The Raja Rituparna!" Bhima bade

Open the gates; and thus they entered in,

Making all quarters of the city shake

With rattling of the chariot-wheels. But when

The horses of Prince Nala heard that sound,

For joy they neighed, as when of old their lord

Drew nigh. And Damayanti, in her bower,

Far off that rattling of the chariot heard,

As when at time of rains is heard the voice

Of clouds low thundering; and her bosom thrilled

At echo of that ringing sound. It came

Loud and more loud, like Nala's, when of old,

Gripping the reins, he cheered his mares along.

It seemed like Nala to the Princess then--

That clatter of the trampling of the hoofs;

It seemed like Nala to the stabled steeds:

Upon the palace-roof the peacocks heard

And screamed; the elephants within their stalls

Heard it and trumpeted; the coursers, tied,

Snorted for joy to hear that leaping car;

Peacocks and elephants and cattle stalled

All called and clamored with uplifted heads,

As wild things do at noise of coming rain.

Then to herself the Princess spake: "This car,

The rolling of it, echoing all around,

Gladdens my heart. It must be Nala comes,

My King of men! If I see not, this day,

My Prince that hath the bright and moon-like face,

My hero of unnumbered gifts, my lord,

Ah, I shall die! If this day fall I not

Into his opening arms--at last, at last--

And feel his close embrace, oh, beyond doubt,

I cannot live! If--ending all--to-day

Nishadha cometh not, with this deep sound

Like far-off thunder, then to-night I'll leap

Into the golden, flickering, fiery flames!

If now, now, now, my lion draws not nigh,

My warrior-love, like the wild elephant,

My Prince of princes--I shall surely die!

Nought call I now to mind he said or did

That was not rightly said and justly done.

No idle word he spake, even in free speech;

Patient and lordly; generous to bestow

Beyond all givers; scorning to be base,

Yea, even in secret--such Nishadha was.

Alas! when, day and night, I think of him,

How is my heart consumed, reft of its joy!"

So meditating, like one torn by thoughts,

She mounted to the palace-roof to see;

And thence, in the mid-court, the car beheld

Arriving. Rituparna and Vahûka

She saw, with Vrishni's son, descend and loose

The panting horses, wheeling back the car.

Then Rituparna, alighting, sought the King,

Bhima the Maharaja, far-renowned--

Whom Bhima with fair courtesies received;

Since well he deemed such breathless visit made

With deep cause, knowing not the women's plots.

"_Swâgatam!"_ cried he; "what hath brought thee, Prince?"

For nothing wist he that the Raja came

Suitor of Damayanti. Questioned so,

This Raja Rituparna, wise and brave,

Seeing no kings nor princes in the court,

Nor noise of the Swayamvara, nor crowd

Of Bráhmans gathering--weighing all those things,

Answered in this wise: "I am come, great Lord,

To make thee salutations!" But the King

Laughed in his beard at Rituparna's word--

That this of many weary yojanas

Should be the mark. "_Ahoswid_! Hath he passed

Through twenty towns," thought he, "and hither flown

To bid good-morrow? Nay, it is not that.

Good! I shall know it when he bids me know."

Thereat, with friendly speech his noble guest

The King to rest dismissed. "Repose thyself,"

He said; "the road was long; weary thou art."

And Rituparna, with sentences of grace

Replying to this graciousness, was led

By slaves to the allotted sleeping-room;

And after Rituparna, Varshneya went.

Vahûka, left alone, the chariot ran

Into its shed, and from the foamy steeds

Unbuckled all the harness, thong by thong,

Speaking soft words to them; then sat him down,

Alone, forgotten, on the driving-seat.

But Damayanti, seeing Rituparna,

And Vrishni's son, and him called Vahûka,

Spake sorrowful: "Whose was the thunder, then,

Of that fleet car? It seemed like Nala's own;

Yet here I see no Nala! Hath yon man

My lord's art learned, or th'other one, that thus

Their car should thunder as when Nala comes?

Could Rituparna drive as Nala doth,

So that those chariot-wheels should sound like his?"

And, after having pondered (O my King!),

The beauteous Princess sent her handmaiden

To Vahûka, that she might question him.

"Go, Keshinî," the Princess said; "inquire

Who is that man upon the driving-seat,

Misshapen, with the shrunken arm. Approach

Composedly, question him winningly

With greetings kind, and bid him answer thee

According to the truth. I feel at heart

A doubt--a hope--that this, perchance, may be

My Lord and Prince; there is some new-born joy

Fluttering within my breast. Accost him, girl;

And, ere thou partest, what Parnâda said,

Say thou, and hear him answer, blameless one,

And bring it on thy lips!"

Then went the maid

Demurely, and accosted Vahûka,

While Damayanti watched them from the roof.

"_Kushalam tê bravîmi_--health and peace

I wish thee!" said she. "Wilt thou answer true

What Damayanti asks? She sends to ask

Whence set ye forth, and wherefore are ye come

Hither? Vidarbha's Princess fain would know."

"'Twas told my Raja," Vahûka replied,

"That Damayanti for the second turn

Holds her Swayamvara: the Bráhman's word

Was, "This shall be to-morrow." So he sped,

Hearing that news, with steeds which in one day

Fly fifty yojanas, swift as the winds,

Exceeding fleet. His charioteer am I."

"Who, then," Keshinî asked, "is he that rode

The third? whence cometh he, and what his race?

And thou thyself whence sprung? and tell me why

Thou servest thus?"

Then Vahûka replied:--

"Varshneya is the third who rode with us,

The famous charioteer of Nala he:

When thy Prince fled, he went to Koshala

And took our service. I in horse-taming

And dressing meat have skill; so am I made

King Rituparna's driver and his cook."

"Knoweth Varshneya, then, where Nala fled?"

Inquired the maid; "and did he tell thee this,

Or what spake he?"

"Of that unhappy Prince

He brought the children hither, and then went

Even where he would, of Nala wotting nought;

Nor wotteth any man, fair damsel! more.

Hidden from mortal eyes Nishadha lives,

Wandering the world, his very body changed.

Of Nala only Nala's own heart knows,

And by no sign doth he bewray himself."

Keshinî said: "That Bráhman who did wend

First to Ayodhyâ bore a verse to say

Over and over, everywhere--strange words,

Wove by a woman's wit. Listen to these:--

'Whither art thou departed, cruel lover,

Who stole the half of thy belovèd's cloth,

And left her to awaken and discover

The wrong thou wroughtest to the love of both?

She, as thou didst command, a sad watch keepeth,

With woful heart wearing the rended dress.

Prince, hear her cry who thus forever weepeth;

Be mindful, hero; comfort her distress!'

What was it thou didst utter, hearing this?

Some gentle speech! Say it again--the Queen,

My peerless mistress, fain would know from me.

Nay, on thy faith, when thou didst hear that man,

What was it thou replied? She would know."

(Descendant of the Kurus!) Nala's heart,

While so the maid spoke, well-nigh burst with grief,

And from his eyes fast flowed the rolling tears;

But, mastering his anguish, holding down

The passion of his pain, with voice which strove

To speak through sobs, the Prince repeated this:--

"Even against the ruined, rash, ungrateful,

Faithless, fond Prince, from whom the birds did steal

His only cloth, whom now a penance fateful

Dooms to sad days, that dark-eyed will not feel

Anger; for if she saw him she should see

A man consumed with grief and loss and shame;

Ill or well lodged, ever in misery,

Her unthroned lord, a slave without a name."

Speaking these verses, woful Nala moaned,

And, overcome by thought, restrained no more

His trickling tears; fast broke they forth (O King!).

But Keshinî, returning, told his words

To Damayanti, and the grief of him.

When Damayanti heard, sore-troubled still,

Yet in her heart supposing him her Prince,

Again she spake: "Go, Kashinî, and watch

Whatever this man doeth; near him stand,

Holding thy peace, and mark the ways of him

And all his acts, going and coming; note

If aught there be of strange in any deed.

Let them not give him fire, my girl--not though

This hindereth sore; nor water, though he ask

Even with beseeching. Afterwards observe,

And bring me what befalls, and every sign

Of earthly or unearthly power he shows;

And whatsoever else Vahûka doth,

See it, and say."

Thereon Keshinî sped,

Obeying Damayanti and--at hand--

Whatever by that horse-tamer was wrought,

The damsel watched, and all his ways; and came

Back to the Princess, unto whom she told

Each thing Vahûka did, as it befell,

And what the signs were, and the wondrous works

Of earthly and unearthly gifts in him.

"_Subhê_!"[27] quoth she, "the man is magical,

But high and holy mannered; never yet

Saw I another such, nor heard of him.

Passing the low door of the inner court,

Where one must stoop, he did not bow his head,

But as he came the lintel lifted up

And gave him space. Bhima the King had sent

Many and diverse meats for Rituparna,

Of beast and bird and fish--great store of food--

The which to cleanse some chatties stood hard by,

All empty; yet he did but look on them,

Wishful, and lo! the water brimmed the pots.

Then, having washed the meats, he hastened forth

In quest of fire, and, holding towards the sun

A knot of withered grass, the bright flame blazed

Instant amidst it. Wonderstruck was I

This miracle to see, and hither ran

With other strangest marvels to impart:--

For, Princess, when he touched the blazing grass

He was not burned, and water flows for him

At will, or ceases flowing; and this, too,

The strangest thing of all, did I behold--

He took some faded leaves and flowers up,

And idly handled them; but while his hands

Toyed with them, lo! they blossomed forth again

With lovelier life than ever, and fresh scent,

Straight on their stalks. These marvels have I seen,

And fly back now to tell thee, mistress dear!"

But when she knew such wonders of the man,

More certainly she deemed those acts and gifts

Betokened Nala; and so-minded, full

Of trust to find her lord in Vahûka,

With happier tears and softening voice she said

To Keshinî: "Speed yet again, my girl;

And, while he wots not, from the kitchen take

Meat he hath dressed, and bring it here to me."

So went the maid, and, waiting secretly,

Broke from the mess a morsel, hot and spiced,

And, bearing it with faithful swiftness, gave

To Damayanti. She (O Kuru King!)--

That knew so well the dishes dressed by him--

Touched, tasted it, and, laughing--weeping--cried,

Beside herself with joy: "Yes, yes; 'tis he!

That charioteer is Nala!" then, a-pant,

Even while she washed her mouth, she bade the maid

Go with the children twain to Vahûka;

Who, when he saw his little Indrasen

And Indrasena, started up, and ran,

And caught, and folded them upon his breast;

Holding them there, his darlings, each as fair

As children of the gods. Then, quite undone

With love and yearning, loudly sobbed the Prince.

Until, perceiving Keshinî, who watched,

Shamed to be known, he set his children down,

And said: "In sooth, good friend, this lovely pair

So like mine own are, that at seeing them

I am surprised into these foolish tears.

Thou comest here too often; men will think

Thee light, or me; remember, we are here,

Strangers and guests, girl! Go thy ways in peace!"

But seeing that great trouble of his soul,

Lightly came Keshinî, and pictured all

To Damayanti. She, burning to know

If truly this were Nala, bade the girl

Seek the Queen's presence, saying thus for her:--

"Mother! long watching Vahûka, I deem

The charioteer is Nala. One doubt lives--

His altered form. I must myself have speech

With Vahûka; thou, therefore, bid him come,

Or suffer me to seek him. Be this done

Forthwith, good mother!--whether known or not

Unto the Maharaja."

When she heard,

The Queen told Bhima what the Princess prayed,

Who gave consent; and having this good leave

From father and from mother (O my King!),

Command was sent that Vahûka be brought

Where the court ladies lodged.

So met those twain;

And when Prince Nala's gaze fell on his wife,

He stood with beating heart and tearful eyes.

And when sweet Damayanti looked on him,

She could not speak for anguish of keen joy

To have him close; but sat there, mute and wan,

Wearing a sad-hued cloth, her lustrous hair

Falling unbanded, and the mourning-mark

Stamped in gray ashes on her lovely brow.

And, when she found a voice, these were the words

That came from her: "Didst ever, Vahûka--

If Vahûka thy name be, as thou say'st--

Know one of noble nature, honorable,

Who in the wild woods left his wife asleep--

His innocent, fond wife--weary and worn?

Know'st thou the man. I'll say his name to thee;

'Twas Nala, Raja Nala! Ah, and when

In any thoughtless hour had I once wrought

The smallest wrong, that he should leave me so,

There in the wood, by slumber overcome?

Before the gods I chose him for my lord,

The gods themselves rejecting; tell me how

This Prince could so abandon, in her need,

His true, his loving wife, she who did bear

His babes--abandon her to whom he swore--

My hand clasped, in the sight of all the gods,

And Agni's self--'Thy true lord I will be!'

Thou saidst it!--where is now that promise, fled?"

While thus she spake (O Victor of thy foes!),

Fast from her eyes the woe-sprung waters ran.

And Nala, seeing those night-black, loving eyes

Reddened with weeping, seeing her falling tears;

Broke forth: "Ah! that I lost my throne and realm

In dicing, was not done by fault of mine;

'T was Kali wrought it; Kali, O my wife,

Drove me to leave thee. Therefore, long ago

That evil one was stricken by the curse

Which thou didst utter, wandering in the wood,

Desolate, night and day, grieving for me.

Possessing me he dwelt; but, cursed by thee,

Tortured he dwelt, consuming with thy words

In fierce and fiercer pain, as when is piled

Brand upon burning brand. But he is gone;

Patience and penance have o'ermastered him.

Princess, the end is reached of our long woes.

That evil one being fled, freeing my will,

See, I am here; and wherefore would I come,

Fairest, except for thee? Yet, answer this:--

How should a wife, right-minded to her lord--

Her own and lawful lord--compass to choose

Another love, as thou, that tremblest, didst?

Thy messengers over all regions ran,

By the King's name proclaiming: 'Bhima's child

A second husband chooseth for herself,

Whomso she will--as pleaseth--being free,'

Those shameless tidings brought the Raja here

At headlong speed--and me!"

Tenderly smiled

Damayanti through her tears, with quivering lips,

And joined palms, answering her aggrievèd Prince:--

"Judgest thou me guilty of such a sin?

When for thy sake I put the gods aside--

Thee did I choose, Nishadha, my one lord.

In quest of thee did all those Bráhmans range

In all ten regions, telling all one tale

Taught them by me; and so Parnâda came

To Koshala, where Rituparna dwells,

And found thee in his house, and spake to thee

Those words, and had thy gentle answer back.

Mine the device was, Prince, to bring thee quick;

For well I wist no man in all this world

Could in one day the fleetest coursers urge

So many yojanas, save thou, dear Prince!

I touch thy feet, and tell thee this in truth;

And true it is that never any wrong

Against thee, even in fancy, have I dreamed.

Witness for me, as I am loyal and pure,

The ever-shifting, all-beholding Air,

Who wanders o'er the earth; let him withdraw

My breath and slay me, if I sinned in aught!

Witness for me, yon golden Sun who goes

With bright eye over us; let him withhold

Warm life and kill me, if I sinned in aught!

Witness for me the white Moon, whose pale spell

Lies on all flesh and spirit; let that orb

Deny me peace and end me, if I sinned!

These be the watchers and the testifiers,

The three chief gods that rule the three wide worlds;

I cry unto them; let them speak for me;

And thou shalt hear them answer for my faith,

Or once again, this day, abandon me."

Then Vayu showed--the all-enfolding Air--

And spake: "Not one wrong hath she wrought thee, Prince,

I tell thee sooth. The treasure of her truth

Faultless and undefiled she hath kept

By us regarded, and sustained by us,

These many days. Her tender plot it was,

Planned for thy sake, which brought thee; since who else

Could in one day drive threescore yojanas?

Nala, thou hast thy noble wife again;

Thou, Damayanti, hast thy Nala back.

Away with doubting; take her to thy breast,

Thrice happy Prince!"

And while God Vayu spake,

Look! there showered flowers down out of the sky[28]

Upon them; and the drums of heaven beat

Beautiful music, and a gentle wind,

Fragrant, propitious, floated, kissing them.

But Nala, when he saw these things befall--

Wonderful, gracious--when he heard that voice

Called the great snake to memory:--whereupon

His proper self returned. Bhima's fair child

Divinely sounding (Lord of Bhârat's line!)--

Yielded all doubt of his delightful Love.

Then cast he round about his neck the cloth--

Unstained by earth, enchanted--and (O King!)

Saw her dear lord his beauteous form resume.

"Ah, Nala! Nala!" cried she, while her arms

Clasped him and clung; and Nala to his heart

Pressed that bright lady, glowing, as of old,

With princely majesty. Their children twain

Next he caressed; while she--at happy peace--

Her beautiful glad face laid on his breast,

Sighing with too much joy. And Nala stood

A great space silent, gazing on her face,

Sorrow-stamped yet, her long, deep-lidded eyes,

Her melting smile--himself 'twixt joy and woe.

Afterwards, all that story of the Prince,

And all of Damayanti, Bhima's Queen

Told to the Maharaja joyously.

And Bhima said: "To-morrow will I see--

When Nala hath his needful offerings made--

Our daughter and this wandering lord well knit."

But all that night they sat, hand clasped in hand,

Rejoicing, and relating what befell

In the wild wood, and of the woful times.

That night being spent, Prince Nala in his state

Led forth Vidarbha's Pride before the court.

And Bhima--in an hour found fortunate--

Re-wed those married lovers. Dutifully

Nala paid homage to the Maharaja,

And reverently did Damayanti bow

Before her father. He the Prince received

With grace and gladness, as a son restored,

Making fair welcome, and with words of praise

Exalting Damayanti, tried and true;

Which in all dignity Prince Nala took,

Returning, as was meet, words honorable.

Therewith unto the city spread the noise

Of that rejoicing. All the townspeople,

Learning of Nala joyously returned,

Made all their quarters gay with float of flags,

Flutter of cloths, and garlands; sprinkled free

The King's-ways with fresh water, and the cups

Of fragrant flowers; and hung long wreaths of flowers.

From door to door the white street-fronts before;

And decked each temple-porch, and went about

The altar-gods.

And afterwards, in Bhima's royal house

Serenely dwelled the Princess and the Prince,

Each making for the other peaceful joy.

So in the fourth year Nala was rejoined

To Damayanti, comforted and free,

Restful, attained, tasting delights again.

Also the glad Princess, gaining her lord,

Laid sorrows by, and blossomed forth anew,

As doth the laughing earth when the rain falls,

And brings her unseen, waiting wonders forth

Of blade and flower and fruit. The ache was gone,

The loneliness and load. Heart-full of ease,

Lovelier she grew and brighter, like the moon

Mounting at midnight in the cloudless blue.

When Rituparna heard

How Vahûka is Nala in disguise,

And of the meeting, right rejoiced at heart

That Raja grew. And, being softly prayed

By Nala favorable thought, the King

Made royal and gentle answer, with like grace

By Nala met. To whom spake Rituparna:--

"Joy go with thee and her, happily joined.

But say, Nishadha, wrought I any jot

Wrongful to thee, whilst sojourning unknown

Within my walls? If any word or deed,

Purposed or purposeless, hath vexed thee, friend,

For one and all thy pardon grant to me!"

And Nala answered: "Never act or word,

The smallest, Raja, lingers to excuse!

If this were otherwise, thy slave was I,

And might not question, but must pardon thee.

Yet good to me thou wert, princely and just,

And kind thou art; and friendly from this time

Deign thou to be. Happily was I lodged,

Well-tended, well-befriended in thy house;

In mine own palace never better stead.

The skill in steeds which pleased thee, that is mine,

And, Raja, I will give it all to thee,

If thou art minded."

So Nishadha gave

All his great gift in horses to the King,

Who learned each rule approved, and ordinance;

And, having all this knowledge, gave in turn

His deepest lore of numbers and the dice

To Nala, afterwards departing home

To his own place, another charioteer

Driving his steeds; and, Rituparna gone,

Not long did Nala dwell in Bhima's town.

When one moon he had tarried, taking leave,

Nishadha to his city started forth

With chosen train. A shining car he drove;

And elephants sixteen, and fifty horse,

And footmen thirty-score came in the rear.

Swiftly did Nala journey, making earth

Quake 'neath his flying car; and wrathfully

With quick steps entered he his palace doors.

The son of Virasena, Nala, stood

Once more before that gamester Pushkara!

Spake he: "Play yet again; much wealth is mine,

And that, and all I have--yea, my Princess--

Set I for stakes: set thou this realm, and throw!

My mind is fixed a second chance to try,

Where, Pushkara, we will play for all or none.

Who wins his throne and treasures from a prince,

Must stand the hazard of the counter-cast--

This is the accepted law. If thou dost blench,

The next game we will play is 'life or death,'

In chariot-fight; when, or of thee or me

One shall lie satisfied: 'Descended realms,

By whatsoever means, are to be sought,'

The sages say, 'by whatsoever won.'

Choose, therefore, Pushkara, which way of these

Shall please thee; either meet me with the dice,

Or with thy bow confront me in the field."

When Pushkara this heard, lightly he smiled,

Concluding victory sure; and to the Prince

Answered, exulting: "_Dishtya_! hast thou gained

Stakes for a counter-game, Nishadha, now?

_Dishtya_! shall I have my hard-won prize,

Sweet Damayanti? _Dishtya_! didst thou come

In kissing-reach again of thy fair wife?

Soon, in thy new gold splendid, she shall shine

Before all men beside me, as in heaven

On Sakra waits the loveliest Apsarâ.

See, now, I thought on thee, I looked for thee,

Ever and ever, Prince. There is no joy

Like casting in the game with such as thee.

And when to-day I win thy blameless one--

The smooth-limbed Damayanti--then shall be

What was to be: and I can rest content,

For always in my heart her beauty burns."

Listening the idle talk that babbler poured,

Angry Prince Nala fain had lopped away

His head with vengeful _khudga;_[29] but, unmoved,

Albeit the wrath blazed in his bloodshot eyes,

He made reply: "Play! mock me not with jests;

Thou wilt not jest when I have cast with thee!"

So was the game set, and the Princes threw

Nala and Pushkara, and--the numbers named--

By Nala was the hazard gained: he swept

His brother's stake, gems, treasure, kingdom, off;

At one stroke all that mighty venture won.

Then quoth the conquering Prince to Pushkara,

Scornfully smiling: "Mine is now once more

Nishadha's throne; mine is the realm again,

Its curse plucked forth; Vidarbha's glory thou,

Outcast, shalt ne'er so much as look upon!

Fool! who to-day becom'st her bond and slave.

Not by thy gifts that evil stroke was wrought

Wherefrom I fled before; 'twas Kali's spell--

Albeit thou knew'st nought, fool--overmastered me;

Yet will I visit not in wrathful wise

My wrong on thee; live as thou wilt; I grant

Wherewith to live, and set apart henceforth

Thy proper goods and substance, and fit food.

Nay, doubt not I shall show thee favor, too,

And be in friendship with thee, if thou wilt,

Who art my brother. Peace abide with thee!"

Thus all-victorious Nala comforted

His brother, and embraced him, sending him

In honor to his town; and Pushkara--

Gently entreated--to Nishadha spake,

With folded palms and humbled face, these words:--

"Unending be thy glory. May thy bliss

Last and increase for twice five thousand years,

Who grantest me wherewith to live, just Lord!

And where to dwell." Thereafter, well bested,

Pushkara sojourned with the Prince one moon;

So to his town departed--heart-content--

With slaves and foot-soldiers and followers,

Gay as a rising sun (O Bhârat's glory!).

Thus sent he Pushkara, rich and safe, away.

Then, with flags and drums and jewels, robed and royally arrayed,

Nala into fair Nishadha entry high and dazzling made;

At the gates the Raja, halting, spake his people words of love;

Gathered were they from the city, gathered from the field and grove;

From the mountain and the maidan, all a-thrill with joy to see

Nala come to guard his children. "Happy now our days will be,"

Said the townsfolk, said the elders, said the villagers, "O King!"

Standing all with palms upfolded: "Peace and fortune thou wilt bring

To thy city, to thy country! Boundless welcome do we give,

As the gods in heaven to Indra, when with them he comes to live."

After, when the show was ended, and the city, calm and glad,

Rest from tumult of rejoicing and rich flood of feasting had,

Girt with shining squadrons, Nala fetched his pearl of women home.

Like a queen did Damayanti back unto her palace come,

By the Maharaja Bhima, by that mighty monarch sent

Royally, with countless blessings, to her kingdom, in content.

There, beside his peerless Princess, and his children, bore he sway,

Godlike, even as Indra ruling 'mid the bliss of Nandana.[30]

Bore he sway--my noble Nala--princeliest of all lords--who reign

In the lands of Jambudwipa;[31] winning power and fame again;

Ruling well his realm reconquered, like a just and perfect king,

All the appointed gifts bestowing, all the rites remembering.

[22] Jhillikas are the large wood-crickets

[23] A caravan.

[24] This is a secretion which flows by a small orifice from the

elephant's temples at certain seasons. It is sweet-smelling, and

constantly alluded to in Hindoo poetry.

[25] "Gentleness is chief of virtues."

[26] These "curls" are the "Arvathas," or marks of good blood and

high-breeding.

[27] "O Beautiful One!"

[28] This raining down of heavenly flowers on auspicious occasions is a

frequent incident in ancient Indian poetry.

[29] A short; broad-bladed sword.

[30] Nandana is the Paradise of Indra.

[31] Ancient name of India: "The Land of the Rose-apple Tree."

SELECTIONS FROM THE RÁMÁYANA

VÁLMÍKI

[_Metrical translation by R.T.H. Griffiths_]

INTRODUCTION

The ideas of the human family are few, as is apparent from the study of

the literature of widely different nations. Thus the "Rámáyana" ranks in

Hindoo with the "Iliad" and the "Odyssey" in Greek literature. The

character of Ráma corresponds with that of Menelaus, for both the

European and the Asiatic heroes have had their wives carried off from

them--although Sítá, the bride of Ráma, is chaste as an icicle from

Diana's temple, while Helen is the infamous type of wanton wives,

ancient and modern. The Hindoo Lanka is Troy, and Ayodhyá is Sparta. The

material civilization of the cities in the Hindoo epic is more luxurious

and gorgeous than that which Homer attributes to Greece in the heroic

age. Such splendor and refinement as invests social life at Lanka and

Ayodhyá never appear amid the severe simplicity of Argos or Troy. The

moral tone seems perhaps higher in India than in Greece during the

periods described in their several epics--at least as far as mutual love

and forbearance go--and the ideas of marriage and conjugal fidelity are

equally exalted.

As to the literary quality of the Hindoo epic in comparison with Homer's

work, we are at once impressed with the immense superiority of the Greek

poem in artistic proportion, point, and precision. The Hindoo poet

flounders along, amid a maze of prolix description and wearisome simile.

Trifles are amplified and repeated, and the whole poem resembles a wild

forest abounding in rich tropical vegetation, palms and flowers, but

without paths, roads, or limits. Or rather, we are reminded of one of

the highly painted and richly decorated idols of India, with their many

heads and many hands: but when we turn to the Greek epic we stand before

a statue of pure outline, flawless proportions, and more than human

beauty.

It is difficult to fix the date of the "Rámáyana." Scholars generally

agree that it belongs to the third century before Christ, in its

original form, but that some recent portions were added even during the

Christian era. It is reckoned as one of the sacred books, and the study

of it is supposed to bring forgiveness of sin, and prosperity. Its

author is thought to have been the famous poet Válmíki, but the work has

evidently been rehandled several times, and there are three versions of

the poems still extant. The poem consists of twenty-four thousand

verses, and the story of it--now overlaid as it is with extravagant and

fabulous accretions--is evidently founded on fact. The scene of the poem

is laid in the city of Ayodhyá, the modern Oudh, which is described in

glowing colors as a place of health, beauty, and prosperity--

"In by-gone ages built and planned

By sainted Manu's princely hand."

In the splendid palace of the Rajah, at Oudh, lives Daśaratha, mourning

in childlessness. He is one of the princes descended from the sun, and

his line now threatens to become extinct. He determines to appeal to the

Gods by the Asva-medha, the great sacrifice in which a horse is the

victim. The rites accordingly are performed with unparalleled

magnificence, and, at the close of the ceremony, the high priest

declares to the king--

"Four sons, O Monarch, shall be thine,

Upholders of the royal line."

Among the offspring duly granted to Daśaratha is Ráma, who is a typical

Hindoo of the heroic type. His fair wife, Sítá, is carried off by the

demon Ravana, who had assumed the form of a humble priest, or ascetic,

in order to gain access to her. He carries her in his chariot to Lanka,

the fair city built on an island of the sea. By the assistance of a

large army of monkeys, Ráma marches against Lanka, and when they stand

helpless--for the water separates them from Ceylon--he then invokes the

goddess of the sea, as Achilles did Thetis, and she comes in radiant

beauty, telling them how to bridge the waves. The monkeys bring timber

and stones, the bridge is built, Lanka reached, and the battle begins.

Indra sends his own chariot down from heaven to Ráma, who mounts it, and

vanquishes Ravana in single combat, upon which Sítá is restored to her

husband. E.W.

THE RÁMÁYANA

INVOCATION

Praise to Válmíki, bird of charming song,

Who mounts on Poesy's sublimest spray,

And sweetly sings with accent clear and strong

Ráma, aye Ráma, in his deathless lay.

Where breathes the man can listen to the strain

That flows in music from Válmíki's tongue,

Nor feel his feet the path of bliss attain

When Ráma's glory by the saint is sung?

The stream Rámáyan leaves its sacred fount

The whole wide world from sin and stain to free.

The Prince of Hermits is the parent mount,

The lordly Ráma is the darling sea.

Glory to him whose fame is ever bright!

Glory to him, Prachet's holy son!

Whose pure lips quaff with ever-new delight

The nectar-sea of deeds by Ráma done.

Hail, arch-ascetic, pious, good, and kind!

Hail, Saint Válmíki, lord of every lore!

Hail, holy Hermit, calm and pure of mind!

Hail, First of Bards, Válmíki, hail once more!

BOOK I

CANTO I

NARAD

_Om_.

To sainted Nárad, prince of those

Whose lore in words of wisdom flows,

Whose constant care and chief delight

Were Scripture and ascetic rite,

The good Válmíki, first and best

Of hermit saints, these words addressed:--

"In all this world, I pray thee, who

Is virtuous, heroic, true?

Firm in his vows, of grateful mind,

To every creature good and kind?

Bounteous, and holy, just, and wise,

Alone most fair to all men's eyes?

Devoid of envy, firm, and sage,

Whose tranquil soul ne'er yields to rage?

Whom, when his warrior wrath is high,

Do Gods embattled fear and fly?

Whose noble might and gentle skill

The triple world can guard from ill?

Who is the best of princes, he

Who loves his people's good to see?

The store of bliss, the living mine

Where brightest joys and virtues shine?

Queen Fortune's best and dearest friend,

Whose steps her choicest gifts attend?

Who may with Sun and Moon compare,

With Indra, Vishnu, Fire, and Air?

Grant, Saint divine, the boon I ask,

For thee, I ween, an easy task,

To whom the power is given to know

If such a man breathe here below."

Then Nárad, clear before whose eye

The present, past, and future lie,

Made ready answer: "Hermit, where

Are graces found so high and rare?

Yet listen, and my tongue shall tell

In whom alone these virtues dwell.

From old Ikshváku's line he came,

Known to the world by Ráma's name:--

With soul subdued, a chief of might,

In Scripture versed, in glory bright.

His steps in virtue's paths are bent,

Obedient, pure, and eloquent.

In each emprise he wins success,

And dying foes his power confess.

Tall and broad-shouldered, strong of limb,

Fortune has set her mark on him.

Graced with a conch-shell's triple line,

His throat displays the auspicious sign.

High destiny is clear impressed

On massive jaw and ample chest.

His mighty shafts he truly aims,

And foemen in the battle tames.

Deep in the muscle, scarcely shown,

Embedded lies his collar-bone.

His lordly steps are firm and free,

His strong arms reach below his knee;

All fairest graces join to deck

His head, his brow, his stately neck,

And limbs in fair proportion set:--

The manliest form e'er fashioned yet.

Graced with each high imperial mark,

His skin is soft and lustrous dark.

Large are his eyes that sweetly shine

With majesty almost divine.

His plighted word he ne'er forgets;

On erring sense a watch he sets.

By nature wise, his teacher's skill

Has trained him to subdue his will.

Good, resolute and pure, and strong,

He guards mankind from scathe and wrong,

And lends his aid, and ne'er in vain,

The cause of justice to maintain.

Well has he studied o'er and o'er

The Vedas and their kindred lore.

Well skilled is he the bow to draw,

Well trained in arts and versed in law;

High-souled and meet for happy fate,

Most tender and compassionate;

The noblest of all lordly givers,

Whom good men follow, as the rivers

Follow the King of Floods, the sea:--

So liberal, so just is he.

The joy of Queen Kauśalyá's heart,

In every virtue he has part;

Firm as Himálaya's snowy steep,

Unfathomed like the mighty deep;

The peer of Vishnu's power and might,

And lovely as the Lord of Night;

Patient as Earth, but, roused to ire,

Fierce as the world-destroying fire;

In bounty like the Lord of Gold,

And Justice' self in human mould.

With him, his best and eldest son,

By all his princely virtues won

King Daśaratha willed to share

His kingdom as the Regent Heir.

But when Kaikeyí, youngest queen,

With eyes of envious hate had seen

The solemn pomp and regal state

Prepared the prince to consecrate,

She bade the hapless king bestow

Two gifts he promised long ago,

That Ráma to the woods should flee,

And that her child the heir should be.

By chains of duty firmly tied,

The wretched King perforce complied.

Ráma, to please Kaikeyí went

Obedient forth, to banishment.

Then Lakshman's truth was nobly shown,

Then were his love and courage known,

When for his brother's sake he dared

All perils, and his exile shared.

And Sítá, Ráma's darling wife,

Loved even as he loved his life,

Whom happy marks combined to bless,

A miracle of loveliness,

Of Janak's royal lineage sprung,

Most excellent of women, clung

To her dear lord, like Rohiní

Rejoicing with the Moon to be.

The King and people, sad of mood,

The hero's car awhile pursued.

But when Prince Ráma lighted down

At Śringavera's pleasant town,

Where Gangá's holy waters flow,

He bade his driver turn and go.

Guha, Nishádas' King, he met,

And on the farther bank was set.

Then on from wood to wood they strayed,

O'er many a stream, through constant shade,

As Bharadvája bade them, till

They came to Chitrakúta's hill.

And Ráma there, with Lakshman's aid,

A pleasant little cottage made,

And spent his days with Sítá, dressed

In coat of bark and deerskin vest.

And Chitrakúta grew to be

As bright with those illustrious three

As Meru's sacred peaks that shine

With glory, when the Gods recline

Beneath them: Śiva's self between

The Lord of Gold and Beauty's Queen.

The aged King for Ráma pined,

And for the skies the earth resigned.

Bharat, his son, refused to reign,

Though urged by all the twice-born train.

Forth to the woods he fared to meet

His brother, fell before his feet,

And cried "Thy claim all men allow:--

O come, our lord and King be thou."

But Ráma nobly chose to be

Observant of his sire's decree.

He placed his sandals in his hand,

A pledge that he would rule the land:--

And bade his brother turn again.

Then Bharat, finding prayer was vain,

The sandals took and went away;

Nor in Ayodhyá would he stay,

But turned to Nandigráma, where

He ruled the realm with watchful care,

Still longing eagerly to learn

Tidings of Ráma's safe return.

Then lest the people should repeat

Their visit to his calm retreat,

Away from Chitrakúta's hill

Fared Ráma, ever onward till

Beneath the shady trees he stood

Of Dandaká's primeval wood.

Virádha, giant fiend, he slew,

And then Agastya's friendship knew.

Counselled by him he gained the sword

And bow of Indra, heavenly lord:--

A pair of quivers too, that bore

Of arrows an exhaustless store.

While there he dwelt in greenwood shade,

The trembling hermits sought his aid,

And bade him with his sword and bow

Destroy the fiends who worked them woe:--

To come like Indra strong and brave,

A guardian God to help and save.

And Ráma's falchion left its trace

Deep cut on Súrpanakhá's face:--

A hideous giantess who came

Burning for him with lawless flame.

Their sister's cries the giants heard,

And vengeance in each bosom stirred;

The monster of the triple head,

And Dúshan to the contest sped.

But they and myriad fiends beside

Beneath the might of Ráma died.

When Rávan, dreaded warrior, knew

The slaughter of his giant crew--

Rávan, the King, whose name of fear

Earth, hell, and heaven all shook to hear--

He bade the fiend Márícha aid

The vengeful plot his fury laid.

In vain the wise Márícha tried

To turn him from his course aside:--

Not Rávan's self, he said, might hope

With Ráma and his strength to cope.

Impelled by fate and blind with rage

He came to Ráma's hermitage.

There, by Márícha's magic art,

He wiled the princely youths apart,

The vulture slew, and bore away

The wife of Ráma as his prey.

The son of Raghu came and found

Jatáyu slain upon the ground.

He rushed within his leafy cot;

He sought his wife, but found her not.

Then, then the hero's senses failed;

In mad despair he wept and wailed.

Upon the pile that bird he laid,

And still in quest of Sítá strayed.

A hideous giant then he saw,

Kabandha named, a shape of awe.

The monstrous fiend he smote and slew,

And in the flame the body threw;

When straight from out the funeral flame

In lovely form Kabandha came,

And bade him seek in his distress

A wise and holy hermitess.

By counsel of this saintly dame

To Pampá's pleasant flood he came,

And there the steadfast friendship won

Of Hanumán the Wind-God's son.

Counselled by him he told his grief

To great Sugríva, Vánar chief,

Who, knowing all the tale, before

The sacred flame alliance swore.

Sugríva to his new-found friend

Told his own story to the end:--

His hate of Báli for the wrong

And insult he had borne so long.

And Ráma lent a willing ear

And promised to allay his fear.

Sugríva warned him of the might

Of Báli, matchless in the fight,

And, credence for his tale to gain,

Showed the huge fiend by Báli slain.

The prostrate corse of mountain size

Seemed nothing in the hero's eyes;

He lightly kicked it, as it lay,

And cast it twenty leagues away.

To prove his might his arrows through

Seven palms in line, uninjured, flew.

He cleft a mighty hill apart,

And down to hell he hurled his dart.

Then high Sugríva's spirit rose,

Assured of conquest o'er his foes.

With his new champion by his side

To vast Kishkindhá's cave he hied.

Then, summoned by his awful shout,

King Báli came in fury out,

First comforted his trembling wife,

Then sought Sugríva in the strife.

One shaft from Ráma's deadly bow

The monarch in the dust laid low.

Then Ráma bade Sugríva reign

In place of royal Báli slain.

Then speedy envoys hurried forth

Eastward and westward, south and north,

Commanded by the grateful King

Tidings of Ráma's spouse to bring.

Then by Sampáti's counsel led,

Brave Hanumán, who mocked at dread,

Sprang at one wild tremendous leap

Two hundred leagues, across the deep.

To Lanká's[32] town he urged his way,

Where Rávan held his royal sway.

There pensive 'neath Aśoka boughs

He found poor Sítá, Ráma's spouse.

He gave the hapless girl a ring,

A token from her lord and King.

A pledge from her fair hand he bore;

Then battered down the garden door.

Five captains of the host he slew,

Seven sons of councillors o'erthrew;

Crushed youthful Aksha on the field,

Then to his captors chose to yield.

Soon from their bonds his limbs were free,

But honoring the high decree

Which Brahmá had pronounced of yore,

He calmly all their insults bore.

The town he burnt with hostile flame,

And spoke again with Ráma's dame,

Then swiftly back to Ráma flew

With tidings of the interview.

Then with Sugríva for his guide,

Came Ráma to the ocean side.

He smote the sea with shafts as bright

As sunbeams in their summer height,

And quick appeared the River's King

Obedient to the summoning.

A bridge was thrown by Nala o'er

The narrow sea from shore to shore.

They crossed to Lanká's golden town,

Where Ráma's hand smote Rávan down.

Vibhíshan there was left to reign

Over his brother's wide domain.

To meet her husband Sítá came;

But Ráma, stung with ire and shame,

With bitter words his wife addressed

Before the crowd that round her pressed.

But Sítá, touched with noble ire,

Gave her fair body to the fire.

Then straight the God of Wind appeared,

And words from heaven her honor cleared.

And Ráma clasped his wife again,

Uninjured, pure from spot and stain,

Obedient to the Lord of Fire

And the high mandate of his sire.

Led by the Lord who rules the sky,

The Gods and heavenly saints drew nigh,

And honored him with worthy meed,

Rejoicing in each glorious deed.

His task achieved, his foe removed,

He triumphed, by the Gods approved.

By grace of Heaven he raised to life

The chieftains slain in mortal strife;

Then in the magic chariot through

The clouds to Nandigráma flew.

Met by his faithful brothers there,

He loosed his votive coil of hair;

Thence fair Ayodhyá's town he gained,

And o'er his father's kingdom reigned.

Disease or famine ne'er oppressed

His happy people, richly blest

With all the joys of ample wealth,

Of sweet content and perfect health.

No widow mourned her well-loved mate,

No sire his son's untimely fate.

They feared not storm or robber's hand,

No fire or flood laid waste the land:

The Golden Age seemed come again

To bless the days of Ráma's reign.

From him the great and glorious King,

Shall many a princely scion spring.

And he shall rule, beloved by men,

Ten thousand years and hundreds ten,

And when his life on earth is past

To Brahmá's world shall go at last.

Whoe'er this noble poem reads

That tells the tale of Ráma's deeds,

Good as the Scriptures, he shall be

From every sin and blemish free.

Whoever reads the saving strain,

With all his kin the heavens shall gain.

Bráhmans who read shall gather hence

The highest praise for eloquence.

The warrior, o'er the land shall reign,

The merchant, luck in trade obtain;

And Súdras, listening, ne'er shall fail

To reap advantage from the tale.

[_Cantos II., III., IV., and V. are omitted_.]

[32] Ceylon.

Hindu literature : Comprising The Book of good counsels, Nala and Damayanti, The Ramayana, and Sakoontala · 第 1 / 39 章