And after he had left his son, wife, and daughter there, he returned

that very night to the palace-gate of the king, and stood there as

before. King Súdraka, for his part, who had beheld all unobserved,

again went up to the roof of his palace. And he cried out from the

roof, "Who is in attendance at the palace-gate?" Then Víravara said,

"I myself am in waiting here, your Majesty. And in accordance with

your orders I went in search of that woman, but she disappeared

somewhere as soon as seen, like a Rákshasí." When the king heard

the speech of that Víravara, he was very much astonished, as he had

himself seen what took place, and he said to himself, "Indeed people

of noble spirit are deep and self-contained of soul as the sea, for

when they have performed an unparalleled exploit, they do not utter

any description of it." Thus reflecting, the king silently descended

from the roof of the palace, and entered his private apartments,

and there spent the rest of the night.

And the next morning, Víravara came to present himself at the time

of audience, and then the delighted king related to the ministers all

that Víravara had gone through during the night, so that they were all,

as it were, thunderstruck with wonder. Then the king gave to Víravara

and his son the sovereignty over the provinces of Láta and Karnáta,

as a token of his regard. Then the two kings, Víravara and Súdraka,

being equal in power, lived happily in the interchange of mutual

good offices.

When the Vetála had told this exceedingly wonderful story, he went

on to say to king Trivikramasena, "So tell me, king, who was the

bravest of all these, and if you know and do not tell, the curse,

which I before mentioned, shall descend upon you."

When the king heard this, he answered the Vetála, "King Súdraka was the

greatest hero of them all." Then the Vetála said, "Was not Víravara

greater, for his equal is not found on this earth? And was not his

wife braver, who, though a mother, endured to witness with her own eyes

the offering up of her son as a victim? And was not his son Sattvavara

braver, who, though a mere child, displayed such preëminent courage? So

why do you say that king Súdraka was more heroic than these?"

When the Vetála said this, the king answered him, "Do not say

so! Víravara was a man of high birth, one in whose family it was a

tradition that life, son, and wife must be sacrificed to protect the

sovereign. And his wife also was of good birth, chaste, worshipping

her husband only, and her chief duty was to follow the path traced

out for her by her husband. And Sattvavara was like them, being their

son; assuredly, such as are the threads, such is the web produced from

them. But Súdraka excelled them all, because he was ready to lay down

his life for those servants, by the sacrifice of whose lives kings

are wont to save their own."

When the Vetála heard that speech from that king, he at once left

his shoulder, and returned invisibly to his former place by his

supernatural power, but the king resolutely set out on his former

path in that cemetery at night to bring him back again.

NOTE.

For the story of Víravara, see Vol. I, pp. 253 and 519. Oesterley

refers us to Benfey's Panchatantra, Vol. I, p. 414, where it is shown

to be based upon the Asadrisa Játaka of Buddha. The story is found in

the Persian Tútínámah, No 21, (in Iken, p. 89,) in a form resembling

that in the Hitopadesa. But there is another form which is No. 2

in the same work of Kaderi and found in the older Tútínámah, (p. 17

in Iken,) which seems to be based on the Vetála Panchavinsati. This

is also found in the Turkish Tútínámah. Jánbáz saves the life of a

king by the mere determination to sacrifice himself and his whole

family. (Oesterley's Baitál Pachísí, pp. 185-187.) Benfey refers us

to No. 39 in Basile's Pentamerone, [Liebrecht's German translation,

Vol. II, pp. 116-134,] and to No. 6 in Grimm's Kinder-Märchen.

CHAPTER LXXIX.

(Vetála 5.)

Then king Trivikramasena went back again to that asoka-tree, and

saw the Vetála in the corpse again hanging on it as before, and took

him down, and after showing much displeasure with him, set out again

rapidly towards his goal. And as he was returning along his way, in

silence as before, through the great cemetery by night, the Vetála

on his shoulder said to him, "King, you have embarked on a toilsome

undertaking, and I liked you from the moment I first saw you, so

listen, I will tell you a tale to divert your mind."

Story of Somaprabhá and her three suitors.

In Ujjayiní there lived an excellent Bráhman, the dear dependent

and minister of king Punyasena, and his name was Harisvámin. That

householder had by his wife, who was his equal in birth, an excellent

son like himself, Devasvámin by name. And he also had born to

him a daughter, famed for her matchless beauty, rightly named

Somaprabhá. [298] When the time came for that girl to be given away

in marriage, as she was proud of her exceeding beauty, she made her

mother give the following message to her father and brother, "I am

to be given in marriage to a man possessed of heroism, or knowledge,

or magic power; [299] you must not give me in marriage to any other,

if you value my life."

When her father Harisvámin heard this, he was full of anxiety,

trying to find for her a husband coming under one of these three

categories. And while so engaged, he was sent as ambassador by king

Punyasena to negotiate a treaty with a king of the Dekkan, who had come

to invade him. And when he had accomplished the object, for which he

was sent, a noble Bráhman, who had heard of the great beauty of his

daughter, came and asked him for her hand. Harisvámin said to the

Bráhman suitor, "My daughter will not have any husband who does not

possess either valour, knowledge, or magic power; so tell me which

of the three you possess." When Harisvámin said this to the Bráhman

suitor, he answered, "I possess magic power." Thereupon Harisvámin

rejoined, "Then shew me your magic power." So that possessor of

supernatural power immediately prepared by his skill a chariot that

would fly through the air. And in a moment he took Harisvámin up in

that magic chariot, and shewed him heaven and all the worlds. And he

brought him back delighted to that very camp of the king of the Dekkan,

to which he had been sent on business. Then Harisvámin promised his

daughter to that man possessed of magic power, and fixed the marriage

for the seventh day from that time.

And in the meanwhile another Bráhman, in Ujjayiní, came and asked

Harisvámin's son Devasvámin for the hand of his sister. Devasvámin

answered, "She does not wish to have a husband who is not possessed of

either knowledge, or magic power, or heroism." Thereupon he declared

himself to be a hero. And when the hero displayed his skill in the use

of missiles and hand-to-hand weapons, Devasvámin promised to give him

his sister, who was younger than himself. And by the advice of the

astrologers he told him, as his father had told the other suitor,

that the marriage should take place on that very same seventh day,

and this decision he came to without the knowledge of his mother.

At that very same time a third person came to his mother, the wife of

Harisvámin, and asked her privately for the hand of her daughter. She

said to him, "Our daughter requires a husband who possesses either

knowledge, or heroism, or magic power;" and he answered, "Mother,

I possess knowledge." And she, after questioning him about the past

and the future, promised to give the hand of her daughter to that

possessor of supernatural knowledge on that same seventh day.

The next day Harisvámin returned home, and told his wife and his son

the agreement he had made to give away his daughter in marriage;

and they told him separately the promises that they had made; and

that made him feel anxious, as three bridegrooms had been invited.

Then, on the wedding-day, three bridegrooms arrived in Harisvámin's

house, the man of knowledge, the man of magic power, and the man of

valour. And at that moment a strange thing took place: the intended

bride, the maiden Somaprabhá, was found to have disappeared in some

inexplicable manner, and though searched for, was not found. Then

Harisvámin said eagerly to the possessor of knowledge; "Man of

knowledge, now tell me quickly where my daughter is gone." When the

possessor of knowledge heard that, he said, "The Rákshasa Dhúmrasikha

has carried her off to his own habitation in the Vindhya forest." When

the man of knowledge said this to Harisvámin, he was terrified and

said, "Alas! Alas! How are we to get her back, and how is she to

be married?" When the possessor of magic power heard that, he said,

"Be of good cheer! I will take you in a moment to the place where the

possessor of knowledge says that she is." After he had said this,

he prepared, as before, a chariot that would fly through the air,

provided with all kinds of weapons, and made Harisvámin, and the

man of knowledge, and the brave man get into it, and in a moment he

carried them to the habitation of the Rákshasa in the Vindhya forest,

which had been described by the man of knowledge. The Rákshasa, when

he saw what had happened, rushed out in a passion, and then the hero,

who was put forward by Harisvámin, challenged him to fight. Then

a wonderful fight took place between that man and that Rákshasa,

who were contending for a woman with various kinds of weapons, like

Ráma and Rávana. And in a short time the hero cut off the head of

that Rákshasa with a crescent-headed arrow, though he was a doughty

champion. When the Rákshasa was slain, they carried off Somaprabhá

whom they found in his house, and they all returned in the chariot

of the suitor who possessed magic power.

When they had reached Harisvámin's house, the marriage did not go

forward, though the auspicious moment had arrived, but a great dispute

arose between the man of knowledge, the man of magic power, and the man

of valour. The man of knowledge said, "If I had not known where this

maiden was, how would she have been discovered when concealed?--So

she ought to be given to me." But the man of magic power said,

"If I had not made this chariot that can fly through the air, how

could you all have gone and returned in a moment like gods? And

how could you, without a chariot, have fought with a Rákshasa,

who possessed a chariot? So you ought to give her to me for I have

secured by my skill this auspicious moment." The brave man said,

"If I had not slain the Rákshasa in fight, who would have brought

this maiden back here in spite of all your exertions? So she must be

given to me." While they went on wrangling in this style, Harisvámin

remained for a moment silent, being perplexed in mind.

"So tell me, king, to whom she ought to have been given, and

if you know and do not say, your head shall split asunder." When

Trivikramasena heard this from the Vetála, he abandoned his silence,

and said to him; "She ought to be given to the brave man; for he won

her by the might of his arms, at the risk of his life, slaying that

Rákshasa in combat. But the man of knowledge and the man of magic power

were appointed by the Creator to serve as his instruments; are not

calculators and artificers always subordinate assistants to others?"

When the Vetála heard this answer of the king's, he left his seat on

the top of his shoulder, and went, as before, to his own place; and

the king again set out to find him, without being in the slightest

degree discomposed.

NOTE.

The above story bears a slight resemblance to No. 71 in Grimm's

Kinder- und Hausmärchen, Sechse kommen durch die ganze Welt; see

the note in the 3rd volume of the third edition, page 120. Cp. also

the 74th story in Laura Gonzenbach's Sicilianische Märchen, Part II,

page 96, and the 45th story in the same book, Part I, p. 305, with

Köhler's notes. The 9th story in Sagas from the Far East, p. 105, is

no doubt the Mongolian form of the tale in our text. It bears a very

strong resemblance to the 47th tale in the Pentamerone of Basile,

(see Liebrecht's translation, Vol. II, p. 212,) and to Das weise

Urtheil in Waldau's Böhmische Märchen. In this tale there are three

rival brothers; one has a magic mirror, another a magic chariot,

a third three magic apples. The first finds out that the lady is

desperately ill, the second takes himself and his rivals to her, the

third raises her to life. An old man decides that the third should

have her, as his apples were consumed as medicine, while the other two

have still their chariot and mirror respectively. Oesterley refers us

to Benfey's articles in Ausland, 1858, pp. 969, 995, 1017, 1038, 1067,

in which this story is treated in a masterly and exhaustive manner. He

compares a story in the Siddhikür, No. 1, p. 55, in Jülg's version,

which seems to be the one above referred to in Sagas from the Far

East. The 22nd story in the Persian Tútínámah (Iken, p. 93,) which

is found with little variation in the Turkish Tútínámah (Rosen, II,

p. 165,) closely resembles the story in our text. The only difference

is that a magic horse does duty for a magic chariot, and the lady is

carried away by fairies. There is a story in the Tútínámah which seems

to be made up of No. 2, No. 5 and No. 21 in this collection. [No. 22,

in Somadeva.] It is No. 4 in the Persian Tútínámah, (Iken, p. 37,)

and is also found in the Turkish version, (Rosen I, p. 151.) The

lady is the work of four companions. A carpenter hews a figure out

of wood, a goldsmith adorns it with gems, a tailor clothes it, and

a monk animates it with life. They quarrel about her, and lay the

matter before a Dervish. He avows that he is her husband. The head of

the police does the same, and the Kazi, to whom it is then referred,

takes the same line. At last the matter is referred to a divinity,

and the lady is again reduced to wood. This form is the exaggeration

of a story in Ardschi Bordschi translated by Benfey in Ausland, 1858,

p. 845, (cp. Göttinger gel. Anz. 1858, p. 1517, Benfey's Panchatantra,

Vol. I, p. 490 and ff.) A shepherd boy hews a female figure out of

wood, a second paints her, a third improves her [by giving her wit and

understanding, according to Sagas from the Far East,] a fourth gives

her life. Naran Dákiní awards her to the last. (Oesterley's Baitál

Pachísí, pp. 192-194). The story in Ardschi Bordschi will be found

in Sagas from the Far East, pp. 298-303. The story which Oesterley

quotes from the Tútínámah is still found in Bannu, as appears from a

review of Mr. Thorburn's book in Melusine (1878), p. 179. The reviewer,

M. Loys Brueyre, tells us that it is found in the Bohemian tales of

Erben under the title, Wisdom and Fortune.

CHAPTER LXXX.

(Vetála 6.)

Then king Trivikramasena again went to the asoka-tree, and carried

off from it that Vetála on his shoulder, as before, and began to

return with him swiftly in silence. And on the way the Vetála again

said to him, "King, you are wise and brave, therefore I love you,

so I will tell you an amusing tale, and mark well my question."

Story of the lady who caused her brother and husband to change heads.

There was a king famous on the earth by the name of Yasahketu, and

his capital was a city of the name of Sobhávatí. And in that city

there was a splendid temple of Gaurí, [300] and to the south of it

there was a lake, called Gaurítírtha. And every year, during a feast

on the fourteenth day of the white fortnight of the month Áshádha,

large crowds came there to bathe from every part of the world. [301]

And once there came there to bathe, on that day, a young washerman

of the name of Dhavala, from a village called Brahmasthala. He saw

there the virgin daughter of a man named Suddhapata, a girl called

Madanasundarí, who had come to bathe in the sacred water. [302] His

heart was captivated by that girl who eclipsed the beauty of the

moon, and after he had enquired her name and family, he went home

love-smitten. There he remained fasting and restless without her,

but when his mother asked him the cause, he told her the truth about

his desire. [303] She went and told her husband Vimala, and when he

came, and saw his son in that state, he said to him, "Why are you so

despondent, my son, about an object so easily attained? Suddhapata

will give you his daughter, if I ask him. For we are equal to him

in family, wealth, and occupation; I know him and he knows me;

so this is not a difficult matter for me to arrange." With these

words Vimala comforted his son, and induced him to take food, and

other refreshments, and the next day he went with him to the house

of Suddhapata. And there he asked his daughter in marriage for his

son Dhavala, and Suddhapata courteously promised to give her. And

so, after ascertaining the auspicious moment, he gave his daughter

Madanasundarí, who was of equal birth with Dhavala, in marriage to

him the next day. And after Dhavala had been married, he returned

a happy man to his father's house, together with his wife, who had

fallen in love with him at first sight.

And one day, while he was living there in happiness, his

father-in-law's son, the brother of Madanasundarí, came there. All

received him courteously, [304] and his sister embraced him and

welcomed him, and his connections asked him how he was, and at last,

after he had rested, he said to them, "I have been sent here by my

father, to invite Madanasundarí and his son-in-law, since we are

engaged in a festival in honour of the goddess Durgá." And all his

connections and their family approved his speech, and entertained

him that day with appropriate meats and drinks.

Early the next day Dhavala set out for his father-in-law's house,

with Madanasundarí and his brother-in-law. And he reached with his

two companions the city of Sobhávatí, and he saw the great temple

of Durgá, when he arrived near it; and then he said to his wife

and brother-in-law, in a fit of pious devotion, "Come and let us

visit the shrine of this awful goddess." When the brother-in-law

heard this, he said to him, in order to dissuade him, "How can so

many of us approach the goddess empty-handed?" Then Dhavala said,

"Let me go alone, and you can wait outside." When he had said this,

he went off to pay his respects to the goddess.

When he had entered her temple, and had worshipped, and had meditated

upon that goddess, who with her eighteen mighty arms had smitten

terrible Dánavas, and who had flung under the lotus of her foot and

trampled to pieces the Asura Mahisha, a train of pious reflection

was produced in his mind by the impulse of Destiny, and he said to

himself, "People worship this goddess with various sacrifices of

living creatures, so why should not I, to obtain salvation, appease

her with the sacrifice of myself?" After he had said this to himself,

he took from her inner shrine, which was empty of worshippers, a

sword which had been long ago offered to her by some pilgrims, and,

after fastening his own head by his hair to the chain of the bell,

he cut it off with the sword, and when cut off, it fell on the ground.

And his brother-in-law, after waiting a long time, without his having

returned, went into that very temple of the goddess to look for

him. But when he saw his sister's husband lying there decapitated,

he also was bewildered, and he cut off his head in the same way with

that very same sword.

And when he too did not return, Madanasundarí was distracted in mind,

and then she too entered the temple of the goddess. And when she

had gone in, and seen her husband and her brother in such a state,

she fell on the ground, exclaiming, "Alas! what is the meaning of

this? I am ruined." And soon she rose up, and lamented those two

that had been so unexpectedly slain, and said to herself, "Of what

use is this life of mine to me now?" and being eager to abandon the

body, she said to that goddess, "O thou that art the chief divinity

presiding over blessedness, chastity, and holy rule, though occupying

half the body of thy husband Siva, [305] thou that art the fitting

refuge of all women, that takest away grief, why hast thou robbed

me at once of my brother and my husband? This is not fitting on thy

part towards me, for I have ever been a faithful votary of thine. So

hear one piteous appeal from me who fly to thee for protection. I

am now about to abandon this body which is afflicted with calamity,

but grant that in all my future births, whatever they may be, these

two men may be my husband and brother."

In these words she praised and supplicated the goddess, and bowed

before her again, and then she made a noose of a creeper and fastened

it to an asoka-tree. And while she was stretching out her neck, and

putting it into the noose, the following words resounded from the

expanse of air: "Do not act rashly, my daughter! I am pleased with

the exceeding courage which thou hast displayed, though a mere girl;

let this noose be, but join the heads of thy husband and thy brother

to their bodies, and by virtue of my favour they shall both rise up

alive." [306]

When the girl Madanasundarí heard this, she let the noose drop,

and went up to the corpses in great delight, but being confused, and

not seeing in her excessive eagerness what she was doing, she stuck,

as fate would have it, her husband's head on to her brother's trunk,

and her brother's head on to her husband's trunk, and then they both

rose up alive, with limbs free from wound, but from their heads having

been exchanged their bodies had become mixed together. [307]

Then they told one another what had befallen them, and were happy,

and after they had worshipped the goddess Durgá, the three continued

their journey. But Madanasundarí, as she was going along, saw that

she had changed their heads, and she was bewildered and puzzled as

to what course to take.

"So tell me, king, which of the two people, thus mixed together, was

her husband; and if you know and do not tell, the curse previously

denounced shall fall on you!" When king Trivikramasena heard this

tale and this question from the Vetála, he answered him as follows:

"That one of the two, on whom her husband's head was fixed, was her

husband, for the head is the chief of the limbs, and personal identity

depends upon it." When the king had said this, the Vetála again left

his shoulder unperceived, and the king again set out to fetch him.

NOTE.

Oesterley remarks that the Hindi version of this story has been

translated into French by Garcin de Tassy in the Journal des Savants,

1836, p. 415, and by Lancereau in the Journal Asiatique, Ser. 4,

Tom. 19, pp. 390-395. In the Tútínámah, (Persian, No. 24, in Iken,

No. 102; Turkish, Rosen, II, p. 169) the washerman is replaced by

an Indian prince, his friend by a priest, and the rest is the same

as in our text. That Goethe took that part of his Legende, which is

based on this tale, from Iken's translation, has been shewn by Benfey

in Orient und Occident, Vol. I, p. 719. (Oesterley's Baitál Pachísí,

pp. 195, 196.)

CHAPTER LXXXI.

Then king Trivikramasena went back to the asoka-tree, and again found

the Vetála there, and took him on his shoulder. As he was going along

with him, the Vetála said to him on the way, "King, listen to me,

I will tell you a story to make you forget your fatigue."

Story of the king who married his dependent to the Nereid.

There is a city on the shore of the eastern sea, named Támraliptí;

in that city there was a king of the name of Chandasinha; he turned

away his face from the wives of others, but not from battle-fields;

he carried off the fortune of his foes, but not the wealth of his

neighbours.

Once on a time a popular Rájpút of the Dekkan, named Sattvasíla, came

to the palace-gate of that king. And he announced himself, and then,

on account of his poverty, he and some other Rájpúts tore a ragged

garment in the presence of that king. Thus he became a dependent,

[308] and remained there for many years perpetually serving the king,

but he never received any reward from him. And he said to himself, "If

I have been born in a royal race, why am I so poor? And considering my

poverty is so great, why did the Creator make my ambition so vast? For

though I serve the king so diligently, and my followers are sorely

afflicted, and I have long been pining with hunger, he has never,

up to the present time, deigned to notice me."

While such were the reflections of the dependent, the king one day went

out to hunt. And he went, surrounded with horses and footmen, to the

forest of wild beasts, while his dependent ran in front of him bearing

a stick. And after he had hunted for some time, he followed up closely

a boar that had escaped, and soon he reached another distant wood. And

in that vast jungle, where the path was obscured with leaves and grass,

the king lost the boar, and he became exhausted, and was unable to find

his way. And the dependent was the only one that kept up with him,

running on foot, regardless of his own life, tortured with hunger

and thirst, though the king was mounted upon a horse swift as the

wind. And the king, when he saw that the dependent had followed him,

in spite of his being in such a condition, said to him in a kind voice,

"Do you know the way by which we came?" When the dependent heard that,

he put his hands together in an attitude of supplication, and said,

"I do know it, but let my lord rest here for some time. For the sun,

which is the centre-jewel of the girdle of the sky-bride, is now

burning fiercely with all its rays flickering forth." When the king

heard this, he said to him graciously, "Then see if you can find water

anywhere here." The dependent said, "I will," and he climbed up a

high tree, and saw a river, and then he came down again, and led the

king to it. And he took the saddle off his horse, and let him roll,

and gave him water and mouthfuls of grass, and so refreshed him. And

when the king had bathed, he brought out of a corner of his garment

delicious [309] ámalaka fruits, and washed them, and gave them to

him. And when the king asked where he got them, he said to him kneeling

with the ámalakas in his hand, "Ten years have now passed since I,

living continually on these fruits, have been performing, in order

to propitiate my sovereign, the vow of a hermit that does not dwell

in solitude." When the king heard that, he answered him, "It cannot

be denied that you are rightly named Sattvasíla." And being filled

with compassion and shame, he said to himself; "Fie on kings who do

not see who among their servants is comfortable or miserable, and fie

on their courtiers who do not inform them of such matters!" Such were

the king's thoughts, but he was at last induced by the importunity of

the dependent to take two ámalakas from him. And after eating them and

drinking water, he rested for a while in the company of the dependent,

having satiated his hunger and thirst on fruits and water.

Then his dependent got his horse ready, and he mounted it, and the

dependent went in front of him to shew him the way, but however

much the king entreated him, he would not get up on the horse behind

him, and so the king returned to his own city, meeting his army on

the way. There he proclaimed the devotion of the dependent, and he

loaded him with wealth and territories, and did not consider even

then that he had recompensed him as he deserved. Then Sattvasíla

became a prosperous man, and discarding the life of a dependent,

he remained henceforth about the person of king Chandasinha.

And one day the king sent him to the island of Ceylon, to demand

for him the hand of the king's daughter. He had to go there by sea;

so he worshipped his patron divinity, and went on board a ship with

the Bráhmans, whom the king appointed to accompany him. And when the

ship had gone half-way, there suddenly rose from the sea a banner

that excited the wonder of all in the ship. It was so lofty that

its top touched the clouds, it was made of gold, and emblazoned

like a waving flag of various hues. And at that very moment a bank

of clouds suddenly arose, and began to pour down rain, and a mighty

wind blew. And the ship was forced on to that flag by the rain and

the wind, and thus fastened to it, as elephant-drivers force on an

elephant and bind him to a post. And then the flag began to sink with

the ship in the billowy sea.

And then the Bráhmans in the ship, distracted with fear, called on

their king Chandasinha, crying out for help. And when Sattvasíla heard

their cries, so great was his devotion to his master that he could not

restrain himself, but with his sword in his hand, and his upper garment

girded round him, the brave fellow daringly plunged into the billows,

following the flag, in order to counteract the violence of the sea,

not suspecting the real cause. And as soon as he had plunged in,

that ship was carried to a distance by the wind and waves, and all

the people, who were in it, fell into the mouths of the sea-monsters.

And when Sattvasíla, who had fallen into the sea, began to look

about him, he found that he was in a splendid city, [310] but he

could not see the sea anywhere. That city glittered with palaces of

gold supported on pillars of jewels, and was adorned with gardens in

which were tanks with steps of precious gems, and in it he beheld the

temple of Durgá, lofty as mount Meru, with many walls of costly stone,

and with a soaring banner studded with jewels. There he prostrated

himself before the goddess, and praised her with a hymn, and sat down

wondering whether it was all the effect of enchantment.

And in the meanwhile a heavenly maiden suddenly opened a door,

and issued from a bright enclosure in front of the temple of the

goddess. Her eyes were like blue lotuses, her face full-blown,

her smile like a flower, her body was soft like the taper fibre of

a water-lily's root, so that she resembled a moving lotus-lake. And

waited on by a thousand ladies, she entered the inner shrine of the

goddess and the heart of Sattvasíla at the same time. And after she

had worshipped, she left the inner shrine of the goddess, but nothing

would make her leave the heart of Sattvasíla. And she entered once

more into the shining enclosure, and Sattvasíla entered after her.

And when he had entered, he beheld another splendid city, which seemed

like a garden where all the enjoyments of the world had agreed to

meet. In it Sattvasíla saw that maiden sitting on a couch studded

with gems, and he went up to her, and sat down by her side. And he

remained with his eyes fixed on her face, like a man in a painting,

expressing his passion by his trembling limbs, the hairs on which

stood erect. And when she saw that he was enamoured of her, she

looked at the faces of her attendants, and then they, understanding

the expression of her face, said to him, "You have arrived here as

a guest, so enjoy the hospitality provided by our mistress, rise up,

bathe, and then take food." When he heard that, he entertained some

hope, and he rose up, though not without a struggle, and he went to

a tank in the garden which they shewed him. And the moment that he

plunged into it, he rose up, to his astonishment, in the middle of a

tank in the garden of king Chandasinha in Támraliptí. [311] And seeing

himself suddenly arrived there, he said to himself, "Alas! what is the

meaning of this? Now I am in this garden, and a moment ago I was in

that splendid city; I have exchanged in an instant the nectarous vision

of that fair one for the grievous poison of separation from her. But

it was not a dream, for I saw it all clearly in a waking state. It

is clear that I was beguiled like a fool by those maidens of Pátála."

Thus reflecting, he wandered about in that garden like a madman,

being deprived of that maiden, and wept in the anguish of disappointed

passion. And the gardeners, when they beheld him in that state, with

body covered with the yellow pollen of flowers wafted by the wind,

as if with the fires of separation, went and told king Chandasinha,

and he, being bewildered, came himself and saw him; and after calming

him, he said to him, "Tell me, my friend; what is the meaning of all

this? You set out for one place and reached another, your arrows have

not struck the mark at which they were aimed." When Sattvasíla heard

that, he told the king all his adventures, and he, when he heard them,

said to himself, "Strange to say, though this man is a hero, he has,

happily for me, [312] been beguiled by love, and I now have it in my

power to discharge my debt of gratitude to him." So the brave king said

to him, "Abandon now your needless grief, for I will conduct you by

the same course into the presence of that beloved Asura maiden." With

these words the king comforted him, and refreshed him with a bath

and other restoratives.

The next day the king entrusted the kingdom to his ministers,

and embarking on a ship, set out on the sea with Sattvasíla, who

shewed him the way. And when they had got to that half-way spot,

Sattvasíla saw the wonderful flagstaff rising out of the sea with

the banner on it, as before, and he said to the king, "Here is that

great flagstaff with such wonderful properties, towering aloft out of

the sea: I must plunge in here, and then the king must plunge in also

and dive down after the flagstaff." After Sattvasíla had said this,

they got near the flagstaff, and it began to sink. And Sattvasíla

first threw himself in after it, and then the king also dived in

the same direction, and soon after they had plunged in, they reached

that splendid city. And there the king beheld with astonishment and

worshipped that goddess Párvatí, and sat down with Sattvasíla.

And in the meanwhile there issued from that glittering enclosure a

maiden, accompanied by her attendant ladies, looking like the quality

of brightness in concrete form. Sattvasíla said, "This is that fair

one," and the king, beholding her, considered that his attachment to

her was amply justified. She, for her part, when she beheld that king

with all the auspicious bodily marks, said to herself, "Who can this

exceedingly distinguished man be?" And so she went into the temple of

Durgá to pray, and the king contemptuously went off to the garden,

taking Sattvasíla with him. And in a short time the Daitya maiden

came out from the inner shrine of the goddess, having finished her

devotions, and having prayed that she might obtain a good husband;

and after she had come out, she said to one of her attendants,

"My friend, go and see where that distinguished man is whom I saw;

and entreat him to do us the favour of coming and accepting our

hospitality, for he is some great hero deserving special honour." When

the attendant had received this order, she went and looked for him,

and bending low, delivered to him in the garden the message of her

mistress. Then the heroic king answered in a carelessly negligent

tone, "This garden is sufficient entertainment for me: what other

entertainment do I require?" When that attendant came and reported

this answer to the Daitya maiden, she considered that the king was

a man of a noble spirit and deserving of the highest regard.

And then the Asura maiden, (being, as it were, drawn towards himself

with the cord of his self-command by the king, who shewed a lofty

indifference for hospitality far above mortal desert,) went in person

to the garden, thinking that he had been sent her by way of a husband,

as a fruit of her adoration of Durgá. And the trees seemed to honour

her, as she approached, with the songs of various birds, with their

creepers bending in the wind like arms, and showers of blossoms. And

she approached the king and bowing courteously before him, entreated

him to accept of her hospitality. Then the king pointed to Sattvasíla,

and said to her, "I came here to worship the image of the goddess of

which this man told me. I have reached her marvellous temple, guided

to it by the banner, and have seen the goddess, and after that, you;

what other hospitality do I require?" When the maiden heard that, she

said, "Then come, out of curiosity, to see my second city, which is

the wonder of the three worlds." When she said this, the king laughed

and said, "Oh! he told me of this also, the place where there is the

tank to bathe in." Then the maiden said, "King, do not speak thus,

I am not of a deceitful disposition, and who would think of cheating

one so worthy of respect? I have been made the slave of you both by

your surpassing excellence; so you ought not thus to reject my offer."

When the king heard this, he consented, and taking Sattvasíla with

him, he accompanied the maiden to that glittering enclosure. And the

door of it was opened, and she conducted him in, and then he beheld

that other splendid city of hers. The trees in it were ever producing

flowers and fruits, for all seasons were present there at the same

time; [313] and the city was all composed of gold and jewels like the

peak of mount Meru. And the Daitya maiden made the king sit down on

a priceless jewelled throne, and offered him the arghya in due form,

and said to him, "I am the daughter of Kálanemi the high-souled

king of the Asuras, but my father was sent to heaven by Vishnu, the

discus-armed god. And these two cities, which I inherit from my father,

are the work of Visvakarman; they furnish all that heart can wish,

and old age and death never invade them. But now I look upon you as a

father, and I, with my cities, am at your disposal." When she had in

these words placed herself and all that she possessed at the king's

disposal, he said to her, "If this be so, then I give you, excellent

daughter, to another, to the hero Sattvasíla, who is my friend and

relation." When the king, who seemed to be the favour of the goddess

Durgá in bodily form, said this, the maiden, who understood excellence

when she saw it, acquiesced submissively. When Sattvasíla had attained

the wish of his heart by marrying that Asura maiden, and had had the

sovereignty of those cities bestowed on him, the king said to him,

"Now I have repaid you for one of those ámalakas which I ate, but

I am still indebted to you for the second, for which I have never

recompensed you." When the king had said this to Sattvasíla, who

bowed before him, he said to that Daitya maiden, "Now shew me the

way to my own city." Then the Daitya maiden gave him a sword named

"Invincible," and a fruit to eat, which was a remedy against old age

and death, and with these he plunged into the tank which she pointed

out, and the next thing that happened to him was, that he rose up in

his own land with all his wishes gratified. And Sattvasíla ruled as

king over the cities of the Daitya princess.

"Now tell me: which of those two shewed most courage in plunging into

the water?" When the Vetála put this question to the king, the latter,

fearing to be cursed, thus answered him; "I consider Sattvasíla the

braver man of the two, for he plunged into the sea without knowing

the real state of the case, and without any hope, but the king knew

what the circumstances were when he plunged in, and had something to

look forward to, and he did not fall in love with the Asura princess,

because he thought no longing would win her." When the Vetála received

this answer from the king, who thereby broke silence, he left his

shoulder, as before, and fled to his place on the asoka-tree. And

the king, as before, followed him quickly to bring him back again;

for the wise never flag in an enterprise which they have begun,

until it is finished.

CHAPTER LXXXII.

(Vetála 8.)

Then king Trivikramasena returned to the asoka-tree, and again caught

the Vetála, and put him on his shoulder, and set out with him. And as

he was going along, the Vetála again said to him from his shoulder,

"King, in order that you may forget your toil, listen to this question

of mine."

Story of the three fastidious men.

There is a great tract of land assigned to Bráhmans in the country of

Anga, called Vrikshaghata. In it there lived a rich sacrificing Bráhman

named Vishnusvámin. And he had a wife equal to himself in birth. And

by her he had three sons born to him, who were distinguished for

preternatural acuteness. In course of time they grew up to be young

men. One day, when he had begun a sacrifice, he sent those three

brothers to the sea to fetch a turtle. So off they went, and when they

had found a turtle, the eldest said to his two brothers,--"Let one

of you take the turtle for our father's sacrifice, I cannot take it,

as it is all slippery with slime." When the eldest brother said this,

the two younger ones answered him, "If you hesitate about taking it,

why should not we?" When the eldest heard that, he said, "You two must

take the turtle; if you do not, you will have obstructed our father's

sacrifice; and then you and he will certainly sink down to hell." When

he told the younger brothers this, they laughed, and said to him,

"If you see our duty so clearly, why do you not see that your own is

the same?" Then the eldest said, "What, do you not know how fastidious

I am? I am very fastidious about eating, and I cannot be expected

to touch what is repulsive." The middle brother, when he heard this

speech of his, said to his brother,--"Then I am a more fastidious

person than you, for I am a most fastidious connoisseur of the fair

sex." When the middle one said this, the eldest went on to say,

"Then let the younger of you two take the turtle!" Then the youngest

brother frowned, and in his turn said to the two elder, "You fools, I

am very fastidious about beds, so I am the most fastidious of the lot."

So the three brothers fell to quarrelling with one another, and being

completely under the dominion of conceit, they left that turtle and

went off immediately to the court of the king of that country, whose

name was Prasenajit, and who lived in a city named Vitankapura, in

order to have the dispute decided. There they had themselves announced

by the warder, and went in, and gave the king a circumstantial account

of their case. The king said, "Wait here, and I will put you all in

turn to the proof:" so they agreed and remained there. And at the

time that the king took his meal, he had them conducted to a seat of

honour, and given delicious food fit for a king, possessing all the

six flavours. And while all were feasting around him, the Bráhman,

who was fastidious about eating, alone of all the company did not

eat, but sat there with his face puckered up with disgust. The king

himself asked the Bráhman why he did not eat his food, though it was

sweet and fragrant, and he slowly answered him, "I perceive in this

cooked rice an evil smell of the reek from corpses, so I cannot bring

myself to eat it, however delicious it may be." When he said this

before the assembled multitude, they all smelled it by the king's

orders, and said, "This food is prepared from white rice and is good

and fragrant." But the Bráhman, who was so fastidious about eating,

would not touch it, but stopped his nose. Then the king reflected, and

proceeded to enquire into the matter, and found out from his officers

[314], that the food had been made from rice which had been grown in

a field near the burning-ghát of a certain village. Then the king

was much astonished, and being pleased, he said to him, "In truth

you are very particular as to what you eat; so eat of some other dish."

And after they had finished their dinner, the king dismissed the

Bráhmans to their apartments, and sent for the loveliest lady of

his court. And in the evening he sent that fair one, all whose limbs

were of faultless beauty, splendidly adorned, to the second Bráhman,

who was so squeamish about the fair sex. And that matchless kindler

of Cupid's flame, with a face like the full moon of midnight, went,

escorted by the king's servants, to the chamber of the Bráhman. But

when she entered, lighting up the chamber with her brightness, that

gentleman, who was so fastidious about the fair sex, felt quite faint,

and stopping his nose with his left hand, said to the king's servants,

"Take her away; if you do not, I am a dead man, a smell comes from

her like that of a goat." When the king's servants heard this,

they took the bewildered fair one to their sovereign, and told him

what had taken place. And the king immediately had the squeamish

gentleman sent for, and said to him, "How can this lovely woman,

who has perfumed herself with sandal-wood, camphor, black aloes,

and other splendid scents, so that she diffuses exquisite fragrance

through the whole world, smell like a goat?" But though the king used

this argument with the squeamish gentleman, he stuck to his point;

and then the king began to have his doubts on the subject, and at last

by artfully framed questions he elicited from the lady herself, that,

having been separated in her childhood from her mother and nurse,

she had been brought up on goat's milk.

Then the king was much astonished, and praised highly the discernment

of the man who was fastidious about the fair sex, and immediately had

given to the third Bráhman who was fastidious about beds, in accordance

with his taste, a bed composed of seven mattresses placed upon a

bedstead. White smooth sheets and coverlets were laid upon the bed,

and the fastidious man slept on it in a splendid room. But, before

half a watch of the night had passed, he rose up from that bed, with

his hand pressed to his side, screaming in an agony of pain. And the

king's officers, who were there, saw a red crooked mark on his side,

as if a hair had been pressed deep into it. And they went and told

the king, and the king said to them, "Look and see if there is not

something under the mattresses." So they went and examined the bottom

of the mattresses one by one, and they found a hair in the middle of

the bedstead underneath them all. And they took it and shewed it to

the king, and they also brought the man who was fastidious about beds,

and when the king saw the state of his body, he was astonished. And

he spent the whole night in wondering how a hair could have made so

deep an impression on his skin through seven mattresses.

And the next morning the king gave three hundred thousand gold pieces

to those three fastidious men, because they were persons of wonderful

discernment and refinement. And they remained in great comfort in

the king's court, forgetting all about the turtle, and little did

they reck of the fact that they had incurred sin by obstructing their

father's sacrifice.

When the Vetála, seated on the shoulder of the king, had told him

this wonderful tale, he again asked him a question in the following

words, "King, remember the curse I previously denounced, and tell me

which was the most fastidious of these three, who were respectively

fastidious about eating, the fair sex, and beds?" When the wise king

heard this, he gave the Vetála the following answer, "I consider the

man who was fastidious about beds, in whose case imposition was out of

the question, the most fastidious of the three, for the mark produced

by the hair was seen conspicuously manifest on his body, whereas the

other two may have previously acquired their information from some

one else." When the king said this, the Vetála left his shoulder,

as before, and the king again went in quest of him, as before,

without being at all depressed.

NOTE.

The above story resembles No. 2, in the Cento Novelle Antiche, and one

in the Addition to the Arabian tales published by Mr. Scott. (Dunlop's

History of Fiction, Vol. I, p. 415; Liebrecht's translation, p. 212

and note 282.) See also Liebrecht, Zur Volkskunde, p. 203. In the

Cento Novelle Antiche a prisoner informs the king of Greece, that a

horse has been suckled by a she-ass, that a jewel contains a worm,

and that the king himself is the son of a baker.

The incident of the mattress reminds one of the test applied by the

queen to her son's wife in "The Palace that stood on Golden Pillars,"

(Thorpe's Yuletide Stories, p. 64). In order to find out whether her

daughter-in-law is of high birth, she puts first a bean, then peas,

under her pillow. The prince's wife, who is really the daughter of

a peasant, is apprised of the stratagem by her cat, which resembles

Whittington's. Rohde in his Griechische Novellistik, p. 62, compares

a story told by Aelian about the Sybarite Smindyrides, who slept on a

bed of rose-leaves and got up in the morning covered with blisters. He

also quotes from the Chronicle of Tabari a story of a princess who

was made to bleed by a rose-leaf lying in her bed. Oesterley refers

us to Babington's Vetála Cadai, p. 33, and the Chevalier de Mailly's

version of the three Princes of Serendip. The three are sitting at

table, and eating a leg of lamb, sent with some splendid wine from

the table of the Emperor Behram. The eldest maintains that the wine

was made of grapes that grew in a cemetery, the second that the lamb

was brought up on dog's milk, the third says that the emperor had put

to death the vazir's son, and the latter was bent on vengeance. All

three statements turn out to be well-grounded. There are parallel

stories in the 1001 Nights (Breslau). In Night 458 it is similarly

conjectured that the bread was baked by a sick woman, that the kid was

suckled by a bitch, and that the Sultan is illegitimate. In Night 459

a gem-cutter guesses that a jewel has an internal flaw, a man skilled

in the pedigrees of horses divines that a horse is the offspring of a

female buffalo, and a man skilled in human pedigrees that the mother

of the favourite queen was a rope-dancer. Cp. also the decisions of

Hamlet in Saxo Grammaticus, 1839, p. 138, in Simrock's Quellen des

Shakespeare, 1, 81-85; 5, 170; he lays down that some bread tastes

of blood, (the corn was grown on a battle-field), that some liquor

tastes of iron, (the malt was mixed with water taken from a well,

in which some rusty swords had lain), that some bacon tastes of

corpses, (the pig had eaten a corpse), lastly that the king is a

servant and his wife a serving-maid. Oesterley refers also to the

beginning of Donatus' life of Virgil, and to Heraclius Von Otte,

also to the parallels quoted above from Liebrecht. The brother,

who was so fastidious about beds, may be compared with a princess

in Andersen's Tale of "The Princess on a pea," Gesammelte Märchen,

Part III, 8, 62, (Leipzig, 1847). This is identical with a tale found

in Cavallius' Schwedische Volkssagen und Märchen, German version,

Vienna, 1848, p. 222, which resembles No. 182 in the older editions

of Grimm's Kindermärchen. (Andersen's story is clearly the same as

Thorpe's referred to above.) Nearly akin is Diocletian's test in the

Seven Wise Masters. His masters put an ash-leaf under the bed; and he

remarks, "Either the floor has risen, or the roof sunk." (Oesterley,

p. 215.) In the version in Simrock's Deutsche Volksbücher, Vol. XII,

p. 122, it is an ivy-leaf. See also Ellis's Metrical Romances, p. 412.

CHAPTER LXXXIII.

(Vetála 9.)

So king Trivikramasena again went to the asoka-tree, and taking the

Vetála down from it, placed him on his shoulder, and set out. Then

the Vetála said to him; "King, this wandering about in a cemetery at

night is inconsistent with your kingly rank. Do you not see that this

place of the dead [315] is full of ghosts, and terrible at night,

and full of darkness as of the smoke of funeral pyres. Alas! what

tenacity you display in this undertaking you have engaged in, to

please that mendicant! So listen to this question from me which will

render your journey more agreeable."

Story of Anangarati and her four suitors.

There is in Avanti a city built by gods at the beginning of the world,

which is limitless as the body of Siva, and renowned for enjoyment

and prosperity, even as his body is adorned with the snake's hood and

ashes. [316] It was called Padmávatí in the Krita Yuga, Bhogavatí in

the Tretá Yuga, Hiranyavatí in the Dvápara Yuga, and Ujjayiní in the

Kali Yuga. And in it there lived an excellent king, named Víradeva,

and he had a queen named Padmarati. The king went with her to the

bank of the Mandákiní, and propitiated Siva with austerities, in

order to obtain a son. And after he had remained a long time engaged

in austerities, he performed the ceremonies of bathing and praying,

and then he heard this voice from heaven, uttered by Siva, who was

pleased with him, "King, there shall be born to thee a brave son to

be the head of thy family, and a daughter, who with her matchless

beauty shall put to shame the nymphs of heaven." When king Víradeva

had heard this voice from heaven, he returned to his city with his

consort, having gained all he desired.

There he first had a son born to him named Súradeva, and after a

time queen Padmarati gave birth to a daughter. And her father gave

her the name of Anangarati, on the ground that she was beautiful

enough to inspire love in the breast of Cupid. And, when she grew up,

in his desire to procure for her a suitable husband, he had brought

the portraits of all the kings of the earth, painted on canvas. And

as no one of them seemed a match for her, he said to his daughter,

in his tenderness for her; "I cannot find a suitable match for you,

my daughter, so summon all the kings of the earth, and select your

own husband." When the princess heard that, she said to her father,

"My father, I am too modest to select my own husband, but I must

be given in marriage to a good-looking young man, who is a perfect

master of one art; I do not want any other better man."

When the king heard this speech of his daughter Anangarati, he

proceeded to search for a young man, such as she had described, and

while he was thus engaged, there came to him from the Dekkan four

magnificent men, brave and skilful, who had heard from the people

what was going on. Those four suitors for the hand of the princess

were received with respect by the king, and one after another they

told to him in her presence their respective acquirements.

The first said; "I am a Súdra, Panchaphuttika by name; I make every day

five splendid pairs of garments: The first of them I give to my god,

and the second to a Bráhman, the third I retain for my own wearing,

[317] the fourth I should give to my wife, if this maid here were to

become my wife, the fifth I sell, and procure myself meat and drink:

as I possess this art, let Anangarati be given to me."

When he had said this, the second man said, "I am a Vaisya, Bháshájna

by name, I know the speech of all beasts and birds; [318] so let the

princess be given to me."

When the second had said this, the third said, "I am a Kshatriya king,

by name Khadgadhara, renowned for might of arm: my equal in the art

of swordsmanship does not exist upon the earth, so bestow this maiden

on me, O king."

When the third had said this, the fourth said, "I am a Bráhman,

named Jívadatta, and I possess the following art; I can restore to

life dead creatures, and exhibit them alive; [319] so let this maiden

obtain for a husband me, who am renowned for daring exploits."

When they had thus spoken, the king Víradeva, with his daughter

by his side, seeing that they were like gods in shape and dress,

remained lost in doubt.

When the Vetála had told this story, he said to king Trivikramasena,

menacing him with the before-mentioned curse, "So tell me, king,

to which of these four ought the maiden Anangarati to be given?"

When the king heard this, he gave the Vetála the following answer;

"You are thus repeatedly making me break silence simply in order to

waste time; otherwise, master of magic, how could you possibly ask

such an absurd question? How can a woman of Kshatriya caste be given

to a Súdra weaver? Moreover, how can a Kshatriya woman be given to a

Vaisya? And as to the power of understanding the language of beasts

and birds, which he possesses, what is the practical use of it? And

as for the third, the Bráhman, who fancies himself such a hero, of

what worth is he, as he is a sorcerer, and degraded by abandoning the

duties of his caste? Accordingly the maiden should be given to the

fourth suitor, the Kshatriya Khadgadhara, who is of the same caste

and distinguished for his skill and valour."

When the Vetála heard this, he left the king's shoulder, as before,

and quickly returned by the power of his magic to his own place,

and the king again pursued him, as before, to recover him, for

despondency never penetrates into a hero's heart, that is cased in

armour of fortitude.

NOTE.

This story is found on page 498 and ff of Vol. I. It bears a close

resemblance to Tale 5, and many of the parallels there quoted are

applicable to it. In the 47th tale of the Pentamerone of Basile,

the sons boast of their accomplishments in a very similar manner.

CHAPTER LXXXIV.

(Vetála 10.)

Then Trivikramasena went and took the Vetála from the asoka-tree, and

put him on his shoulder once more, and set out; and as he was going

along, the Vetála said from the top of his shoulder, "You are weary,

king, so listen to this tale that is capable of dispelling weariness."

Story of Madanasená and her rash promise.

There was an excellent king of the name of Vírabáhu, who imposed

his orders on the heads of all kings: he had a splendid city named

Anangapura, and in it there lived a rich merchant, named Arthadatta;

that merchant prince had for elder child a son named Dhanadatta,

and his younger child was a pearl of maidens, named Madanasená.

One day, as she was playing with her companions in her own garden,

a young merchant, named Dharmadatta, a friend of her brother's,

saw her. When he saw that maiden, who with the full streams of her

beauty, her breasts like pitchers half-revealed, and three wrinkles

like waves, resembled a lake for the elephant of youth to plunge in

in sport, he was at once robbed of his senses by the arrows of love,

that fell upon him in showers. He thought to himself, "Alas, this

maiden, illuminated with this excessive beauty, has been framed by

Mára, as a keen arrow to cleave asunder my heart." While, engaged in

such reflections, he watched her long, the day passed away for him,

as if he were a chakraváka. Then Madanasená entered her house, and

grief at no longer beholding her entered the breast of Dharmadatta. And

the sun sank red into the western main, as if inflamed with the fire

of grief at seeing her no more. And the moon, that was surpassed by

the lotus of her countenance, knowing that that fair-faced one had

gone in for the night, slowly mounted upward.

In the meanwhile Dharmadatta went home, and thinking upon that

fair one, he remained tossing to and fro on his bed, smitten by

the rays of the moon. And though his friends and relations eagerly

questioned him, he gave them no answer, being bewildered by the demon

of love. And in the course of the night he at length fell asleep,

though with difficulty, and still he seemed to behold and court that

loved one in a dream; to such lengths did his longing carry him. And

in the morning he woke up, and went and saw her once more in that very

garden, alone and in privacy, waiting for her attendant. So he went

up to her, longing to embrace her, and falling at her feet, he tried

to coax her with words tender from affection. But she said to him with

great earnestness, "I am a maiden, betrothed to another, I cannot now

be yours, for my father has bestowed me on the merchant Samudradatta,

and I am to be married in a few days. So depart quietly, let not any

one see you; it might cause mischief." But Dharmadatta said to her,

"Happen what may, I cannot live without you." When the merchant's

daughter heard this, she was afraid that he would use force to her,

so she said to him, "Let my marriage first be celebrated here, let

my father reap the long-desired fruit of bestowing a daughter in

marriage; then I will certainly visit you, for your love has gained

my heart." When he heard this, he said, "I love not a woman that has

been embraced by another man; does the bee delight in a lotus on which

another bee has settled?" When he said this to her, she replied,

"Then I will visit you as soon as I am married, and afterwards I

will go to my husband." But though she made this promise, he would

not let her go without further assurance, so the merchant's daughter

confirmed the truth of her promise with an oath. Then he let her go,

and she entered her house in low spirits.

And when the lucky day had arrived, and the auspicious ceremony of

marriage had taken place, she went to her husband's house and spent

that day in merriment, and then retired with him. But she repelled her

husband's caresses with indifference, and when he began to coax her,

she burst into tears. He thought to himself, "Of a truth she cares

not for me," and said to her, "Fair one, if you do not love me, I do

not want you; go to your darling, whoever he may be." When she heard

this, she said slowly, with downcast face, "I love you more than my

life, but hear what I have to say. Rise up cheerfully, and promise

me immunity from punishment; take an oath to that effect, my husband,

in order that I may tell you."

When she said this, her husband reluctantly consented, and then she

went on to say with shame, despondency, and fear; "A young man of

the name of Dharmadatta, a friend of my brother's, saw me once alone

in our garden, and smitten with love he detained me; and when he was

preparing to use force, I being anxious to secure for my father the

merit of giving a daughter in marriage, and to avoid all scandal, made

this agreement with him; 'When I am married, I will pay you a visit,

before I go to my husband;' so I must now keep my word, permit me,

my husband; I will pay him a visit first, and then return to you,

for I cannot transgress the law of truth which I have observed from my

childhood." When Samudradatta had been thus suddenly smitten by this

speech of hers, as by a down-lighting thunderbolt, being bound by the

necessity of keeping his word, he reflected for a moment as follows;

"Alas! she is in love with another man, she must certainly go; why

should I make her break her word? Let her depart! Why should I be so

eager to have her for a wife?" After he had gone through this train

of thought, he gave her leave to go where she would; and she rose up,

and left her husband's house.

In the meanwhile the cold-rayed moon ascended the great eastern

mountain, as it were the roof of a palace, and the nymph of the

eastern quarter smiled, touched by his finger. Then, though the

darkness was still embracing his beloved herbs in the mountain caves

and the bees were settling on another cluster of kumudas, a certain

thief saw Madanasená, as she was going along alone at night, and

rushing upon her, seized her by the hem of her garment. He said to

her, "Who are you, and where are you going?" When he said this, she,

being afraid, said, "What does that matter to you? Let me go; I have

business here." Then the thief said, "How can I, who am a thief,

let you go?" Hearing that, she replied, "Take my ornaments." The

thief answered her, "What do I care for those gems, fair one? I will

not surrender you, the ornament of the world, with your face like the

moonstone, your hair black like jet, your waist like a diamond, [320]

your limbs like gold, fascinating beholders with your ruby-coloured

feet."

When the thief said this, the helpless merchant's daughter told him

her story, and entreated him as follows, "Excuse me for a moment,

that I may keep my word, and as soon as I have done that, I will

quickly return to you, if you remain here. Believe me, my good man,

I will never break this true promise of mine." When the thief heard

that, he let her go, believing that she was a woman who would keep

her word, and he remained in that very spot, waiting for her return.

She, for her part, went to that merchant Dharmadatta. And when he

saw that she had come to that wood, he asked her how it happened, and

then, though he had longed for her, he said to her, after reflecting

a moment, "I am delighted at your faithfulness to your promise;

what have I to do with you, the wife of another? So go back, as you

came, before any one sees you." When he thus let her go, she said,

"So be it," and leaving that place, she went to the thief, who was

waiting for her in the road. He said to her, "Tell me what befell

you when you arrived at the trysting-place." So she told him how

the merchant let her go. Then the thief said, "Since this is so,

then I also will let you go, being pleased with your truthfulness:

return home with your ornaments!"

So he too let her go, and went with her to guard her, and she returned

to the house of her husband, delighted at having preserved her

honour. There the chaste woman entered secretly, and went delighted

to her husband; and he, when he saw her, questioned her; so she told

him the whole story. And Samudratta, perceiving that his good wife

had kept her word without losing her honour, assumed a bright and

cheerful expression, and welcomed her as a pure-minded woman, who had

not disgraced her family, and lived happily with her ever afterwards.

When the Vetála had told this story in the cemetery to king

Trivikramasena, he went on to say to him; "So tell me, king, which

was the really generous man of those three, the two merchants and

the thief? And if you know and do not tell, your head shall split

into a hundred pieces."

When the Vetála said this, the king broke silence, and said to him,

"Of those three the thief was the only really generous man, and not

either of the two merchants. For of course her husband let her go,

though she was so lovely and he had married her; how could a gentleman

desire to keep a wife that was attached to another? And the other

resigned her because his passion was dulled by time, and he was

afraid that her husband, knowing the facts, would tell the king the

next day. But the thief, a reckless evildoer, working in the dark,

was really generous, to let go a lovely woman, ornaments and all."

When the Vetála heard that, he left the shoulder of the king, and

returned to his own place, as before, and the king, with his great

perseverance no whit dashed, again set out, as before, to bring him.

NOTE.

This story is the same as the 19th of Campbell's West Highland Tales,

The Inheritance, Vol. II, pp. 16-18. Dr. Köhler, (Orient und Occident,

Vol. II, p. 317), compares the Story in the 1,001 Nights of Sultan

Akschid and his three sons. He tells us that it is also found in the

Turkish Tales, called The Forty Vazírs, in the Turkish Tútínámah, and

in Johann Andreæ's Chymische Hochzeit Christiani Rosencreutz. The form

of it best known to the general reader is probably the 5th story in

the Xth day of Boccacio's Decameron. The tale is no doubt originally

Buddhistic, and the king's cynical remarks a later addition. Dunlop

considers that Boccacio's story gave rise to Chaucer's Frankeleyne's

Tale, the 12th Canto of the Orlando Inamorato, and Beaumont and

Fletcher's Triumph of Honour.

CHAPTER LXXXV.

(Vetála 11.)

Then king Trivikramasena again went and took that Vetála from the

asoka-tree and put him on his shoulder, and set out with him; and as

he was going along, the Vetála on his shoulder said to him; "Listen,

king; I will tell you an interesting story."

Story of king Dharmadhvaja and his three very sensitive wives.

There lived of old in Ujjayiní a king of the name of Dharmadhvaja, he

had three wives, who were all daughters of kings, and whom he held very

dear. The first of them was called Indulekhá, the second Tárávalí, and

the third Mrigánkavatí; and they were all possessed of extraordinary

personal charms. And the successful king, who had conquered all his

enemies, lived happily, amusing himself with all those three queens.

Once on a time, when the festival of the spring-season had arrived, he

went with all those three wives to the garden to amuse himself. There

he beheld the creepers weighed down with flowers, looking like

Cupid's bows, with rows of bees for strings, strung for him by the

Spring. And the king, who resembled the mighty Indra, hearing the

notes which the cuckoos uttered on the sprays of the garden-trees,

like the edict of Love, the god of enjoyment, betook himself with his

wives to wine, which is the very life of that intoxication, by which

Cupid lives. And he joyed in drinking the liquor first tasted by them,

perfumed with their sighs, red as their bimba lips.

Then, as Indulekhá was playfully pulling the hair of the king,

a blue lotus leaped from her ear, and fell on her lap. Immediately

a wound was produced on the front of her thigh by the blow, and the

delicate princess exclaimed "Oh! Oh!" and fainted. When the king and

the attendants saw that, they were distracted with grief, but they

gradually brought her round with cold water and fanning. Then the

king took her to the palace, and had a bandage applied to the wound,

and treated her with preparations made by the physicians.

And at night, seeing that she was going on well, the king retired

with the second, Tárávalí, to an apartment on the roof of the palace

exposed to the rays of the moon. There the rays of the moon, entering

through the lattice, fell on the body of the queen, who was sleeping

by the king's side, where it was exposed by her garment blowing

aside. Immediately she woke up, exclaiming, "Alas! I am burnt," and

rose up from the bed rubbing her limbs. The king woke up in a state

of alarm, crying out, "What is the meaning of this?" Then he got

up and saw that blisters had been produced on the queen's body. And

the queen Tárávalí said to him when he questioned her, "The moon's

rays falling on my exposed body have done this to me." When she said

this and burst into tears, the king, being distressed, summoned her

attendants, who ran there in trepidation and alarm. And he had made

for her a bed of lotus-leaves, sprinkled with water, and sandal-wood

lotion applied to her body.

In the meanwhile his third wife Mrigánkavatí heard of it, and left

her palace to come to him. And when she had got into the open air,

she heard distinctly, as the night was still, the sound of a pestle

pounding rice in a distant house. The moment the gazelle-eyed one

heard it, she said, "Alas I am killed," and she sat down on the path,

shaking her hands in an agony of pain. Then the girl turned back, and

was conducted by her attendants to her own chamber, where she fell on

the bed, and groaned. And when her weeping attendants examined her,

they saw that her hands were covered with bruises, and looked like

lotuses upon which black bees had settled. So they went and told the

king. The king Dharmadhvaja arrived in a state of consternation,

and asked his beloved what it all meant. Then the tortured queen

showed him her hands, and said to him, "As soon as I heard the sound

of the pestle, these became covered with bruises." Then the king,

filled with surprise and despondency, had sandal-wood unguent and

other remedies applied to her hands, in order to allay the pain.

He reflected, "One of my queens has been wounded by the fall of a

lotus, the second has had her body burned even by the rays of the

moon, and alas! the third has got such terrible bruises produced on

her hands by the mere sound of a pestle. By a dispensation of fate

the excessive delicacy, which is the distinguishing excellence of

my queens, has now become in them all, at one and the same time,

a defect." Engaged in such reflections the king wandered round the

women's apartments, and the night of three watches passed for him as

tediously as if it had consisted of a hundred watches. But the next

morning, the physician and surgeons took measures, which caused him

soon to be comforted by the recovery of his wives.

When the Vetála had told this very wonderful story, he put this

question to king Trivikramasena from his seat on his shoulder: "Tell

me, king, which was the most delicate of those queens; and the curse

I before mentioned will take effect, if you know and do not say."

When the king heard that, he answered, "The most delicate of all was

the lady upon whose hand bruises were produced by merely hearing the

sound of the pestle, without touching it. But the other two were no

match for her, because the wound of the one and the blisters of the

other were produced by contact with the lotus and the rays of the

moon respectively."

When the king had said this, the Vetála again left his shoulder,

and returned to his own place, and the persevering king again set

out to fetch him.

NOTE.

Rohde in his Griechische Novellistik, p. 62, compares with this a story

told by Timæus of a Sybarite, who saw a husbandman hoeing a field, and

contracted a rupture from it. Another Sybarite, to whom he told his

piteous tale, got ear-ache from hearing it. Oesterley in his German

translation of the Baitál Pachísí, p. 199, refers us to Lancereau,

No. 5, pp. 396-399, and Babington's Vetála Cadai, No. 11, p. 58. He

points out that Grimm, in his Kindermärchen, 3, p. 238, quotes a

similar incident from the travels of the three sons of Giaffar. Out

of four princesses, one faints because a rose-twig is thrown into

her face among some roses, a second shuts her eyes in order not to

see the statue of a man, a third says "Go away, the hairs in your

fur-cloak run into me," and the fourth covers her face, fearing that

some of the fish in a tank may belong to the male sex. He also quotes

a striking parallel from the Élite des contes du Sieur d'Ouville. Four

ladies dispute as to which of them is the most delicate. One has been

lame for three months owing to a rose-leaf having fallen on her foot,

another has had three ribs broken by a sheet in her bed having been

crumpled, a third has held her head on one side for six weeks owing

to one half of her head having three or four more hairs on it than

the other, a fourth has broken a blood-vessel by a slight movement,

and the rupture cannot be healed without breaking the whole limb.

CHAPTER LXXXVI.

(Vetála 12)

Then king Trivikramasena again went to the asoka-tree, and recovered

the Vetála, and placed him on his shoulder, and set out with him again

silently, as before. Then the Vetála again said to him from his seat

on his shoulder; "King, I love you much because you are so indomitable,

so listen, I will tell you this delightful story to amuse you."

Story of king Yasahketu, his Vidyádharí wife, and his faithful

minister.

In the land of Anga there was a young king named Yasahketu, like a

second and unburnt god of love come to earth to conceal his body. [321]

He conquered by his great valour all his enemies; and as Indra has

Vrihaspati for a minister, he had Dírghadarsin. Now, in course of

time, this king, infatuated with his youth and beauty, entrusted to

that minister his realm, from which all enemies had been eradicated,

and became devoted to pleasure only. He remained continually in the

harem instead of the judgment-hall; he listened to delightful songs

in the womens' apartments, instead of hearkening to the voice of

his well-wishers; in his thoughtlessness, he was devoted to latticed

windows and not to the affairs of his kingdom, though the latter also

were full of holes.

But the great minister Dírghadarsin continued unweariedly upholding

the burden of his kingdom's cares, day and night. And a general

rumour spread to the following effect, "Dírghadarsin has plunged in

dissipation the sovereign, who is satisfied with the mere name of king,

and so he manages now to enjoy himself all his master's power." Then

the minister Dírghadarsin said of himself to his wife Medhávatí,

"My dear, as the king is addicted to pleasure, and I do his work,

a calumny has been circulated among the people against me, to the

effect that I have devoured the realm. And a general rumour, though

false, injures even great men in this world; was not Ráma compelled

by a slanderous report to abandon his wife Sítá? So what course must I

adopt in this emergency?" When the minister said this, his firm-souled

wife Medhávatí, [322] who was rightly named, said to him; "Take leave

of the king on the pretext of a pilgrimage to holy bathing-places;

it is expedient, great-minded Sir, that you should go to a foreign

land for a certain time. So you will be seen to be free from ambition,

and the calumny against you will die out; and while you are absent,

the king will bear the burden of the kingdom himself, and then this

vicious tendency of his will gradually diminish, and when you return,

you will be able to discharge your office of minister without blame."

When Dírghadarsin's wife said this to him, he said, "I will do so," and

he went and said to the king Yasahketu in the course of conversation,

"Give me leave to depart, king, I am going on a pilgrimage for some

days, for my heart is set on that religious duty." When the king heard

that, he said, "Do not do so! Cannot you, without going on pilgrimages,

perform in your house noble religious duties, such as charity and so

on, which will procure you heaven?" When the minister heard this, he

said, "King, that purity which comes of wealth is sought by charity

and so on, but holy bathing-places have an everlasting purity. And a

wise man must visit them, while he is young; for otherwise how can he

be sure of reaching them, as this body cannot be relied on?" While

he was saying this, and the king was still trying to dissuade him,

a warder entered, and said to the king, "King, the sun is plunging

into the middle of the lake of heaven, so rise up, this is the hour

appointed for you to bathe in, and it is rapidly passing away." When

the king heard this, he immediately rose up to bathe, and the minister,

whose heart was set on pilgrimage, bowed before him, and went home

to his own house.

There he left his wife, whom he forbade to follow him, and managed

cunningly to set out in secret, without even his servants suspecting

his departure. And alone he wandered from country to country with

resolute perseverance, and visited holy bathing-places, and at last

he reached the land of Paundra. In a certain city in that country

not far from the sea, he entered a temple of Siva, and sat down

in a courtyard attached to it. There a merchant, named Nidhidatta,

who had come to worship the god, saw him exhausted with the heat of

the sun's rays, dusty with his long journey. The merchant, being a

hospitable man, seeing that the traveller, who was in such a state,

wore a Bráhmanical thread, and had auspicious marks, concluded that he

was a distinguished Bráhman, and took him home to his own house. There

he honoured him with a bath, food, and other refreshments in the most

luxurious style, and when his fatigue was removed, he said to him,

"Who are you, whence do you come, and where are you going?" And

the Bráhman gave him this reserved answer; "I am a Bráhman of

the name of Dírghadarsin; I have come here on pilgrimage from the

land of Anga." Then the merchant prince Nidhidatta said to him,

"I am about to go on a trading expedition to the Island of Gold;

so you must live in my house, until I return; and then you will have

recovered from the fatigue which you have incurred by roaming to holy

places, and you can go home." When Dírghadarsin heard that, he said,

"Why should I remain here? I will go with you, great merchant, if

you like." The good man said, "So be it," and then the minister,

who had long discarded the use of beds, spent that night in his house.

The next day he went with that merchant to the sea, and embarked on

a ship laden with his merchandise. He travelled along in that ship,

and beheld the awful and wonderful ocean, and in course of time reached

the Isle of Gold. What had a man holding the office of prime minister

to do with sea-voyages? But what will not men of honour do to prevent

their fame from being sullied? So he remained some time in that island

with that merchant Nidhidatta, who was engaged in buying and selling.

And as he was returning with him on the ship, he suddenly saw a

wave rise up, and then a wishing-tree arise out of the sea; it was

adorned with boughs glittering with gold, which were embellished with

sprays of coral, and bore lovely fruits and flowers of jewels. And

he beheld on its trunk a maiden, alluring on account of her wonderful

beauty, reclining on a gem-bestudded couch. He reflected for a moment,

"Dear me! What can this be?" And thereupon the maiden, who had a lyre

in her hand, began to sing this song, "Whatever seed of works any

man has sown in a former life, of that he, without doubt, eats the

fruit; for even fate cannot alter what has been done in a previous

state of existence." When the heavenly maiden had sung this song,

she immediately plunged into that sea, with the wishing-tree, and

the couch on which she was reclining. Then Dírghadarsin reflected,

"I have to-day seen a wonderful sight; one would never have expected

to find in the sea a tree, with a heavenly maiden singing on it,

appearing and disappearing as soon as beheld. Or rather, this admirable

treasure-house of the sea is ever the same; did not Lakshmí, and

the moon, and the Párijáta tree, and other precious things come out

of it?" But the steersman and the rest of the crew, perceiving that

Dírghadarsin was astonished and puzzled, said to him, "This lovely

woman always appears here in the same way, and sinks down again at

once; but this sight is new to you."

This is what they said to the minister, but he still continued in

a state of wonder, and so he reached in course of time on the ship,

with that Nidhidatta, the coast for which they were making. There the

merchant disembarked his wares, gladdening the hearts of his servants,

and the minister went in high spirits with him to his house, which was

full of mirth at his arrival. And after he had remained there a short

time, he said to Nidhidatta, "Merchant prince, I have long reposed

comfortably in your house, now I wish to return to my own land; I wish

you all happiness." With these words he took leave of the merchant

prince, who was sorely unwilling to let him go, and with his virtue

for his only companion he set out thence, and having in course of time

accomplished the long journey, he reached his own native land of Anga.

There the spies, who had been placed by king Yasahketu to watch for his

return, saw him coming, before he entered the city, and informed the

king; and then the king, who had been much afflicted by his absence,

went out from the city to meet him; and came up to him and welcomed him

with an embrace. Then the king conducted into the palace his minister,

who was emaciated and begrimed with his long journey, and said to him,

"Why did you leave me, bringing your mind to this cruel heartless

step, and your body into this squalid state from its being deprived of

unguents? [323] But who knows the way of the mighty god Fate, in that

you suddenly fixed your mind on pilgrimage to holy waters and other

sacred places? So tell me, what lands have you wandered through,

and what novel sights have you seen?" Then Dírghadarsin described

his journey to the Island of Gold, in all its stages, and so was

led to tell the king of that maiden, the jewel of the three worlds,

whom he had seen rise out of the sea, and sit on the wishing-tree

singing. All this he narrated exactly as it took place.

The moment the king heard all this, he fell so deeply in love with her,

that he considered his kingdom and life valueless without her. And

taking his minister aside, he said to him, "I must certainly see that

maiden, otherwise I cannot live. I will go by the way which you have

described, after worshipping Fate. And you must not dissuade, and

you must by no means follow me, for I will travel alone incognito,

and in the meanwhile you must take care of my kingdom. Do not disobey

my order, otherwise my death will lie at your door." Thus spake the

king, and refused to hear his minister's answer, and then dismissed

him to his own house to see his relations, who had long been wishing

for his return. There, in the midst of great rejoicing Dírghadarsin

remained despondent; how can good ministers be happy, when their

lord's vices are incurable?

And the next night the king Yasahketu set out, disguised as an ascetic,

having entrusted his kingdom to the care of that minister. And on the

way, as he was going along, he saw a hermit, named Kusanábha, and

he bowed before him. The hermit said to the king who was disguised

as an ascetic, "Go on your way boldly; by going to sea in a ship

with the merchant Lakshmídatta you shall obtain that maiden whom you

desire." This speech delighted the king exceedingly, and bowing again

before the hermit, he continued his journey; and after crossing many

countries, rivers, and mountains, he reached the sea, which seemed to

be full of eagerness to entertain him. Its eddies looked like eyes

expanded to gaze at him, eyes of which waves were the curved brows,

and which were white with shrill-sounding conchs for pupils. On the

shore he met the merchant Lakshmídatta spoken of by the hermit, who

was on the point of setting out for the Isle of Gold. The merchant

prostrated himself before him, when he saw the signs of his royal

birth, such as the discus-marked foot-print and so on; and the king

embarked on the ship with him, and set out with him on the sea. And

when the ship had reached the middle of the ocean, that maiden arose

from the water, seated on the trunk of the wishing-tree, and while

the king was gazing at her, as a partridge at the moonlight, she

sang a song which the accompaniment of her lyre made more charming;

"Whatever seed of works any man has sown in a former life, of that he,

without doubt, eats the fruit, for even Fate cannot alter what has

been done in a previous state of existence. So a man is helplessly

borne along to experience precisely that lot which Fate has appointed

for him, in that place and in that manner which Fate has decreed;

of this there can be no doubt." When the king heard her singing this

song, and thus setting forth the thing that must be, he was smitten

with the arrow of love, and remained for some time motionless,

gazing at her. Then he began, with bowed head, to praise the sea

in the following words, "Hail, to thee, store-house of jewels, of

unfathomable heart, since by concealing this lovely nymph thou hast

cheated Vishnu out of Lakshmí. So I throw myself on thy protection,

thou who canst not be sounded even by gods, the refuge of mountains

[324] that retain their wings; grant me to obtain my desire." While he

was uttering this, the maiden disappeared in the sea, with the tree,

and when the king saw that, he flung himself into the sea after her,

as if to cool the flames of love's fire.

When the merchant Lakshmídatta saw that unexpected sight, the good

man thought the king had perished, and was so afflicted that he

was on the point of committing suicide, but he was consoled by the

following utterance, that came from the heavens, "Do not act rashly;

he is not in danger, though he has plunged into the sea; this king,

Yasahketu by name, has come, disguised as an ascetic, to obtain this

very maiden, for she was his wife in a former state of existence, and

as soon as he has won her, he shall return to his realm of Anga." Then

the merchant continued his intended voyage, to accomplish his purposes.

But when king Yasahketu plunged into the sea, he suddenly beheld

to his astonishment a splendid city. It gleamed with palaces that

had bright pillars of precious stone, walls flashing with gold, and

latticed windows of pearl. It was adorned with gardens in which were

tanks with flights of steps composed of slabs of every kind of gem,

and wishing-trees that granted every desire. He entered house after

house in that city, which, though opulent, was uninhabited, but he

could not find his beloved anywhere. Then, as he was looking about,

he beheld a lofty jewelled palace, and going up to it he opened the

door and went in. And when he had entered it, he beheld a solitary

human form stretched out upon a gem-bestudded couch, with its whole

length covered with a shawl. Wondering whether it could be that

very lady, he uncovered its face with eager expectation, and saw his

lady-love. Her beautiful moon-like countenance smiled, when the black

robe fell from it like darkness; and she seemed like a night, illumined

with moonlight, gone to visit Pátála in the day. At sight of her the

king was in a state of ecstasy, like that which a man, travelling

through a desert in the season of heat, experiences on beholding a

river. She, for her part, opened her eyes, and when she saw that hero

of auspicious form and bodily marks thus suddenly arrived, sprang

from her couch in a state of excitement. She welcomed him, and with

downcast countenance, seemed to honour him by flinging on his feet the

full-blown lotuses of her wide-expanded eyes; and then she slowly said

to him, "Who are you, and why have you come to this inaccessible lower

region? And why, though your body is marked with the signs of royalty,

have you undertaken the vow of an ascetic? Condescend to tell me this,

distinguished Sir, if I have found favour in your sight." When the king

had heard this speech of hers, he gave her this answer; "Fair one,

I am the king of Anga, by name Yasahketu, and I heard from a friend

on whom I can rely, that you were to be seen here every day in the

sea. So I assumed this disguise, and abandoned my kingdom for your

sake, and I have come here and followed you down through the sea. So

tell me who you are." When he said this, she answered him with mixed

feelings of shame, affection, and joy; "There is a fortunate king

of the Vidyádharas named Mrigánkasena; know that I am his daughter,

Mrigánkavatí by name. That father of mine, for some reason unknown

to me, has left me alone in this city of his, and has gone somewhere

or other with his subjects. So I, feeling melancholy in my solitary

abode, rise up out of the sea on a moveable [325] wishing-tree, and

sing of the decrees of Fate." When she had said this, the brave king,

remembering the speech of the hermit, courted her so assiduously with

speeches tender with love, that she was overpowered with affection,

and promised to become his wife at once, but insisted on the following

condition; "My husband, for four days in every month, the fourteenth

and eighth of the white and black fortnights, I am not my own mistress;

[326] and whithersoever I may go on those days, you must not question

me on the subject nor forbid me, for there is a reason for it." [327]

When the heavenly maiden had stated in these words the only condition

on which she would consent to marry the king, he agreed to it, and

married her by the Gándharva form of marriage.

And one day, while the king was living happily with Mrigánkavatí, she

said to him, "You must stop here, while I go somewhere for a certain

business, for to-day is the fourteenth day of the black fortnight

of which I spoke to you. And while you are waiting here, my husband,

you must not enter this crystal pavilion, lest you should fall into a

lake there and go to the world of men." When she had said this, she

took leave of him, and went out of that city, and the king took his

sword and followed her secretly, determined to penetrate the mystery.

Then the king saw a terrible Rákshasa approaching, looking like Hades

embodied in a human shape, with his cavernous mouth, black as night,

opened wide. That Rákshasa uttered an appalling roar, and swooping

down on Mrigánkavatí, put her in his mouth and swallowed her. When

the mighty king saw that, he was at once, so to speak, on fire with

excessive anger, and rushing forward with his great sword, black as

a snake that has cast its slough, [328] drawn from the sheath, he cut

off with it the head of the charging Rákshasa, the lips of which were

firmly pressed together. Then the burning fire of the king's anger

was quenched by the stream of blood that poured forth from the trunk

of the Rákshasa, but not the fire of his grief at the loss of his

beloved. Then the king was blinded with the darkness of bewilderment,

and at a loss what to do, when suddenly Mrigánkavatí cleft asunder

the body of that Rákshasa, which was dark as a cloud, and emerged

alive and uninjured, illuminating all the horizon like a spotless

moon. When the king saw his beloved thus delivered from danger, he

rushed eagerly forward and embraced her, exclaiming, "Come! Come!" And

he said to her, "My beloved, what does all this mean? Is it a dream

or a delusion?" When the king asked the Vidyádharí this question,

she remembered the truth, and said: "Listen, my husband! This is no

delusion, nor is it a dream; but such was the curse imposed upon me

by my father, a king of the Vidyádharas. For my father, who formerly

lived in this city, though he had many sons, was so fond of me, that

he would never take food when I was not present. But I, being devoted

to the worship of Siva, used always to come to this uninhabited place

on the fourteenth and eighth days of the two fortnights.

"And one fourteenth day I came here and worshipped Gaurí for a long

time; and, as fate would have it, so ardent was my devotion that the

day came to an end before my worship was finished. That day my father

ate nothing and drank nothing, though he was hungry and thirsty, as

he waited for me, but he was very angry with me. And when I returned

in the evening with downcast countenance, conscious of my fault, his

love for me was so completely overpowered by the force of Destiny,

that he cursed me in the following words; 'As owing to your arrogance

I was devoured to-day by hunger, so on the eighth and fourteenth

days of the two fortnights of every month, and on those days only,

a Rákshasa named Kritántasantrása shall swallow you, when you go to

that place outside the city to worship Siva; and on every occasion

you shall make your way through his heart and come out alive. But

you shall not remember the curse, nor the pain of being swallowed;

and you shall remain alone here.' [329] When my father had uttered

this curse, I managed gradually to propitiate him, and after thinking

a little he appointed this termination to my curse; 'When a king named

Yasahketu, lord of the land of Anga, shall become your husband, and

shall see you swallowed by the Rákshasa, and shall slay him, then you

shall issue from his heart, and shall be delivered from your curse,

and you shall call to mind your curse and the other circumstances,

and all your supernatural sciences.'

"When he had appointed this end of my curse, he left me alone here,

and went with his retinue to the mountain of Nishada in the world of

men. And I remained here, thus engaged, bewildered by the curse. But

that curse has now come to an end, and I remember all. So I will

immediately go to my father on the Nishada mountain; the law, that

governs us celestial beings, is, that when our curse is at an end we

return to our own place. You are perfectly free to remain here or go to

your kingdom, as you like." When she had said this, the king was sorry,

and he made this request to her; "Fair one, do me the favour not to go

for seven days. Let us in the meanwhile cheat the pain of parting by

amusing ourselves here in the garden. After that you shall go to your

father's abode, and I will return to mine." When he made this proposal,

the fair one agreed to it. Then the king diverted himself with her for

six days in the gardens, and in tanks, the lotus-eyes of which were

full of tears, and that seemed to toss aloft their waves like hands,

and in the cries of their swans and cranes to utter this plaintive

appeal, "Do not leave us!" And on the seventh day he artfully decoyed

his darling to that pavilion, where was the tank that served as a

magic gate [330] conducting to the world of men; and throwing his arms

round her neck, he plunged into that tank, and rose up with her from a

tank in the garden of his own city. When the gardeners saw that he had

arrived with his beloved, they were delighted, and they went and told

his minister Dírghadarsin. And the minister came and fell at his feet,

and seeing that he had brought with him the lady of his aspirations,

he and the citizens escorted him into the palace. And he thought to

himself, "Dear me! I wonder how the king has managed to obtain this

celestial nymph, of whom I caught a transient glimpse in the ocean,

as one sees in the heaven a lightning-flash. But the fact is, whatever

lot is written for a man by the Disposer in the inscription on his

forehead, infallibly befalls him, however improbable."

Such were the reflections of the prime minister; while the rest

of his subjects were full of joy at the return of the king,

and of astonishment at his having won the celestial nymph. But

Mrigánkavatí, seeing that the king had returned to his own kingdom,

longed, as the seven days were completed, to return to the home of

the Vidyádharas. But the science of flying up into the air did not

appear to her, though she called it to mind. Then she felt as one

robbed of a treasure, and was in the deepest despondency. And the

king said to her, "Why do you suddenly appear despondent, tell me,

my darling?" Then the Vidyádharí answered him, "Because I remained so

long, after I had been released from my curse, out of love for you,

my science has abandoned me, and I have lost the power of returning

to my heavenly home." When king Yasahketu heard this, he said, "Ha! I

have now won this Vidyádharí," and so his rejoicing was complete.

When the minister Dírghadarsin saw this, he went home, and at night,

when he was in bed, he suddenly died of a broken heart. And Yasahketu,

after he had mourned for him, remained long bearing the burden of

empire himself, with Mrigánkavatí for his consort.

When the Vetála, seated on the shoulder of king Trivikramasena, had

told him this story on the way, he went on to say to him, "So tell

me, king; why did the heart of that great minister suddenly break,

when his master had thus succeeded so completely? Did his heart break

through grief at not having won the nymph himself? Or was it because

he longed for the sovereign power, and thus was disappointed at the

king's return? And if you know this, king, and do not tell me on the

spot, your merit will at once disappear, and your head will fly in

pieces." When king Trivikramasena heard that, he said to the Vetála;

"Neither of these two feelings actuated that excellent and virtuous

minister. But he said to himself; 'This king neglected his kingdom

out of devotion to mere human females, much more will he do so now,

that he is attached to a heavenly nymph. So, though I have gone through

much suffering, the disease has been aggravated by it, instead of being

cured, as I had hoped.' It was under the influence of such reflections

that the minister's heart broke." When the king had said this, that

juggling Vetála returned to his own place, and the resolute king ran

swiftly after him, to bring him back again by force.

CHAPTER LXXXVII.

(Vetála 13.)

Then the king went back to the asoka-tree, [331] and taking the

Vetála from it, placed him on his shoulder, and brought him along,

and as he was going along with him, the Vetála again said to the king,

"Listen, king, I will tell you a short story."

The story of Harisvámin, who first lost his wife, and then his life.

There is a city of the name of Váránasí, the abode of Siva. In it there

lived a Bráhman, named Devasvámin, honoured by the king. And that

rich Bráhman had a son named Harisvámin; and he had an exceedingly

lovely wife, named Lávanyavatí. I think the Disposer must have made

her after he had acquired skill by making Tilottamá and the other

nymphs of heaven, for she was of priceless beauty and loveliness.

Now, one night Harisvámin fell asleep, as he was reposing with her

in a palace cool with the rays of the moon. At that very moment a

Vidyádhara prince, by name Madanavega, roaming about at will, came

that way through the air. He saw that Lávanyavatí sleeping by the side

of her husband, and her robe, that had slipped aside, revealed her

exquisitely moulded limbs. His heart was captivated by her beauty;

and blinded by love, he immediately swooped down, and taking her up

in his arms asleep, flew off with her through the air.

Immediately her husband, the young man Harisvámin, woke up, and not

seeing his beloved, he rose up in a state of distraction. He said

to himself, "What can this mean? Where has she gone? I wonder if

she is angry with me. Or has she hidden herself to find out my real

feelings, and is making fun of me?" Distracted by many surmises of

this kind, he wandered hither and thither that night, looking for

her on the roof, and in the turrets of the palace. He even searched

in the palace-garden, and when he could not find her anywhere, being

scorched with the fire of grief, he sobbed and lamented, "Alas! my

beloved with face like the moon's orb, fair as the moonlight; did

this night grudge your existence, hating your charms that rival

hers [332]? That very moon, that, vanquished by your beauty, seemed

to be in fear, and comforted me with its rays cool as sandalwood,

now that I am bereaved of you, seems to have seen its opportunity,

and smites me with them, as if with burning coals, or arrows dipped

in poison." While Harisvámin was uttering these laments, the night

at last slowly passed away, not so his grief at his bereavement.

The next morning the sun dispelled with his rays the deep darkness

that covered the world, but could not dispel the dense darkness

of despondency that had settled on him. The sound of his bitter

lamentations, that seemed to have been reinforced by wailing power

bestowed on him by the chakravákas, whose period of separation was

at an end with the night, was magnified a hundredfold. The young

Bráhman, though his relations tried to comfort him, could not recover

his self-command, now that he was bereaved of his beloved, but was

all inflamed with the fire of separation. And he went from place

to place, exclaiming with tears, "Here she stood, here she bathed,

here she adorned herself, and here she amused herself."

But his friends and relations said to him, "She is not dead, so why

do you kill yourself? If you remain alive, you will certainly recover

her somewhere or other. So adopt a resolute tone, and go in search

of your beloved; there is nothing in this world that a resolute man,

who exerts himself, cannot obtain." When Harisvámin had been exhorted

in these terms by his friends and relations, he managed at last,

after some days, to recover his spirits by the aid of hope. And he

said to himself, "I will give away all that I have to the Bráhmans,

and visit all the holy waters, and wash away all my sins. For if

I wipe out my sin, I may perhaps, in the course of my wanderings,

find that beloved of mine." After going through these reflections

suitable to the occasion, he got up and bathed, and performed all his

customary avocations, and the next day he bestowed on the Bráhmans

at a solemn sacrifice various meats and drinks, and gave away to them

all his wealth without stint.

Then he left his country, with his Bráhman birth as his only fortune,

and proceeded to go round to all the holy bathing-places in order to

recover his beloved. And as he was roaming about, there came upon him

the terrible lion of the hot season, with the blazing sun for mouth,

and with a mane composed of his fiery rays. And the winds blew with

excessive heat, as if warmed by the breath of sighs furnaced forth

by travellers grieved at being separated from their wives. And the

tanks, with their supply of water diminished by the heat, and their

drying white mud, appeared to be shewing their broken hearts. And

the trees by the roadside seemed to lament [333] on account of the

departure of the glory of spring, making their wailing heard in the

shrill moaning of their bark, [334] with leaves, as it were lips,

parched with heat. At that season Harisvámin, wearied out with the

heat of the sun, with bereavement, hunger and thirst, and continual

travelling, disfigured, [335] emaciated and dirty, and pining for

food, reached in the course of his wanderings, a certain village,

and found in it the house of a Bráhman called Padmanábha, who was

engaged in a sacrifice. And seeing that many Bráhmans were eating

in his house, he stood leaning against the door-post, silent and

motionless. And the good wife of that Bráhman named Padmanábha, seeing

him in this position, felt pity for him, and reflected; "Alas! mighty

is hunger! Whom will it not bring down? For here stands a man at the

door, who appears to be a householder, desiring food, with downcast

countenance; evidently come from a long journey, and with all his

senses impaired by hunger. So is not he a man to whom food ought to

be given?" Having gone through these reflections, the kind woman took

up in her hands a vessel full of rice boiled in milk, with ghee and

sugar, and brought it, and courteously presented it to him, and said;

"Go and eat this somewhere on the bank of the lake, for this place

is unfit to eat in, as it is filled with feasting Bráhmans."

He said, "I will do so," and took the vessel of rice, and placed it

at no great distance under a banyan-tree on the edge of the lake;

and he washed his hands and feet in the lake, and rinsed his mouth,

and then came back in high spirits to eat the rice. But while he was

thus engaged, a kite, holding a black cobra with its beak and claws,

came from some place or other, and sat on that tree. And it so happened

that poisonous saliva issued from the mouth of that dead snake, which

the bird had captured and was carrying along. The saliva fell into

the dish of rice which was placed underneath the tree, and Harisvámin,

without observing it, came and ate up that rice. [336] As soon as in

his hunger he had devoured all that food, he began to suffer terrible

agonies produced by the poison. He exclaimed, "When fate has turned

against a man, everything in this world turns also; accordingly this

rice dressed with milk, ghee and sugar, has become poison to me."

Thus speaking, Harisvámin, tortured with the poison, tottered to

the house of that Bráhman, who was engaged in the sacrifice, and

said to his wife; "The rice, which you gave me, has poisoned me;

so fetch me quickly a charmer who can counteract the operation of

poison; otherwise you will be guilty of the death of a Bráhman." When

Harisvámin had said this to the good woman, who was beside herself

to think what it could all mean, his eyes closed, and he died.

Accordingly the Bráhman, who was engaged in a sacrifice, drove out

of his house his wife, though she was innocent and hospitable, being

enraged with her for the supposed murder of her guest. The good woman,

for her part, having incurred groundless blame from her charitable

deed, and so become branded with infamy, went to a holy bathing-place

to perform penance.

Then there was a discussion before the superintendent of religion,

as to which of the four parties, the kite, the snake, and the couple

who gave the rice, were guilty of the murder of a Bráhman, but the

question was not decided. [337]

"Now you, king Trivikramasena, must tell me, which was guilty of

the murder of a Bráhman; and if you do not, you will incur the

before-mentioned curse."

When the king heard this from the Vetála, he was forced by the curse

to break silence, and he said, "No one of them could be guilty of

the crime; certainly not the serpent, for how could he be guilty

of anything, when he was the helpless prey of his enemy, who was

devouring him? To come to the kite; what offence did he commit in

bringing his natural food which he had happened to find, and eating

it, when he was hungry? And how could either of the couple, that

gave the food, be in fault, since they were both people exclusively

devoted to righteousness, not likely to commit a crime? Therefore

I think the guilt of slaying a Bráhman would attach to any person,

who should be so foolish as, for want of sufficient reflection,

to attribute it to either of them."

When the king had said this, the Vetála again left his shoulder,

and went to his own place, and the resolute king again followed him.

CHAPTER LXXXVIII.

(Vetála 14.)

Then king Trivikramasena went to the asoka-tree, and again got hold of

the Vetála, and took him on his shoulder; and when the king had set

out, the Vetála again said to him, "King, you are tired; so listen,

I will tell you an interesting tale.

Story of the Merchant's daughter who fell in love with a thief.

There is a city of the name of Ayodhyá, which was the capital of

Vishnu, when he was incarnate as Ráma, the destroyer of the Rákshasa

race. In it there lived a mighty king, of the name of Víraketu,

who defended this earth, as a rampart defends a city. During the

reign of that king there lived in that city a great merchant, named

Ratnadatta, who was the head of the mercantile community. And there

was born to him, by his wife Nandayantí, a daughter named Ratnavatí,

who was obtained by propitiating the deities. And that intelligent

girl grew up in her father's house, and as her body grew, her innate

qualities of beauty, gracefulness, and modesty developed also. And

when she attained womanhood, not only great merchants, but even kings

asked her in marriage from her father. But she disliked the male sex so

much that she did not desire even Indra for a husband, and would not

even hear of marriage, being determined to die, sooner than consent

to it. That made her father secretly sorrow much, on account of his

affection for her, and the report of her conduct spread all over the

city of Ayodhyá.

At that time all the citizens were continually being plundered by

thieves, so they assembled together, and made this complaint to king

Víraketu; "Your Majesty, we are continually being robbed by thieves

every night, and we cannot detect them, so let your Highness take the

necessary steps." When the king had received this petition from the

citizens, he stationed watchmen in plain clothes all round the city,

in order to try and discover the thieves.

But they could not find them out, and the city went on being robbed;

so one night the king himself went out to watch; and as he was roaming

about armed, he saw in a certain part of the town a single individual

going along the rampart. He shewed great dexterity in his movements,

as he made his footfall perfectly noiseless, and he often looked

behind him with eyes anxiously rolling. The king said to himself,

"Without doubt this is the thief, who sallies out by himself and

plunders my city;" so he went up to him. Then the thief, seeing the

king, said to him, "Who are you," and the king answered him, "I am a

thief." Then the thief said, "Bravo! you are my friend, as you belong

to the same profession as myself; so come to my house, I will entertain

you." When the king heard that, he consented, and went with him to

his dwelling, which was in an underground cavern in a forest. It was

luxuriously and magnificently furnished, illuminated by blazing lamps,

and looked like a second Pátála, not governed by king Bali.

When the king had entered, and had taken a seat, the robber went

into the inner rooms of his cave-dwelling. At that moment a female

slave came and said to the king, "Great Sir, how came you to enter

this mouth of death? This man is a notable thief; no doubt, when he

comes out from those rooms, he will do you some injury: I assure you,

he is treacherous; so leave this place at once." When the king heard

this, he left the place at once, and went to his own palace and got

ready his forces that very night.

And when his army was ready for battle, he came and blockaded the

entrance of that robber's cave with his troops, who sounded all their

martial instruments. [338] Then the brave robber, as his hold was

blockaded, knew that his secret had been discovered, and he rushed

out to fight, determined to die. And when he came out, he displayed

superhuman prowess in battle; alone, armed with sword and shield, he

cut off the trunks of elephants, he slashed off the legs of horses,

and lopped off the heads of soldiers. When he had made this havoc among

the soldiers, the king himself attacked him. And the king, who was

a skilful swordsman, by a dexterous trick of fence forced his sword

from his hand, and then the dagger which he drew; and as he was now

disarmed, the king threw away his own weapon, and grappling with him,

flung him on the earth, and captured him alive. And he brought him

back as a prisoner to his own capital, with all his wealth. And he

gave orders that he should be put to death by impalement next morning.

Now, when that robber was being conducted with beat of drum to the

place of execution, that merchant's daughter Ratnavatí saw him from her

palace. Though he was wounded, and his body was begrimed with dust, she

was distracted with love as soon as she saw him, so she went and said

to her father Ratnadatta, "I select as my husband this man here, who is

being led off to execution, so ransom him from the king, my father; if

you will not, I shall follow him to the other world." When her father

heard this he said, "My daughter, what is this that you say? Before

you would not accept suitors endowed with all virtues, equal to the

god of love. How comes it that you are now in love with an infamous

brigand chief?" Though her father used this argument, and others of

the same kind with her, she remained fixed in her determination. Then

the merchant went quickly to the king, and offered him all his wealth,

if he would grant the robber his life. But the king would not make

over to him, even for hundreds of crores of gold pieces, that thief

who had robbed on such a gigantic scale, and whom he had captured at

the risk of his own life. Then the father returned disappointed, and

his daughter made up her mind to follow the thief to the other world,

though her relations tried to dissuade her; so she bathed, and got

into a palanquin, and went to the spot where his execution was taking

place, followed by her father and mother and the people, all weeping.

In the meanwhile the robber had been impaled by the executioners, and

as his life was ebbing away on the stake, he saw her coming there with

her kinsfolk. And when he heard the whole story from the people, he

wept for a moment, and then he laughed a little, and then died on the

stake. Then the merchant's virtuous daughter had the thief's body taken

down from the stake, and she ascended the funeral pyre with it. [339]

And at that very moment the holy Siva, who was invisibly present

in the cemetery, spake from the air, "Faithful wife, I am pleased

with thy devotedness to thy self-chosen husband, so crave a boon of

me." When she heard that, she worshipped and prayed the god of gods

to grant her the following boon, "Lord, may my father, who has now

no sons, have a hundred, for otherwise, as he has no children but me,

he would abandon his life." [340] When the good woman had said this,

the god once more spake to her, saving, "Let thy father have a hundred

sons! choose another boon; for such a steadfastly good woman, as thou

art, deserves something more than this."

When she heard this, she said, "If the Lord is pleased with me, then

let this husband of mine rise up alive, and be henceforth a well

conducted man!" Thereupon Siva, invisible in the air, uttered these

words, "Be it so; let thy husband rise up alive, and lead henceforth

a life of virtue, and let king Víraketu be pleased with him!" And

immediately the robber rose up alive with unwounded limbs.

Then the merchant Ratnadatta was delighted, and astonished at the same

time; and with his daughter Ratnavatí and the bandit his son-in-law,

and his delighted relations, he entered his own palace, and as he had

obtained from the god the promise of sons, he held a feast suitable

to his own joy on the occasion. And when king Víraketu heard what had

taken place, he was pleased, and he immediately summoned that heroic

thief, and made him commander of his army. And thereupon the heroic

thief gave up his dishonest life, and married the merchant's daughter,

and led a respectable life, honoured by the king.

When the Vetála, seated on the shoulder of king Trivikramasena,

had told him this tale, he asked him the following question,

menacing him with the before-mentioned curse; "Tell me, king, why

that thief, when impaled, first wept and then laughed, when he saw

the merchant's daughter come with her father." Then the king said;

"He wept for sorrow that he had not been able to repay the merchant for

his gratuitous kindness to him; and he laughed out of astonishment,

as he said to himself, 'What! has this maiden, after rejecting kings

who asked for her hand, fallen in love with me? In truth a woman's

heart is an intricate labyrinth.'" When the king had said this, the

mighty Vetála, by means of the magic power which he possessed, again

left the king's shoulder and returned to his station on the tree,

and the king once more went to fetch him.

CHAPTER LXXXIX.

(Vetála 15.)

Then king Trivikramasena again went back to the asoka-tree and took

the Vetála from it, and set out with him once more; and as the king

was going along, the Vetála, perched on his shoulder, said to him;

"Listen, king, I will tell you another story."

Story of the magic globule.

There was in the kingdom of Nepála a city named Sivapura, and in it

there lived of old time a king rightly named Yasahketu. He devolved

upon his minister, named Prajnáságara, the burden of his kingdom,

and enjoyed himself in the society of his queen Chandraprabhá. And in

course of time that king had born to him, by that queen, a daughter

named Sasiprabhá, bright as the moon, the eye of the world.

Now in course of time she grew up to womanhood, and one day, in the

month of spring, she went to a garden, with her attendants, to witness

a festive procession. And in a certain part of that garden a Bráhman,

of the name of Manahsvámin, the son of a rich man, who had come to

see the procession, beheld her engaged in gathering flowers, raising

her lithe arm, and displaying her graceful shape; and she looked

charming when the grasp of her thumb and forefinger on the stalks of

the flowers relaxed. When the young man Manahsvámin saw her, she at

once robbed him of his heart, and he was bewildered by love and no

longer master of his feelings. [341] He said to himself, "Can this

be Rati come in person to gather the flowers accumulated by spring,

in order to make arrows for the god of love? Or is it the presiding

goddess of the wood, come to worship the spring?" While he was making

these surmises, the princess caught sight of him. And as soon as

she saw him, looking like a second god of love created with a body,

she forgot her flowers, and her limbs, and her own personal identity.