While those two were thus overpowered by the passion of mutual love at

first sight, a loud shout of alarm was raised, and they both looked

with uplifted heads to see what it could mean. Then there came that

way an elephant, rushing along with its elephant-hook hanging down,

that driven furious by perceiving the smell of another elephant,

[342] had broken its fastenings, and rushed out in a state of frenzy,

breaking down the trees in its path, and had thrown its driver. The

princess's attendants dispersed in terror, but Manahsvámin eagerly

rushed forward, and took her up alone in his arms, and while she

clung timidly to him, bewildered with fear, love, and shame, carried

her to a distance, out of reach of the elephant. Then her attendants

came up and praised that noble Bráhman, and conducted her back to her

palace. But as she went, she frequently turned round to look at her

deliverer. There she remained, thinking regretfully of that man who had

saved her life, consumed day and night by the smouldering fire of love.

And Manahsvámin then left that garden, and seeing that the princess

had entered her private apartments, he said to himself, in regretful

longing, "I cannot remain without her, nay I cannot live without her:

so my only resource in this difficulty is the cunning Múladeva, who

is a master of magic arts." Having thus reflected, he managed to get

through that day, and the next morning he went to visit that master of

magic, Múladeva. And he saw that master, who was ever in the company

of his friend Sasin, full of many marvellous magic ways, like the sky

come down to earth in human shape. [343] And he humbly saluted him,

and told him his desire; then the master laughed, and promised to

accomplish it for him. Then that matchless deceiver Múladeva placed a

magic globule [344] in his mouth, and transformed himself into an aged

Bráhman; and he gave the Bráhman Manahsvámin a second globule to put

in his mouth, and so made him assume the appearance of a beautiful

maiden. And that prince of villains took him in this disguise to

the judgment-hall of the king, the father of his lady-love, and said

to him,"O king, I have only one son, and I asked for a maiden to be

given him to wife, and brought her from a long distance; but now he

has gone somewhere or other, and I am going to look for him; so keep

this maiden safe for me until I bring back my son, for you keep safe

under your protection the whole world." [345] When king Yasahketu

heard this petition, he granted it, fearing a curse if he did not,

and summoned his daughter Sasiprabhá, and said to her; "Daughter,

keep this maiden in your palace, and let her sleep and take her meals

with you." The princess agreed, and took Manahsvámin transformed

into a maiden to her own private apartments; and then Múladeva,

who had assumed the form of a Bráhman, went where he pleased, and

Manahsvámin remained in the form of a maiden with his beloved. [346]

And in a few days the princess became quite fond of and intimate

with her new attendant; so, one night when she was pining at being

separated from the object of her affections, and tossing on her couch,

Manahsvámin, who was on a bed near her, concealed under a female shape,

said secretly to her, "My dear Sa[s']iprabhá, why are you pale of hue,

and why do you grow thinner every day, and sorrow as one separated

from the side of her beloved? Tell me, for why should you distrust

loving modest attendants? From this time forth I will take no food

until you tell me."

When the princess heard this, she sighed, and slowly told the following

tale; "Why should I distrust you of all people? Listen, friend, I

will tell you the cause. Once on a time I went to a spring garden to

see a procession, and there I beheld a handsome young Bráhman, who

seemed like the month of spring, having the loveliness of the moon

free from dew, kindling love at sight, adorning the grove with play

of light. And while my eager eyes, drinking in the nectarous rays of

the moon of his countenance, began to emulate the partridge, there

came there a mighty elephant broken loose from its bonds, roaring

and distilling its ichor like rain, looking like a black rain-cloud

appearing out of season. My attendants dispersed terrified at that

elephant, but when I was bewildered with fear, that young Bráhman

caught me up in his arms and carried me to a distance. Then contact

with his body made me feel as if I were anointed with sandal-wood

ointment, and bedewed with ambrosia, and I was in a state which I

cannot describe. And in a moment my attendants re-assembled, and I was

brought back reluctant to this my palace, and seemed to myself to have

been cast down to earth from heaven. From that time forth I have often

interviews in reveries with my beloved, that rescued me from death,

and even when awake I seem to see him at my side. And when asleep I

see him in dreams, coaxing me and dispelling my reserve with kisses

and caresses. But, ill-fated wretch that I am, I cannot obtain him,

for I am baffled by ignorance of his name and other particulars about

him. So I am consumed, as you see, by the fire of separation from

the lord of my life."

When Manahsvámin's ears had been filled with the nectar of this

speech of the princess's, that Bráhman, who was present there in

female form, rejoiced, and considered that his object was attained,

and that the time had come for revealing himself, so he took out

the globule from his mouth, and displayed himself in his true form,

and said; "Rolling-eyed one, I am that very Bráhman, whom you bought

with a look in the garden, and made your slave in the truest sense of

the word. And from the immediate interruption of our acquaintance I

derived that sorrow, of which the final result was my taking, as you

see, the form of a maiden. Therefore, fair one, grant that the sorrow

of separation, which both of us have endured, may not have been borne

in vain, for Cupid cannot endure beyond this point." When the princess

suddenly beheld her beloved in front of her, and heard him utter these

words, she was at once filled with love, astonishment, and shame. So

they eagerly went through the Gándharva ceremony of marriage. Then

Manahsvámin lived happily in the palace, under two shapes; keeping

the globule in his mouth during the day and so wearing a female shape,

but at night taking it out, and assuming the form of a man.

Now, as days went on, the brother-in-law of king Yasahketu, named

Mrigánkadatta, gave his own daughter, named Mrigánkavatí, in marriage

to a young Bráhman, the son of the minister Prajnáságara: and with

her he bestowed much wealth. And the princess Sasiprabhá was invited,

on the occasion of her cousin's marriage, to her uncle's house,

and went there accompanied by her ladies-in-waiting. And among them

went the young Bráhman, Manahsvámin, wearing the attractive form of

a young maiden of exquisite beauty.

Then that minister's son beheld him disguised in female form, and

was deeply pierced with the shafts of the archer Love. And when he

went to his house, accompanied by his bride, it seemed to him to be

empty; for he was robbed of his heart by that seeming maiden. Then

he continued to think of nothing but the beauty of that supposed

maiden's face, and bitten by the great snake of fierce passion, he

suddenly became distracted. The people, who were there, ceased from

their rejoicing, and in their bewilderment asked what it meant, and

his father Prajnáságara, hearing of it, came to him in haste. And

when his father tried to comfort him, he woke up from his stupor

and uttered what was in his mind, babbling deliriously. And that

father of his was very much troubled, as he thought that the matter

was one altogether beyond his power. Then the king heard of it,

and came there in person. And he at once saw that the minister's son

had been in a moment reduced by strong passion to the seventh [347]

stage of love-sickness; so he said to his ministers; "How can I give

him a maiden whom a Bráhman left in my care? And yet, if he does not

obtain her, he will without doubt reach the last stage. If he dies,

his father, who is my minister, will perish; and if he perishes,

my kingdom is ruined, so tell me what I am to do in this matter."

When the king said this, all those ministers said, "They say that

the special virtue of a king is the protection of the virtue of his

subjects. Now the root of this protection is counsel, and counsel

resides in counsellors. If the counsellor perishes, protection

perishes in its root, and virtue is certain to be impaired. [348]

Moreover guilt would be incurred by causing the death of this Bráhman

minister and his son, so you must avoid doing that, otherwise there

is a great chance of your infringing the law of virtue. Accordingly

you must certainly give to the minister's son the maiden committed to

your care by the first Bráhman, and if he returns after the lapse of

some time, and is angry, steps can then be taken to put matters right."

When the ministers said this to the king, he agreed to give that man,

who was palming himself off as a maiden, to the minister's son. And

after fixing an auspicious moment, he brought Manahsvámin, in female

form, from the palace of the princess; and he said to the king; "If,

king, you are determined to give me, whom another committed to your

care, to a person other than him for whom I was intended, I must,

I suppose, acquiesce; you are a king, and justice and injustice

are matters familiar to you. But I consent to the marriage on this

condition only, that I am not to be considered as a wife until my

husband has spent six months in visiting holy bathing-places, and

returns home; if this condition is not agreed to, know that I will

bite my own tongue in two, and so commit suicide."

When the young man, disguised in female form, had prescribed this

condition, the king informed the minister's son of it, and he was

consoled, and accepted the terms; and he quickly went through the

ceremony of marriage, and placed in one house Mrigánkavatí his

first wife, and his second supposed wife, carefully guarded, and,

like a fool, went on a pilgrimage to holy bathing-places, to please

the object of his affections.

And Manahsvámin, in female form, dwelt in the same house with

Mrigánkavatí, as the partner of her bed and board. And one night, while

he was living there in this way, Mrigánkavatí said to him secretly

in the bed-chamber, while their attendants were sleeping outside,

"My friend, I cannot sleep, tell me some tale." When the young man,

disguised in female form, heard this, he told her the story, how in

old time a royal sage, named Ida, of the race of the sun, assumed,

in consequence of the curse of Gaurí, a female form that fascinated

the whole world, and how he and Budha fell in love with one another

at first sight, meeting one another in a shrubbery in the grounds of

a temple, and were there united, and how Purúravas was the fruit of

that union. When the artful creature had told this story, he went on

to say, "So by the fiat of a deity or by charms and drugs, a man may

sometimes become a woman, and vice versâ, and in this way even great

ones do sometimes unite impelled by love."

When the tender fair one, who regretted her husband, who had left her

as soon as the marriage had taken place, heard this, she said to her

supposed rival, in whom she had come to confide by living with her,

"This story makes my body tremble and my heart, as it were, sink;

so tell me friend, what is the meaning of this." When the Bráhman,

disguised in female form, heard this, he went on to say, "My friend,

these are violent symptoms of love; I have felt them myself, I will

not conceal it from you." When she said this, Mrigánkavatí went on

slowly to say, "Friend, I love you as my life, so why should I not

say what I think it is time to reveal? Could any one by any artifice

be introduced into this palace?" When the pupil of that master-rogue

heard this, he took her meaning and said to her, "If this is the state

of affairs, then I have something to tell you. I have a boon from

Vishnu, by which I can at pleasure become a man during the night, so I

will now become one for your sake." So he took the globule out of his

mouth, and displayed himself to her as a handsome man in the prime of

youth. And so the Bráhman lived with the wife of the minister's son,

becoming a woman in the day, and resuming his male form at night. But

hearing in a few days that the son of the minister was on the point

of returning, he took the precaution of eloping with her from that

house during the night.

At this point in the story, it happened that his teacher, Múladeva,

heard all the circumstances; so he again assumed the form of an old

Bráhman, and accompanied by his friend Sasin, who had assumed the form

of a young Bráhman, he went and respectfully said to king Yasahketu,

"I have brought back my son; so give me my daughter-in-law." Then

the king, who was afraid of being cursed, deliberated and said to

him; "Bráhman, I do not know where your daughter-in-law has gone,

so forgive me; as I am in fault, I will give you my own daughter

for your son." When the king had said this to that prince of rogues,

disguised in the form of an old Bráhman, who asserted his false claim

with the sternness of assumed anger, he gave his daughter with all

due ceremonies to his friend Sasin, who pretended to be the supposed

Bráhman's son. Then Múladeva took the bride and bridegroom, who had

been thus united, off to his own home, without showing any desire

for the king's wealth.

And there Manahsvámin met them, and a fierce dispute took place between

him and Sasin in the presence of that Múladeva. Manahsvámin said,

"This Sasiprabhá should be given to me, for long ago, when she was

a maiden, I married her by the favour of the master." Sasin said,

"You fool, what have you to do with her? she is my wife, for her

father bestowed her on me in the presence of the fire." So they

went on wrangling about the princess, whom they had got hold of by

means of magic, and their dispute was never decided. So tell me,

king, to which of the two does that wife belong? Resolve my doubt;

the conditions of non-compliance are those which I mentioned before."

When king Trivikramasena was thus addressed by the Vetála on his

shoulder, he gave him this answer: "I consider that the princess is the

lawful wife of Sasin, since she was openly given to him by her father

in the lawful way. But Manahsvámin married her in an underhand way,

like a thief, by the Gándharva rite; and a thief has no lawful title

to the possessions of another."

When the Vetála heard this answer of the king's, he quickly left

his shoulder, and went back to his own place, and the king hurried

after him.

NOTE.

Oesterley tells us that in the Turkish Tútínámah (Rosen, II, p. 178,)

a sorceress takes the place of Múladeva. She gives the young man a

small seal in place of the pill or globule. He is then married to a

son of the king's. Then the young man escapes with the princess, who in

the day keeps the seal in her mouth and so appears as a man; then the

sorceress goes in the form of a Bráhman to the king, who has to give

her 10,000 gold pieces as he cannot give back her daughter. The story

is No. 23 in the Persian Tútínámah, Iken, p. 97. Oesterley refers also

to the story in the 7th Chapter of the Kathá Sarit Ságara; (Oesterley's

Baitál Pachísí, pages 203-205). The tale in one way resembles the Greek

fable of Cæneus, and also that of Tiresias. The story of Iphis and

Ianthe is perhaps still more apposite. According to Sir Thomas Brown,

(Vulgar Errors, Book III, ch. 17) hares are supposed by some to be both

male and female. He mentions Tiresias and Empedocles as instances of

"transexion." Benfey gives a number of stories of this kind in the

1st Volume of his Panchatantra, pp. 41-52. He traces them all back

to a tendency of the Indo-Germanic race to look upon their deities

as belonging to both sexes at once.

CHAPTER XC.

(Vetála 16.)

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

the Vetála from it, and set out with him on his shoulder; and as

he was returning from the tree, the Vetála once more said to him,

"Listen, king, I will tell you a noble story."

Story of Jímútaváhana. [349]

There is in this earth a great mountain named Himavat, where all

jewels are found, which is the origin of both Gaurí and Gangá, the

two goddesses dear to Siva. Even heroes cannot reach its top; [350]

it towers proudly above all other mountains; and as such its praises

are sung in strains of sooth in the three worlds. On the ridge of

that Himavat there is that city rightly named the Golden City, which

gleams like a mass of the sun's rays deposited by him on earth.

Of old there lived in that splendid city a fortunate lord of the

Vidyádharas, named Jímútaketu, who dwelt there like Indra on Meru. In

his palace-garden there was a wishing-tree, which was an heirloom

in his family, which was well known as the Granter of Desires, and

not named so without reason. The king supplicated that divine tree,

and obtained by its favour a son, who remembered his former birth,

and was the incarnation of a portion of a Bodhisattva. He was a hero

in munificence, of great courage, compassionate to all creatures,

attentive to the instructions of his spiritual adviser, and his name

was Jímútaváhana. And when he grew up to manhood, his father, the

king, made him crown-prince, being impelled thereto by his excellent

qualities, and the advice of the ministers.

And when Jímútaváhana was made crown-prince, the ministers of his

father, desiring his welfare, came to him and said, "Prince, you must

continually worship this wishing-tree invincible by all creatures,

[351] which grants all our desires. For, as long as we have this,

not even Indra could injure us, much less any other enemy." When

Jímútaváhana heard this, he inly reflected, "Alas! our predecessors,

though they possessed such a divine tree, never obtained from it

any fruit worthy of it; some of them asked it for wealth and did

nothing more; so the mean creatures made themselves and this noble

tree contemptible. Well, I will make it inserve a design which I have

in my mind."

After the noble prince had formed this resolution, he went to his

father, and gained his goodwill by paying him all kinds of attentions,

and said to him in private, as he was sitting at ease; "Father, you

know that in this sea of mundane existence, all that we behold is

unsubstantial, fleeting as the twinkling of the wave. Especially are

the twilight, the dawn, and Fortune shortlived, disappearing as soon

as revealed; where and when have they been seen to abide? Charity to

one's neighbour is the only thing that is permanent in this cycle of

change; it produces holiness and fame that bear witness for hundreds

of yugas. So with what object, father, do we keep for ourselves such

an unfailing wishing-tree, as all these phenomenal conditions are but

momentary? Where, I ask, are those our predecessors who kept it so

strenuously, exclaiming, 'It is mine, it is mine?' Where is it now

to them? For which of them does it exist, and which of them exists

for it? So, if you permit, father, I will employ this wishing-tree,

that grants all desires, for attaining the matchless fruit of charity

to one's neighbour."

His father gave him leave, saying, "So be it!" And Jímútaváhana went

and said to the wishing-tree, "O god, thou didst fulfil all the

cherished wishes of our predecessors, so fulfil this one solitary

wish of mine! Enable me to behold this whole earth free from poverty;

depart, and good luck attend thee; thou art bestowed by me on the

world that desires wealth." When Jímútaváhana had said this with joined

hands, a voice came forth from the tree, "Since thou hast relinquished

me, I depart." And in a moment the wishing-tree flew up to heaven,

and rained wealth on the earth so plenteously, that there was not

one poor man left on it. Then the glory of that Jímútaváhana spread

through the three worlds, on account of that ardent compassion of

his for all creatures.

That made all his relations impatient with envy; and thinking that

he and his father would be easy to conquer, as they were deprived

of the calamity-averting tree which they had bestowed on the world,

they put their heads together and formed a design, and then girded

on their harness for war, to deprive Jímútaváhana and his father

of their realm. When Jímútaváhana saw that, he said to his father,

"Father, what other has might, when thou hast taken up arms? But what

generous man desires to possess a realm, if he must do so by slaying

his relations for the sake of this wicked perishable body? So of

what use is sovereignty to us? We will depart to some other place,

and practise virtue that brings happiness in both worlds. Let these

miserable relations that covet our kingdom, joy their fill!" When

Jímútaváhana said this, his father Jímútaketu answered him, "My son,

I desire a realm for your sake only; if you, being penetrated with

compassion, give it up, of what value is it to me, who am old?" When

Jímútaváhana's father agreed to his proposal, he went with him and

his mother to the Malaya mountain, abandoning his kingdom. There he

made him a retreat in the valley of a brook, the stream of which

was hidden by sandal-wood trees, and spent his time in waiting on

his parents. And there he made a friend of the name of Mitrávasu,

the son of Visvávasu a king of the Siddhas, who dwelt on that mountain.

Now, one day, as Jímútaváhana was roaming about, he went into a temple

of the goddess Gaurí, that was situated in a garden, in order to

worship in the presence of the image. And there he saw a beautiful

maiden accompanied by her attendants, playing on the lyre, intent

on pleasing the daughter of the mountain. [352] And the deer were

listening to the sweet sound of the lyre in the musical performance,

standing motionless, as if abashed at beholding the beauty of her

eyes. [353] She had a black pupil in her white eye, and it seemed

as if it strove to penetrate to the root of her ear. [354] She was

thin and elegant in her waist, which appeared as if the Creator had

compressed it in his grasp, when making her, and deeply impressed

on it the marks of his fingers in the form of wrinkles. The moment

Jímútaváhana saw that beauty, it seemed as if she entered by his eyes,

and stole away his heart. And when the maiden saw him, adorning the

garden, producing longing and disturbance of soul, looking as if

he were the god of spring retired to the forest through disgust at

the burning up of the body of the god of Love, she was overpowered

with affection, and so bewildered, that her lyre, as if it had been

a friend, became distracted and mute.

Then Jímútaváhana said to an attendant of hers, "What is your friend's

auspicious name, and what family does she adorn?" When the attendant

heard that, she said, "She is the sister of Mitrávasu, and the daughter

of Visvávasu the king of the Siddhas, and her name is Malayavatí." When

she had said this to Jímútaváhana, the discreet woman asked the

son of the hermit, who had come with him, his name and descent, and

then she made this brief remark to Malayavatí, smiling as she spoke,

"My friend, why do you not welcome this prince of the Vidyádharas

who has come here? For he is a guest worthy of being honoured by the

whole world." When she said this, that daughter of the king of the

Siddhas was silent, and her face was cast down through shame. Then

her attendant said to Jímútaváhana, "The princess is bashful, permit

me to shew you the proper courtesy in her place." So she alone gave

him a garland with the arghya. Jímútaváhana, as soon as the garland

was given to him, being full of love, took it, and threw it round the

neck of Malayavatí. And she, looking at him with loving sidelong looks,

placed, as it were, a garland of blue lotuses on him.

Thus they went through a sort of silent ceremony of mutual election,

and then a maid came and said to that Siddha maiden, "Princess, your

mother desires your presence, come at once." When the princess heard

that, she withdrew regretfully and reluctantly from the face of her

beloved her gaze, that seemed to be fastened to it with the arrows of

love, and managed not without a struggle to return to her house. And

Jímútaváhana, with his mind fixed on her, returned to his hermitage.

And when Malayavatí had seen her mother, she went at once and flung

herself down on her bed, sick of separation from her beloved. Then her

eyes were clouded, as it were by the smoke of the fire of love that

burnt in her bosom, she shed floods of tears, and her body was tortured

with heat; and though her attendants anointed her with sandal-wood

unguent, and fanned her with the leaves of lotuses, she could not

obtain any relief on the bed, in the lap of her attendant, or on the

ground. Then the day retired somewhere with the glowing evening, and

the moon ascending kissed the laughing forehead of the east, and though

urged on by love she was too bashful to send a female messenger to her

chosen one, or to adopt any of the measures that lovers usually take,

but she seemed loth to live. And she was contracted in her heart,

and she passed that night, which the moon made disagreeable to her,

like a lotus which closes at night, and bewilderment hung round her,

like a cloud of bees.

And in the meanwhile Jímútaváhana, who was tortured at parting with

her, though lying on his bed, spent the night as one who had fallen

into the hand of Cupid; though his glow of love was of recent birth,

a pallid hue began to shew itself in him; and though shame made him

dumb, he uttered the pain which love produced.

Next morning he returned with excessive longing to that temple of

Gaurí, where he had seen the daughter of the king of the Siddhas. And

while, distracted with the fire of passion, he was being consoled by

the hermit's son, who had followed him there, Malayavatí also came

there; for, as she could not bear separation, she had secretly gone

out alone into a solitary place to abandon the body. And the girl,

not seeing her lover, who was separated from her by a tree, thus

prayed, with eyes full of tears, to the goddess Gaurí, "Goddess,

though my devotion to thee has not made Jímútaváhana my husband in

this life, let him be so in my next life!" As soon as she had said

this, she made a noose with her upper garment, and fastened it to the

branch of the asoka-tree in front of the temple of Gaurí. And she said

"Prince Jímútaváhana, lord renowned over the whole world, how is it,

that, though thou art compassionate, thou hast not delivered me?" When

she had said this, she was proceeding to fasten the noose round her

throat, but at that very moment a voice spoken by the goddess came

from the air, "Daughter, do not act recklessly, for the Vidyádhara

prince Jímútaváhana, the future emperor, shall be thy husband."

When the goddess said this, Jímútaváhana also heard it, and seeing

his beloved, he went up to her, and his friend accompanied him. And

his friend, the hermit's son, said to the young lady, "See, here is

that very bridegroom whom the goddess has in reality bestowed upon

you." And Jímútaváhana, uttering many tender loving speeches, removed

with his own hand the noose from her neck. Then they seemed to have

experienced, as it were, a sudden shower of nectar, and Malayavatí

remained with bashful eye, drawing lines upon the ground. And at that

moment, one of her companions, who was looking for her, suddenly came

up to her, and said in joyful accents, "Friend, you are lucky, and

you are blessed with good fortune in that you have obtained the very

thing which you desired. For, this very day, prince Mitrávasu said to

the great king, your father, in my hearing, 'Father, that Vidyádhara

prince Jímútaváhana, the object of the world's reverence, the bestower

of the wishing-tree, who has come here, should be complimented by us,

as he is our guest; and we cannot find any other match as good as

him; so let us pay him a compliment by bestowing on him this pearl of

maidens Malayavatí.' The king approved, saying 'So be it', and your

brother Mitrávasu has now gone to the hermitage of the illustrious

prince on this very errand. And I know that your marriage will take

place at once, so come back to your palace, and let this illustrious

prince also return to his dwelling." When the princess's companion

said this to her, she departed slowly from that place, rejoicing and

regretful, frequently turning her head.

And Jímútaváhana also returned quickly to his hermitage, and heard

from Mitrávasu, who came there, his commission, which fulfilled

all his wishes, and welcomed it with joy. And as he remembered his

former births, he gave him an account of one in which Mitrávasu was

his friend, and Mitrávasu's sister his wife. [355] Then Mitrávasu

was pleased, and informed the parents of Jímútaváhana, who were also

delighted, and returned, to the joy of his own parents, having executed

his mission successfully. And that very day he took Jímútaváhana to

his own house, and he made preparations for the marriage festival

with a magnificence worthy of his magic power, and on that very

same auspicious day he celebrated the marriage of his sister to that

Vidyádhara prince; and then Jímútaváhana, having obtained the desire of

his heart, lived with his newly married wife Malayavatí. And once on a

time, as he was roaming about out of curiosity with Mitrávasu on that

Malaya mountain, he reached a wood on the shore of the sea. There

he saw a great many heaps of bones, and he said to Mitrávasu,

"What creatures are these whose bones are piled up here?" Then his

brother-in-law Mitrávasu said to that compassionate man, "Listen, I

will tell you the story of this in a few words. Long, long ago, Kadrú

the mother of the snakes conquered Vinatá, the mother of Garuda, in a

treacherous wager, and made her a slave. Through enmity caused thereby,

the mighty Garuda, [356] though he had delivered his mother, began

to eat the snakes the sons of Kadrú. He was thenceforth continually

in the habit of entering Pátála, and some he smote, some he trampled,

and some died of fright.

"When Vásuki, the king of the snakes, saw that, he feared that

his race would be annihilated at one fell swoop, so he supplicated

Garuda, and made a compact with him, saying, 'King of birds, I will

send you one snake every day to this shore of the southern sea for

your meal. But you must by no means enter Pátála, for what advantage

will you gain by destroying the snakes at one blow?' When the king

of the snakes said this, the mighty Garuda saw that the proposal was

to his advantage, and agreed to it. And from that time forth, the

king of birds eats every day, on the shore of the sea, a snake sent

by Vásuki. So these are heaps of bones of snakes devoured by Garuda,

that have gradually accumulated in course of time, and come to look

like the peak of a mountain."

When Jímútaváhana, that treasure-house of courage and compassion,

had heard, inly grieving, this story from the mouth of Mitrávasu,

he thus answered him, "One cannot help grieving for king Vásuki, who,

like a coward, offers up every day his subjects to their enemy with his

own hand. As he has a thousand faces and a thousand mouths, why could

he not say with one mouth to Garuda, 'Eat me first?' And how could he

be so cowardly as to ask Garuda to destroy his race, and so heartless

as to be able to listen continually unmoved to the lamentation of the

Nága women? [357] And to think that Garuda, though the son of Kasyapa

and a hero, and though sanctified by being the bearer of Krishna,

should do such an evil deed! Alas the depths of delusion!" When the

noble-hearted one had said this, he formed this wish in his heart,

"May I obtain the one essential object in this world by the sacrifice

of the unsubstantial body! May I be so fortunate as to save the life

of one friendless terrified Nága by offering myself to Garuda!"

While Jímútaváhana was going through these reflections, a doorkeeper

came from Mitrávasu's father to summon them, and Jímútaváhana sent

Mitrávasu home, saying to him, "Go you on first, I will follow." And

after he had gone, the compassionate man roamed about alone, intent on

effecting the object he had in view, and he heard afar off a piteous

sound of weeping. And he went on, and saw near a lofty rocky slab

a young man of handsome appearance plunged in grief: an officer of

some monarch seemed to have just brought him and left him there,

and the young man was trying to induce by loving persuasions [358]

an old woman, who was weeping there, to return.

And while Jímútaváhana was listening there in secret, melted with pity,

eager to know who he could be, the old woman, overwhelmed with the

weight of her grief, began to look again and again at the young man,

and to lament his hard lot in the following words, "Alas Sankhachúda,

you that were obtained by me by means of a hundred pangs! Alas,

virtuous one! Alas! son, the only scion of our family, where shall I

behold you again? Darling, when this moon of your face is withdrawn,

your father will fall into the darkness of grief, and how will he

live to old age? How will your body, that would suffer even from the

touch of the sun's rays, be able to endure the agony of being devoured

by Garuda? How comes it that Providence and the king of the snakes

were able to find out you, the only son of ill-starred me, though

the world of the snakes is wide?" When she thus lamented, the young

man her son said to her, "I am afflicted enough, as it is, mother;

why do you afflict me more? Return home; this is my last reverence to

you, for I know it will soon be time for Garuda to arrive here." When

the old woman heard that, she cast her sorrowful eyes all round the

horizon, and cried aloud, "I am undone; who will deliver my son?"

In the meanwhile Jímútaváhana, that portion of a Bodhisattva, having

heard and seen that, said to himself, being profoundly touched with

pity, "I see, this is an unhappy snake, of the name of Sankhachúda,

who has now been sent by king Vásuki, to serve as food for Garuda. And

this is his aged mother, whose only son he is, and who has followed

him here out of love, and is lamenting piteously from grief. So,

if I cannot save this wretched Nága by offering up this exceedingly

perishable body, alas! my birth will have been void of fruit."

When Jímútaváhana had gone through these reflections, he went joyfully

up to the old woman, and said to her, "Mother, I will deliver your

son." When the old woman heard that, she was alarmed and terrified,

thinking that Garuda had come, and she cried out, "Eat me, Garuda,

eat me!" Then Sankhachúda said, "Mother, do not be afraid, this is not

Garuda. There is a great difference between this being who cheers one

like the moon, and the terrible Garuda." When Sankhachúda said this,

Jímútaváhana said, "Mother, I am a Vidyádhara, come to deliver your

son; for I will give my body, disguised in clothes, to the hungry

Garuda; and do you return home, taking your son with you."

When the old woman heard that, she said, "By no means, for you are my

son in a still higher sense, because you have shewn such compassion

for us at such a time." When Jímútaváhana heard that, he replied,

"You two ought not to disappoint my wish in this matter." And when

he persistently urged this, Sankhachúda said to him; "Of a truth,

noble-hearted man, you have displayed your compassionate nature,

but I cannot consent to save my body at the cost of yours; for who

ought to save a common stone by the sacrifice of a gem? The world is

full of people like myself, who feel pity only for themselves, but

people like you, who are inclined to feel pity for the whole world,

are few in number; besides, excellent man, I shall never find it in

my heart to defile the pure race of Sankhapála, as a spot defiles

the disk of the moon."

When Sankhachúda had in these words attempted to dissuade him,

he said to his mother, "Mother, go back, and leave this terrible

wilderness. Do you not see here this rock of execution, smeared with

the clotted gore of snakes, awful as the luxurious couch of Death! But

I will go to the shore of the sea, and worship the lord Gokarna,

and quickly return, before Garuda comes here." When Sankhachúda had

said this, he took a respectful leave of his sadly-wailing mother,

and went to pay his devotions to Gokarna.

And Jímútaváhana made up his mind that, if Garuda arrived in the

meantime, he would certainly be able to carry out his proposed

self-sacrifice for the sake of another. And while he was thus

reflecting, he saw the trees swaying with the wind of the wings of the

approaching king of birds, and seeming, as it were, to utter a cry of

dissuasion. So he came to the conclusion that the moment of Garuda's

arrival was at hand, and determined to offer up his life for another,

he ascended the rock of sacrifice. And the sea, churned by the wind,

seemed with the eyes of its bright-flashing jewels to be gazing in

astonishment at his extraordinary courage. Then Garuda came along,

obscuring the heaven, and swooping down, struck the great-hearted

hero with his beak, and carried him off from that slab of rock. And he

quickly went off with him to a peak of the Malaya mountain, to eat him

there; and Jímútaváhana's crest-jewel was torn from his head, and drops

of blood fell from him, as he was carried through the air. And while

Garuda was eating that moon of the Vidyádhara race, he said to himself;

"May my body thus be offered in every birth for the benefit of others,

and let me not enjoy heaven or liberation, if they are dissociated

from the opportunity of benefiting my neighbour." And while he was

saying this to himself, a rain of flowers fell from heaven.

In the meanwhile his crest-jewel, dripping with his blood, had fallen

in front of his wife Malayavatí. When she saw it, she recognized it

with much trepidation as her husband's crest-jewel, and as she was

in the presence of her father-in-law and mother-in-law, she shewed

it them with tears. And they, when they saw their son's crest-jewel,

were at once beside themselves to think what it could mean. Then king

Jímútaketu and queen Kanakavatí found out by their supernatural powers

of meditation the real state of the case, and proceeded to go quickly

with their daughter-in-law to the place where Garuda and Jímútaváhana

were. In the meanwhile Sankhachúda returned from worshipping Gokarna,

and saw, to his dismay, that that stone of sacrifice was wet with

blood. Then the worthy fellow exclaimed with tears, "Alas! I am undone,

guilty creature that I am! Undoubtedly that great-hearted one, in the

fulness of his compassion, has given himself to Garuda in my stead. So

I will find out to what place the enemy has carried him off in this

moment. If I find him alive, I shall escape sinking in the mire of

dishonour." While he said this, he went following up the track of the

drops of blood, that he saw lying close to one another on the ground.

In the meanwhile Garuda, who was engaged in devouring Jímútaváhana, saw

that he was pleased; so he immediately stopped, and said to himself;

"Strange! This must be some matchless hero; for the great-hearted

one rejoices even while I am devouring him, but does not lose his

life. And on so much of his body as is not lacerated, he has all

the hairs erect, as it were a coat of mail; and his look is lovingly

fixed on me, as if I were his benefactor. So he cannot be a snake;

he must be some saint; I will cease from devouring him, and question

him." While Garuda was thus musing, Jímútaváhana said to him; "King

of birds, why do you desist? There is flesh and blood in my body, and

you are not satisfied as yet, so go on eating it." When the king of

birds heard this, he asked him with much astonishment, "Great-souled

one, you are not a snake, so tell me who you are." But Jímútaváhana

answered Garuda, "In truth I am a Nága; what is the meaning of this

question of yours? Do your kind, for who, that is not foolish, would

act [359] contrary to the purpose he had undertaken?"

While he was giving this answer to Garuda, Sankhachúda came near, and

called out to Garuda from a distance, "Do not do a rash and criminal

deed, son of Vinatá. What delusion is this that possesses you? He is

not a snake; lo! I am the snake designed for you." When Sankhachúda

had said this, he came up quickly, and standing between those two, and

seeing Garuda bewildered, he went on to say; "Why are you perplexed; do

you not see that I have hoods and two tongues; and do you not observe

the charming appearance of this Vidyádhara?" While Sankhachúda was

saying this, the wife and parents of Jímútaváhana came there with

speed. And his parents, seeing him mangled, immediately cried out,

"Alas, son! Alas, Jímútaváhana! Alas, compassionate one who have given

your life for others! How could you, son of Vinatá, do this thoughtless

deed?" When Garuda heard this, he was grieved, and he said, "What! Have

I in my delusion eaten an incarnation of a Bodhisattva? This is that

very Jímútaváhana, who sacrifices his life for others, the renown of

whose glory pervades all these three worlds? So, now that he is dead,

the time has arrived for my wicked self to enter the fire. Does the

fruit of the poison-tree of unrighteousness ever ripen sweet?" While

Garuda was distracted with these reflections, Jímútaváhana, having

beheld his family, fell down in the agony of his wounds, and died.

Then his parents, tortured with sorrow, lamented, and Sankhachúda

again and again blamed his own negligence. But Jímútaváhana's wife,

Malayavatí, looked towards the heaven, and in accents choked with

tears thus reproached the goddess Ambiká, who before was pleased

with her, and granted her a boon, "At that time, O goddess Gaurí,

thou didst promise me that I should have for husband one destined to

be paramount sovereign over all the kings of the Vidyádharas, so how

comes it that thou hast now falsified thy promise to me?" When she

said this, Gaurí became visible, and saying "Daughter, my speech was

not false," she quickly sprinkled Jímútaváhana with nectar from her

pitcher. [360] That made the successful hero Jímútaváhana at once

rise up more splendid than before, with all his limbs free from wounds.

He rose up, and prostrated himself before the goddess, and then all

prostrated themselves, and the goddess said to him, "My son, I am

pleased with this sacrifice of thy body, so I now anoint thee with this

hand of mine emperor over the Vidyádharas, and thou shalt hold the

office for a kalpa." With these words Gaurí sprinkled Jímútaváhana

with water from her pitcher, and after she had been worshipped,

disappeared. And thereupon a heavenly rain of flowers fell on that

spot, and the drums of the gods sounded joyously in the sky.

Then Garuda, bending low, said to Jímútaváhana, "Emperor, I am pleased

with thee, as thou art an unparalleled hero, since thou, of soul

matchlessly generous, hast done this wonderful deed, that excites the

astonishment of the three worlds, and is inscribed on the walls of

the egg of Brahmá. So give me an order, and receive from me whatever

boon thou dost desire." When Garuda said this, the great-hearted hero

said to him, "Thou must repent, and never again devour the snakes;

and let these snakes, whom thou didst devour before, whose bones only

remain, return to life." Thereupon Garuda said, "So be it; from this

day forth I will never eat the snakes again; heaven forefend! As for

those that I ate on former occasions, let them return to life."

Then all the snakes, that he had eaten before, whose bones alone

remained, rose up unwounded, restored to life by the nectar of his

boon. Then the gods, the snakes, and the hermit bands assembled there

full of joy, and so the Malaya mountain earned the title of the three

worlds. And then all the kings of the Vidyádharas heard by the favour

of Gaurí the strange story of Jímútaváhana; and they immediately came

and bowed at his feet, and after he had dismissed Garuda, they took him

to the Himálayas, accompanied by his rejoicing relations and friends,

a noble emperor whose great inauguration ceremony had been performed

by Gaurí with her own hands. There Jímútaváhana, in the society of his

mother and father, and of Mitrávasu and Malayavatí, and of Sankhachúda,

who had gone to his own house, and returned again, long enjoyed the

dignity of emperor of the Vidyádharas, rich in jewels, which had been

gained by his marvellous and extraordinarily heroic action.

Having told this very noble and interesting tale, the Vetála proceeded

to put another question to king Trivikramasena, "So tell me, which of

those two was superior in fortitude, Sankhachúda or Jímútaváhana? And

the conditions are those which I mentioned before." When king

Trivikramasena heard this question of the Vetála's, he broke his

silence, through fear of a curse, and said with calm composure, "This

behaviour was nowise astonishing in Jímútaváhana, as he had acquired

this virtue in many births; but Sankhachúda really deserves praise,

for that, after he had escaped death, he ran after his enemy Garuda,

who had found another self-offered victim [361] and had gone a long

distance with him, and importunately offered him his body."

When that excellent Vetála had heard this speech of that king's,

he left his shoulder and again went to his own place, and the king

again pursued him as before.

NOTE.

Oesterley remarks that the substance of this story is told, in the

eleventh chapter of the Vikra macharitam, of king Vikramáditya. A

Rákshasa carried off so many persons from the city of Pala that

the inhabitants agreed to give him one human being every day. The

king takes the place of one of these victims, and the Rákshasa is

so much affected by it, that he promises not to demand any more

victims. A similar contest in generosity is found in the 2nd Tale

of the Siddhi-kür, Jülg, p. 60, but the end of the story is quite

different. (Oesterley's Baitál Pachísí, pp. 205-207.) The story in

the Siddhi-kür is probably the 5th Tale in Sagas from the Far East;

"How the Serpent-gods were propitiated."

CHAPTER XCI.

(Vetála 17.)

Then the brave king Trivikramasena went back once more to the

asoka-tree, and taking the Vetála from it, carried him off on his

shoulder. And when he had set out, the Vetála said to him from his

perch on his shoulder, "Listen, king; to cheer your toil, I will tell

you the following tale."

Story of Unmádiní. [362]

There was a city of the name [363] of Kanakapura situated on the bank

of the Ganges, in which the bounds of virtue were never transgressed,

and which was inaccessible to the demon Kali. In it there was a king

rightly named Yasodhana, who, like a rocky coast, protected the earth

against the sea of calamity. When Destiny framed him, she seemed to

blend together the moon and the sun, for, though he delighted the

world, the heat of his valour was scorching, and the circle of his

territory never waned. This king was unskilled [364] in slandering

his neighbour, but skilled in the meaning of the Sástras, he shewed

poverty in crime, not in treasure and military force. His subjects

sang of him as one afraid only of sin, covetous only of glory, averse

to the wives of others, all compact of valour, generosity, and love.

In that capital of that sovereign there was a great merchant, and he

had an unmarried daughter, named Unmádiní. Whoever there beheld her,

was at once driven mad by the wealth of her beauty, which was enough to

bewilder even the god of love himself. And when she attained womanhood,

her politic father, the merchant, went to king Yasodhana, and said to

him, "King, I have a daughter to give in marriage, who is the pearl of

the three worlds; I dare not give her away to any one else, without

informing your Majesty. For to your Majesty belong all the jewels of

the whole earth, so do me the favour of accepting or rejecting her."

When the king heard this report from the merchant, he sent off, with

due politeness, his own Bráhmans, to see whether she had auspicious

marks or not. The Bráhmans went and saw that matchless beauty of the

three worlds, and were at once troubled and amazed, but when they had

recovered their self-control, they reflected; "If the king gets hold

of this maiden the kingdom is ruined, for his mind will be thrown

off its balance by her, and he will not regard his kingdom, so we

must not tell the king that she possesses auspicious marks." When

they had deliberated to this effect, [365] they went to the king,

and said falsely to him, "She has inauspicious marks." Accordingly

the king declined to take that merchant's daughter as his wife.

Then, by the king's orders, the merchant, the father of the maiden

Unmádiní, gave her in marriage to the commander of the king's forces,

named Baladhara. And she lived happily with her husband in his house,

but she thought that she had been dishonoured by the king's abandoning

her on account of her supposed inauspicious marks.

And as time went on, the lion of spring came to that place, slaying the

elephant of winter, that, with flowering jasmine-creepers for tusks,

had ravaged the thick-clustering lotuses. And it sported in the wood,

with luxuriant clusters of flowers for mane, and with mango-buds for

claws. At that season king Yasodhana, mounted on an elephant, went

out to see the high festival of spring in that city of his. And then

a warning drum was beaten, to give notice to all matrons to retire, as

it was apprehended that the sight of his beauty might prove their ruin.

When Unmádiní heard that drum, she shewed herself to the king on

the roof of her palace, to revenge the insult he had offered her by

refusing her. And when the king saw her, looking like a flame shooting

up from the fire of love, when fanned by spring and the winds from the

Malaya mountain, he was sorely troubled. And gazing on her beauty,

that pierced deep into his heart, like a victorious dart of Cupid,

he immediately swooned. His servants managed to bring him round, and

when he had entered his palace, he found out from them, by questioning

them, that this was the very beauty who had been formerly offered to

him, and whom he had rejected. Then the king banished from his realm

those who reported that she had inauspicious marks, and thought on her

with longing, night after night, saying to himself, "Ah! how dull of

soul and shameless is the moon, that he continues to rise, while her

spotless face is there, a feast to the eyes of the world!" Thinking

thus in his heart, the king, being slowly wasted by the smouldering

fires of love, pined away day by day. But through shame he concealed

the cause of his grief, and with difficulty was he induced to tell

it to his confidential servants, who were led by external signs to

question him. Then they said; "Why fret yourself? Why do you not

take her to yourself, as she is at your command?" But the righteous

sovereign would not consent to follow their advice.

Then Baladhara, the commander-in-chief, heard the tidings, and

being truly devoted to him, he came and flung himself at the feet

of his sovereign, and made the following petition to him, "King,

you should look upon this female slave as your slave-girl, not as

the wife of another; and I bestow her freely upon you, so deign to

accept my wife. Or I will abandon her in the temple here, then, king,

there will be no sin in your taking her to yourself, as there might

be, if she were a matron." When the commander-in-chief persistently

entreated the king to this effect, the king answered him with inward

wrath, "How could I, being a king, do such an unrighteous deed? If I

desert the path of right, who will remain loyal to his duty? And how

can you, though devoted to me, urge me to commit a crime, which will

bring momentary pleasure, [366] but cause great misery in the next

world? And if you desert your lawful wife, I shall not allow your

crime to go unpunished, for who in my position could tolerate such an

outrage on morality? So death is for me the best course." With these

words the king vetoed the proposal of the commander-in-chief, for men

of noble character lose their lives sooner than abandon the path of

virtue. And in the same way the resolute-minded monarch rejected the

petition of his citizens, and of the country-people, who assembled,

and entreated him to the same effect.

Accordingly, the king's body was gradually consumed by the fire of

the grievous fever of love, and only his name and fame remained. [367]

But the commander-in-chief could not bear the thought that the king's

death had been brought about in this way, so he entered the fire;

for the actions of devoted followers are inexplicable. [368]

When the Vetála, sitting on the shoulder of king Trivikramasena, had

told this wonderful tale, he again said to him, "So tell me, king,

which of these two was superior in loyalty, the general or the king;

and remember, the previous condition still holds." When the Vetála

said this, the king broke silence, and answered him, "Of these two the

king was superior in loyalty." When the Vetála heard this, he said

to him reproachfully, "Tell me, king, how can you make out that the

general was not his superior? For, though he knew the charm of his

wife's society by long familiarity, he offered such a fascinating

woman to the king out of love for him; and when the king was dead,

he burnt himself; but the king refused the offer of his wife without

knowing anything about her."

When the Vetála said this to the king, the latter laughed, and said,

"Admitting the truth of this, what is there astonishing in the fact,

that the commander-in-chief, a man of good family, acted thus for

his master's sake, out of regard for him? For servants are bound to

preserve their masters even by the sacrifice of their lives. But

kings are inflated with arrogance, uncontrollable as elephants,

and when bent on enjoyment, they snap asunder the chain of the moral

law. For their minds are overweening, and all discernment is washed

out of them, when the waters of inauguration are poured over them,

and is, as it were, swept away by the flood. And the breeze of the

waving chowries fans away the atoms of the sense of scripture taught

them by old men, as it fans away flies and mosquitoes. And the royal

umbrella keeps off from them the rays of truth, as well as the rays

of the sun; and their eyes, smitten by the gale of prosperity, do not

see the right path. And so even kings, that have conquered the world,

like Nahusha and others, have had their minds bewildered by Mára, and

have been brought into calamity. But this king, though his umbrella

was paramount in the earth, was not fascinated by Unmádiní, fickle

as the goddess of Fortune; indeed, sooner than set his foot on the

wrong path, he renounced life altogether; therefore him I consider

the more self-controlled of the two."

When the Vetála heard this speech of the king's, he again rapidly

quitted his shoulder by the might of his delusive power, and returned

to his own place; and the king followed him swiftly, as before,

to recover him: for how can great men leave off in the middle of an

enterprise, which they have begun, even though it be very difficult?

NOTE.

Oesterley states that this tale is No. 26, in the Persian Tútínámah,

in Iken, p. 109. The deliberations about carrying off the wife of

the commander-in-chief are, in this form of the story, carried on

in the presence of the counsellors only; and the king is the only

one that dies. From the Persian Tútínámah the story has passed in

a very similar form into the Turkish Tútínámah. Compare Malespíní,

1, No. 102, (Oesterley's Baitál Pachísí, pp. 207, 208.) The story,

as told by Sivadása, will be found in Bezzenberger's Beiträge zur

Kunde der Indo-germanischen Sprachen, Vol. IV, p. 360. Dr. Zachariæ,

the author of the paper, gives a reference to the Rajataranginí, IV,

17-37, which Professor Bühler pointed out to him. He tells us that

the story is the 14th in Jambhaladatta's recension. The story is

also found in the parables of Buddhaghosha; in a form based upon the

Ummadantíjátaka. Dr. Zachariæ gives the Pali text of this Játaka in

an Appendix, and the corresponding Sanskrit version of the tale from

the Játakamálá of Aryasúra. He also refers his readers to Upham's

Mahávanso, pp. 212-213; Beal, Texts from the Buddhist canon, commonly

known as Dhammapada, Section XXIII, Advantageous Service; Bigandet, The

life or legend of Gaudama, the Buddha of the Burmese, pp. 220-221; and

Mary Summer, Histoire du Bouddha Sákya-Mouni, (Paris, 1874,) p. 145.

In the Pali version the Bráhmans are so bewildered at the sight of

the girl that they cannot eat, but put their rice on their heads

&c. instead of putting it in their mouths; so she has them driven

out by her servants. Out of revenge they tell the king that she

is a kálakanni, which according to Childers means "a hag." In the

Játakamálá they are too much bewildered to stand, much less to eat;

but the report which they make is much the same as in our text,

and made from the same motives.

CHAPTER XCII.

(Vetála 18.)

Then in that cemetery, full of the flames of funeral pyres, as of

demons, flesh-devouring, with lolling tongues of fire, the undaunted

king Trivikramasena went back that same night to the asoka-tree.

And there he unexpectedly saw many corpses of similar appearance

hanging upon the tree, and they all seemed to be possessed by

Vetálas. The king said to himself, "Ah! what is the meaning of this? Is

this deluding Vetála doing this now in order to waste my time? For

I do not know which of these many corpses here I ought to take. If

this night shall pass away without my accomplishing my object, I will

enter the fire, I will not put up with disgrace." But the Vetála

discovered the king's intention, and pleased with his courage, he

withdrew that delusion. Then the king beheld only one Vetála on the

tree in the corpse of a man, and he took it down, and put it on his

shoulder, and once more started off with it. And as he trudged along,

the Vetála again said to him, "King, your fortitude is wonderful:

so listen to this my tale."

Story of the Bráhman's son who failed to acquire the magic power.

There is a city called Ujjayiní, inferior only to Bhogavatí and

Amarávatí, which Siva, who was won by the toilsome asceticism of Gaurí,

being in love with the matchless pre-eminence of its excellence,

himself selected as his habitation. It is full of various enjoyments,

to be attained only by distinguished well-doing; in that city stiffness

and hardness is seen only in the bosoms of the ladies, curvature only

in their eye-brows, [369] and fickleness only in their rolling eyes;

darkness only in the nights; crookedness only in the ambiguous phrases

of poets; madness only in elephants; and coldness only in pearls,

sandal-wood juice, and the moon.

In that city there was a learned Bráhman, named Devasvámin, who

had offered many sacrifices, and possessed great wealth, and who

was highly honoured by the king, whose name was Chandraprabha. In

time there was born to that Bráhman a son, named Chandrasvámin,

and he, though he had studied the sciences, was, when he grew up,

exclusively devoted to the vice of gambling. [370] Now once on a time

that Bráhman's son, Chandrasvámin, entered a great gambling-hall to

gamble. Calamities seemed to be continually watching that hall with

tumbling dice for rolling eyes, like the black antelope in colour,

and saying to themselves, "Whom shall we seize on here?" And the

hall, full of the noise of the altercations of gamblers, seemed to

utter this cry, "Who is there whose wealth I could not take away? I

could impoverish even Kuvera the lord of Alaká." Then he entered the

hall, and playing dice with gamblers, he lost his clothes and all,

and then he lost borrowed money in addition. And when he was called

upon to pay that impossible sum, he could not do it, so the keeper

of the gambling-hall seized him and beat him with sticks. [371]

And that Bráhman's son, when beaten with sticks all over his body,

made himself motionless as a stone, and to all appearance dead,

and remained in that state.

When he had remained there in that condition for two or three days,

the proprietor of the gambling establishment got angry, and said, in

the gambling-hall, to the gamblers, who frequented it; "This fellow has

begun to try on the petrifaction dodge, so take the spiritless wretch

and throw him into some blind well; but I will give you the money."

When the proprietor said this to the gamblers, they took up

Chandrasvámin, and carried him to a distant wood to look for a

well. There an old gambler said to the others, "This fellow is all

but dead; so what is the good of throwing him into a well now? So let

us leave him here, and say that we left him in a well." All approved

his speech, and agreed to do as he recommended.

Then the gamblers left Chandrasvámin there and went their ways, and he

rose up and entered an empty temple of Siva that stood near. There

he recovered his strength a little, and reflected in his grief,

"Alas! being over-confiding, I have been robbed by these gamblers

by downright cheating, so, where can I go in this condition, naked,

cudgelled, and begrimed with dust? What would my father, my relations,

or my friends say of me, if they saw me? So I will remain here for

the present, and at night I will go out, and see how I can make

shift to get food, to satisfy my hunger." While he was going through

these reflections in hunger and nakedness, the sun abated his heat,

and abandoned his garment the sky, and went to the mountain of setting.

Thereupon there came there a Pásupata ascetic with his body

smeared with ashes, with matted hair and a trident, looking like

a second Siva. When he saw Chandrasvámin, he said to him, "Who are

you?" Thereupon Chandrasvámin told him his story, and bowed before

him, and the hermit when he heard it, said to him; "You have arrived

at my hermitage, as an unexpected guest, exhausted with hunger; so

rise up, bathe, and take a portion of the food I have obtained by

begging." When the hermit said this to Chandrasvámin, he answered,

"Reverend sir, I am a Bráhman; how can I eat a part of your alms?"

When the hospitable hermit who possessed magic powers, heard that,

he entered his hut, and called to mind the science which produces

whatever one desires, and the science appeared to him when he called

it to mind, and said, "What shall I do for you?" And he gave it this

order; "Provide entertainment for this guest." The science answered

"I will;" and then Chandrasvámin beheld a golden city rise up,

with a garden attached to it, and full of female attendants. And

those females came out of that city, and approached the astonished

Chandrasvámin, and said to him; "Rise up, good sir; come, eat, and

forget your fatigue." Then they took him inside, and made him bathe,

and anointed him; and they put splendid garments on him, and took

him to another magnificent dwelling; and there the young man beheld a

young woman who seemed their chief, who was beautiful in all her limbs,

and appeared to have been made by the Creator out of curiosity to see

what he could do. She rose up, eager to welcome him, and made him sit

beside her on her throne, and he partook with her of heavenly food,

and ate with much delight betel-nut, flavoured with five fruits.

And next morning he woke up, and saw only that temple of Siva there,

and neither that city, nor that heavenly lady nor her attendants. Then

the hermit came out of the hut smiling, and asked him how he had

enjoyed himself in the night, and the discreet Chandrasvámin, in

his despondency, said to the hermit, "By your favour, reverend sir,

I spent the night happily enough; but now, without that heavenly lady,

my life will depart." When the hermit heard that, being kind-hearted,

he laughed and said to him, "Remain here, you shall have exactly

the same experiences this night also." When the hermit said this,

Chandrasvámin consented to stay, and by the favour of the hermit,

he was provided by the same means with the same enjoyments every night.

And at last he understood that this was all produced by magic science,

so, one day, impelled by destiny, he coaxed that mighty hermit and

said to him, "If, reverend sir, you really take pity on me, who have

fled to you for protection, bestow on me that science, whose power is

so great." When he urged this request persistently, the hermit said

to him, "You cannot attain this science; for it is attained under the

water, and while the aspirant is muttering spells under the water, the

science creates delusions to bewilder him, so that he does not attain

success. For there he sees himself born again, and a boy, and then a

youth, and then a young man, and married, and then he supposes that he

has a son. And he is falsely deluded, supposing that one person is his

friend and another his enemy, and he does not remember this birth,

nor that he is engaged in a magic rite for acquiring science. But

whoever, when he seems to have reached twenty-four years, is recalled

to consciousness by the science of his instructor, and being firm of

soul, remembers his real life, and knows that all he supposes himself

to experience is the effect of illusion, and though he is under the

influence of it, enters the fire, attains the science, and rising from

the water, sees the real truth. But if the science is not attained

by the pupil on whom it is bestowed, it is lost to the teacher also,

on account of its having been communicated to an unfit person. You

can attain all the results you desire by my possession of the science;

why do you shew this persistence? Take care that my power is not lost,

and that so your enjoyment is not lost also."

Though the hermit said this, Chandrasvámin persisted in saying to him,

"I shall be able to do all that is required [372]; do not be anxious

about that." Then the hermit consented to give him the science. What

will not good men do for the sake of those that implore their aid? Then

the Pásupata ascetic went to the bank of the river, and said to him,

"My son, when, in repeating this charm, you behold that illusion,

I will recall you to consciousness by my magic power, and you must

enter the fire which you will see in your illusion. For I shall

remain here all the time on the bank of the river to help you. When

that prince of ascetics had said this, being himself pure, he duly

communicated that charm to Chandrasvámin, who was purified and had

rinsed his mouth with water. Then Chandrasvámin bowed low before his

teacher, and plunged boldly into the river, while he remained on the

bank. And while he was repeating over that charm in the water, he was

at once bewildered by its deluding power, and cheated into forgetting

the whole of that birth. And he imagined himself to be born in his

own person in another town, as the son of a certain Bráhman, and he

slowly grew up. And in his fancy he was invested with the Bráhmanical

thread, and studied the prescribed sciences, and married a wife, and

was absorbed in the joys and sorrows of married life, and in course of

time had a son born to him, and he remained in that town engaged in

various pursuits, enslaved by love for his son, devoted to his wife,

with his parents and relations.

While he was thus living through in his fancy a life other than his

real one, the hermit his teacher employed the charm, whose office it

was to rouse him at the proper season. He was suddenly awakened from

his reverie by the employment of that charm, and recollected himself

and that hermit, and became aware that all that he was apparently going

through was magic illusion, and he became eager to enter the fire,

in order to gain the fruit, which was to be attained by the charm;

but he was surrounded by his elders, friends, superiors and relations,

who all tried to prevent him. Still, though they used all kinds of

arguments to dissuade him, being desirous of heavenly enjoyment,

he went with his relations to the bank of the river, on which a pyre

was prepared. There he saw his aged parents and his wife ready to die

with grief, and his young children crying; and in his bewilderment

he said to himself; "Alas! my relations will all die, if I enter the

fire, and I do not know if that promise of my teacher's is true or

not. So shall I enter the fire? Or shall I not enter it? After all,

how can that promise of my teacher's be false, as it is so precisely

in accordance with all that has taken place? So, I will gladly enter

the fire." When the Bráhman Chandrasvámin had gone through these

reflections, he entered the fire.

And to his astonishment the fire felt as cool to him as snow. Then

he rose up from the water of the river, the delusion having come to

an end, and went to the bank. There he saw his teacher on the bank,

and he prostrated himself at his feet, and when his teacher questioned

him, he told him all his experiences, ending with the cool feel of

the fire. Then his teacher said to him, "My son, I am afraid you have

made some mistake in this incantation, otherwise how can the fire

have become cool to you? This phenomenon in the process of acquiring

this science is unprecedented." When Chandrasvámin heard this remark

of his teacher's, he answered, "Reverend sir, I am sure that I made

no mistake."

Then the teacher, in order to know for certain, called to mind that

science, and it did not present itself to him or his pupil. So,

as both of them had lost the science, they left that place despondent.

"When the Vetála had told this story, he once more put a question to

king Trivikramasena, after mentioning the same condition as before;

"King, resolve this doubt of mine; tell me, why was the science lost to

both of them, though the incantation was performed in the prescribed

way?" When the brave king heard this speech of the Vetála's, he gave

him this answer; "I know, lord of magic, you are bent on wasting my

time here, still I will answer. A man cannot obtain success even by

performing correctly a difficult ceremony, unless his mind is firm, and

abides in spotless courage, unhesitating and pure from wavering. But

in that business the mind of that spiritless young Bráhman wavered,

even when roused by his teacher, [373] so his charm did not attain

success, and his teacher lost his mastery over the charm, because he

had bestowed it on an undeserving aspirant."

When the king had said this, the mighty Vetála again left his shoulder

and went back invisible to his own place, and the king went back to

fetch him as before.

NOTE.

The above story closely resembles one quoted from the Turkish Tales

in the 94th number of the Spectator.

A sultan of Egypt was directed by a great doctor in the law, who had

the gift of working miracles, to place himself in a huge tub of water,

which he accordingly did; and as he stood by the tub amidst a circle of

his great men, the holy man bid him plunge his head into the water and

draw it up again. The king accordingly thrust his head into the water,

and at the same time found himself at the foot of a mountain on the

sea-shore. The king immediately began to rage against his doctor for

this piece of treachery and witchcraft; but at length, knowing it was

in vain to be angry, he set himself to think on proper methods for

getting a livelihood in this strange country. Accordingly he applied

himself to some people, whom he saw at work in a neighbouring wood:

these people conducted him to a town that stood at a little distance

from the wood, where after some adventures, he married a woman of

great beauty and fortune. He lived with this woman so long that he had

by her seven sons and seven daughters. He was afterwards reduced to

great want, and forced to think of plying in the streets as a porter

for his livelihood. One day, as he was walking alone by the seaside,

being seized with many melancholy reflections upon his former and

his present state of life, which had raised a fit of devotion in him,

he threw off his clothes in the desire to wash himself, according to

the custom of the Muhammadans, before he said his prayers.

After his first plunge into the sea, he no sooner raised his head

above the water, than he found himself standing by the side of the

tub, with the great men of his court about him, and the holy man at

his side. He immediately upbraided his teacher for having sent him

on such a course of adventures, and betrayed him into so long a state

of misery and servitude; but was wonderfully surprised when he heard

that the state he talked of was only a dream and a delusion; that he

had not stirred from the place where he then stood; and that he had

only dipped his head into the water, and taken it out again. Oesterley

compares the story of Devadatta in the 26th Taranga of this work.

CHAPTER XCIII.

(Vetála 19.)

Then king Trivikramasena again went and took the Vetála from the

asoka-tree, and putting him on his shoulder, set out with him; and

as he was returning from the tree, the Vetála once more said to him,

"Listen, king, I will tell you a delightful tale."

Story of the Thief's Son.

There is a city named Vakrolaka, equal to the city of the gods; in it

there dwelt a king named Súryaprabha, equal to Indra. He, like Vishnu,

rescued this earth, and bore it long time on his arm, gladdening

all men by his frame ever ready to bear their burdens. [374] In the

realm of that king tears were produced only by contact with smoke,

there was no talk of death except in the case of the living death

of starved lovers, and the only fines were the fine gold sticks in

the hands of his warders. He was rich in all manner of wealth, and he

had only one source of grief, namely, that, though he had many wives,

no son was born to him.

Now, at this point of the story, there was a merchant, of the name

of Dhanapála, in the great city of Támraliptí, the wealthiest of the

wealthy. And he had born to him one daughter only, and her name was

Dhanavatí, who was shewn by her beauty to be a Vidyádharí fallen by

a curse. When she grew up to womanhood, the merchant died; and his

relations seized his property, as the king did not interfere to protect

it. Then the wife of that merchant, who was named Hiranyavatí, took

her own jewels and ornaments, which she had carefully concealed, and

left her house secretly at the beginning of night, with her daughter

Dhanavatí, and fled, to escape from her husband's relations. And with

difficulty did she get outside the town, leaning upon the hand of her

daughter, for without her was the darkness of night, and within her

the darkness of grief. And as she went along in the thick darkness

outside the town, it chanced, so fate would have it, that she ran

her shoulder against a thief impaled on a stake, whom she did not

see. He was still alive, and his pain being aggravated by the blow

he received from her shoulder, he said, "Alas! who has rubbed salt

into my wounds?" The merchant's wife then and there said to him,

"Who are you?" He answered her, "I am a detected thief impaled here,

[375] and though I am impaled, my breath has not yet left my body,

wicked man that I am. So tell me, lady, who you are and whither you

are going in this manner." When the merchant's wife heard this, she

told him her story; and at that moment the eastern quarter adorned

her face with the outshining moon, as with a beauty-patch.

Then, all the horizon being lighted up, the thief saw the merchant's

daughter, the maiden Dhanavatí, and said to her mother, "Listen to

one request of mine; I will give you a thousand pieces of gold; come,

give me this maiden daughter of yours to wife." She laughed, and said,

"What do you want with her?" Then the thief replied, "I am now as

good as dead, and I have no son; and you know, a sonless man does

not inherit the worlds of bliss. But, if you agree to my proposal,

whatever son she may give birth to by my appointment, whoever may be

his father, will be the issue raised up to me. This is the reason why

I ask for her, but do you accomplish that desire of mine." When the

merchant's widow heard this, she consented to it out of avarice. And

she brought water from somewhere or other, and poured it on the hand of

that thief, and said, "I give you this my maiden daughter in marriage."

He then gave to her daughter the command aforesaid, and then said to

the merchant's widow, "Go and dig at the foot of this banyan-tree,

and take the gold you find there; and when I am dead, have my body

burnt with the usual ceremonies, and throw my bones into some sacred

water, and go with your daughter to the city of Vakrolaka. There

the people are made happy by good government under king Súryaprabha,

and you will be able to live as you like, free from anxiety, as you

will not be persecuted." When the thief had said this, being thirsty,

he drank some water which she brought; and his life came to an end,

spent with the torture of impalement.

Then the merchant's widow went and took the gold from the foot of

the banyan-tree, and went secretly with her daughter to the house

of a friend of her husband's; and while she was there, she managed

to get that thief's body duly burnt, and had his bones thrown into

a sacred water, and all the other rites performed. And the next day

she took that concealed wealth, and went off with her daughter, and

travelling along reached in course of time that city Vakrolaka. There

she bought a house from a great merchant named Vasudatta, and lived

in it with her daughter Dhanavatí.

Now at that time there lived in that city a teacher of the name of

Vishnusvámin. And he had a pupil, a very handsome Bráhman of the name

of Manahsvámin. And he, though he was of high birth and well-educated,

was so enslaved by the passions of youth that he fell in love with

a hetæra of the name of Hansávalí. But she demanded a fee of five

hundred gold dínárs, and he did not possess this sum, so he was in

a state of perpetual despondency.

And one day that merchant's daughter Dhanavatí saw him from the top

of her palace, such as I have described, with attenuated but handsome

frame. Her heart was captivated by his beauty; so she called to mind

the injunction of that thief her husband, and artfully said to her

mother, who was near her; "Mother, behold the beauty and youth of

this young Bráhman, how charming they are, raining nectar into the

eyes of the whole world." When that merchant's widow heard this,

she saw that her daughter was in love with the young Bráhman, and she

thought thus in her mind; "My daughter is bound by the orders of her

husband to choose some man, in order to raise up issue to her husband,

so why should she not invite this one?" When she had gone through

these reflections, she entrusted her wish to a confidential maid,

and sent her to bring the Bráhman for her daughter.

The maid went and took that Bráhman aside, and communicated her

mistress's wish to him, and that young and dissolute Bráhman said to

her; "If they will give me five hundred gold dínárs for Hansávalí,

I will go there for one night." When he said this to the maid, she

went and communicated it to the merchant's widow, and she sent the

money to him by her hand. When Manahsvámin had received the money, he

went with the maid to the private apartments of the widow's daughter,

Dhanavatí, who had been made over to him. Then he saw that expectant

fair one, the ornament of the earth, as the partridge beholds the

moonlight, and rejoiced; and after passing the night there, he went

away secretly next morning.

And Dhanavatí, the merchant's daughter, became pregnant by him,

and in due time she brought forth a son, whose auspicious marks

foreshadowed his lofty destiny. She and her mother were much pleased

at the birth of a son; and then Siva manifested himself to them in

a dream by night, and said to them; "Take this boy, as he lies in

his cradle, and leave him, with a thousand gold pieces, early in the

morning, at the door of king Súryaprabha. In this way all will turn

out well." The merchant's widow and the merchant's daughter, having

received this command from Siva, woke up, and told one another their

dream. And relying upon the god, they took the boy and the gold,

and laid them together at the gate of king Súryaprabha's palace. [376]

In the meanwhile Siva thus commanded in a dream king Súryaprabha,

who was tormented with anxiety to obtain a son; "Rise up, king,

somebody has placed at the gate of your palace a handsome child and

some gold, take him as he lies in his cradle." When Siva had said

this to the king, he woke up in the morning, and at that moment the

warders came in and told him the same, and so he went out himself,

and seeing at the gate of the palace that boy with a heap of gold, and

observing that he was of auspicious appearance, having his hands and

feet marked with the line, the umbrella, the banner and other marks,

he said, "Siva has given me a suitable child," and he himself took

him up in his arms, and went into the palace with him. And he made a

feast, and gave away an incalculable amount of wealth, so that only

the word "poor" was without its proper wealth of signification. And

king Súryaprabha spent twelve days in music, and dancing, and other

amusements, and then he gave that son the name of Chandraprabha.

And gradually prince Chandraprabha increased in stature as well as in

excellent character, delighting his dependants by both. And in course

of time he grew up, and became capable of bearing the weight of the

earth, winning over the subjects by his courage, his generosity, his

learning, and other accomplishments. And his father, king Súryaprabha,

seeing that he possessed these qualities, appointed him his successor

in the kingdom, and being an old man, and having accomplished all

his ends in life, he went to Váránasí. And while that son of his,

distinguished for policy, was ruling the earth, he abandoned his body

at Váránasí, in the performance of severe asceticism.

And that pious king Chandraprabha, hearing of the death of his father,

lamented for him, and performed the usual ceremonies, and then said

to his ministers, "How can I ever pay my debt to my father? However I

will make one recompense to him with my own hand. I will take his bones

and duly fling them into the Ganges, and I will go to Gayá, and offer

an obsequial cake to all the ancestors, and I will diligently perform

a pilgrimage to all sacred waters, as far as the eastern sea." When

the king said this, his ministers said to him, "Your majesty, kings

ought never to do these things, for sovereignty has many weak points,

and cannot subsist a moment without being upheld. So you must pay this

debt to your father by the instrumentality of another. What visiting

of holy waters, other than the doing of your duty, is incumbent

upon you? Kings, who are ever carefully guarded, have nothing to

do with pilgrimage, which is exposed to many dangers." When king

Chandraprabha heard this speech of his ministers', he answered them,

"Away with doubts and hesitations! I must certainly go for my father's

sake; and I must visit the sacred waters, while I am young and strong

enough. Who knows what will take place hereafter, for the body perishes

in a moment? And you must guard my kingdom until my return." When the

ministers heard this resolve of the king's, they remained silent. So

the king got ready all the requisites for the journey. Then, on

an auspicious day, the king bathed, made offerings to the fire,

gave complimentary presents to Bráhmans, and ascended a chariot to

which the horses were yoked, subdued in spirit and wearing the dress

of an ascetic, [377] and started on his pilgrimage. With difficulty

did he induce the feudal chiefs, the Rájpúts, the citizens, and the

country people, who followed him as far as the frontier, to return,

much against their will; and so, throwing the burden of his realm

upon his ministers, king Chandraprabha set out in the company of his

private chaplain, attended by Bráhmans in chariots. He was diverted

by beholding various garbs, and hearing various languages, and by the

other distractions of travel, and so seeing on his way all kinds of

countries, in course of time he reached the Ganges. And he gazed upon

that river, which seemed with the ridges of its waves to be making a

ladder for mortals to ascend into heaven by; and which might be said

to imitate Ambiká, since it sprang from the mountain Himavat, and

playfully pulled in its course the hair of Siva, and was worshipped

by the divine Rishis and the Ganas. So he descended from his chariot,

and bathed in that river, and threw into it in accordance with pious

custom the bones of king Súryaprabha.

And after he had given gifts and performed the sráddha, he ascended

the chariot, and set out, and in course of time reached Prayága [378]

celebrated by rishis, where the meeting streams of the Ganges and

Yamuná gleam for the welfare of men, like the line of flame and the

line of smoke of the sacrificial butter blending together. There king

Chandraprabha fasted, and performed with various pious actions, such

as bathing, distribution of wealth, and so on, the solemn ceremony

of the sráddha, and then he went on to Váránasí, which seemed by the

silken banners of its temples, tossed up and down by gusts of wind,

to cry out from afar, "Come and attain salvation."

In that city he fasted for three days, and then worshipped Siva

with various meat-offerings, as became his own rank, and then set

out for Gayá. As he travelled through the woods, the trees, which

were bent down by the weight of their fruit, and in which the birds

were sweetly singing, seemed at every step to be bowing before him

and praising him at the same time; and the winds, throwing about the

woodland flowers, seemed to honour him with posies. And so he crossed

the forest districts and reached the sacred hill of Gayá. [379]

And there he duly performed a sráddha, in which he bestowed many

gifts on Bráhmans, and then he entered the Holy Wood. And while he

was offering the sacrificial cake to his father in the well of Gayá,

there rose out of it three human hands to take the cake. When the

king saw this, he was bewildered, and said to his own Bráhmans; "What

does this mean? Into which hand am I to put the cake?" They said to

him, "King, this hand in which an iron spike is seen, is certainly

the hand of a thief; and this second hand, which holds a colander,

[380] is the hand of a Bráhman; and this third hand, which has the

ring and the auspicious marks, is the hand of a king. So we do not

know into which hand the sacrificial cake is to be put, or what all

this means." When the Bráhmans said this to the king, he was unable

to arrive at any certain decision.

When the Vetála, on the shoulder of the king, had told this wonderful

tale, he said to king Trivikramasena, "Now into whose hand should the

cake have been put? Let your Highness tell me that; and remember the

previous condition is still binding on you."

When king Trivikramasena, who was well versed in law, heard this from

the Vetála, he broke silence, and answered him; "The sacrificial

cake should have been placed in the hand of the thief, for king

Chandraprabha was his son, raised up to him by his appointment, and

he was not the son of either of the other two. For though the Bráhman

begot him, he cannot be considered his father, as he sold himself for

money for that one night. However he might have been considered the son

of king Súryaprabha, because he had the sacraments performed for him,

and brought him up, if the king had not received his wealth for the

purpose. For the gold, which was placed at the head of the child in

the cradle, was the price paid to king Súryaprabha for bringing him

up, and other services. Accordingly king Chandraprabha was the son,

begotten by another man, of that thief, who received his mother with

the pouring of water over the hands, who gave the order for his being

begotten, and to whom all that wealth belonged; and he ought to have

placed the sacrificial cake in the thief's hand; this is my opinion."

When the king said this, the Vetála left his shoulder, and went to

his own place, and king Trivikramasena again went after him to bring

him back.

NOTE.

It appears from the analysis which Oesterley gives of the Sanskrit

original by Sivadása, that the Hindi version resembles more nearly

the version in the text. In the Sanskrit original there is no touching

of the thief; Dhanavatí of her own accord enters into a conversation

with him. The advice to expose the child at the king's door is given

by the grandmother, after hearing the daughter's dream. The king does

not fetch the boy himself, but has him brought.

CHAPTER XCIV.

(Vetála 20.)

Then king Trivikramasena went and took down that Vetála from the

asoka-tree, and putting him on his shoulder, started off with him

again. And when he had set out in silence, the Vetála spake to him

from his shoulder; "King, what is the meaning of this persistency

of yours? Go, enjoy the good of the night; it is not fitting that

you should carry me to that wicked mendicant. However, if you are

obstinately bent on it, so be it; but listen to this one story."

Story of the Bráhman boy, who offered himself up to save the life of

the king.

There is a city called Chitrakúta, [381] rightly so named, where

the established divisions of the castes never step across the strict

line of demarcation. In it there lived a king, named Chandrávaloka,

the crest-jewel of kings, who rained showers of nectar into the eyes

of those devoted to him. Wise men praised him as the binding-post

of the elephant of valour, the fountain-head of generosity, and the

pleasure-pavilion of beauty. There was one supreme sorrow in the heart

of that young prince, that, though he enjoyed all kinds of prosperity,

he could not obtain a suitable wife.

Now, one day, the king, accompanied by mounted attendants, went out to

a great forest to hunt, in order to dispel that sorrow. There he cleft

with continual shafts the herds of wild swine, as the sun, shining in

the dun sky, [382] disperses the darkness with his rays. Surpassing

Arjuna in strength, he made the lions, impetuous in fight, and

terrible with their yellow manes, repose upon beds of arrows. Like

Indra in might, he stripped of their wings [383] the mountain-like

Sarabhas, and laid them low with the blows of his darts hard as

the thunder-bolt. In the ardour of the chase he felt a longing to

penetrate into the centre of the wood alone, so he urged on his horse

with a smart blow of his heel. The horse, being exceedingly excited

by that blow of his heel, and by a stroke of the whip, cared neither

for rough nor smooth, but darting on with a speed exceeding that of

the wind, in a moment traversed ten yojanas, and carried the king,

the functions of whose senses were quite paralysed, to another forest.

There the horse stopped, and the king, having lost his bearings,

roamed about wearied, until he saw near him a broad lake, which

seemed to make signs to him to approach with its lotuses, that,

bent down towards him and then raised again by the wind, seemed like

beckoning hands. [384] So he went up to it, and relieved his horse

by taking off its saddle and letting it roll, and bathed and watered

it, and then tied it up in the shade of a tree, and gave it a heap

of grass. Then he bathed himself, and drank water, and so dispelled

his fatigue, and then he let his eye wander hither and thither in

the delightful environs of the lake. And in one part he saw, at the

foot of an asoka-tree, a wonderfully beautiful hermit's daughter,

accompanied by her friend. She wore garlands of flowers, and a dress

of bark, which became her well. And she looked exceedingly charming

on account of the elegant way in which her hair was plaited together

after the hermit fashion. And the king, who had now fallen within the

range of the arrows of love, said to himself; "Who can this be? Can

it be Sávitrí come to bathe in the lake? Or can it be Gaurí, who

has slipped away from the arms of Siva, and again betaken herself to

asceticism? Or can it be the beauty of the moon that has taken upon

herself a vow, as the moon has set, now that it is day? So I had

better approach her quietly and find out." Having thus reflected,

the king approached that maiden.

But when she saw him coming, her eyes were bewildered by his beauty,

and her hand relaxed its grasp on the garland of flowers, which she

had before begun to weave, and she said to herself; "Who is this

that has found his way into such a wood as this? Is he a Siddha or a

Vidyádhara? In truth his beauty might satisfy the eyes of the whole

world." When these thoughts had passed through her mind, she rose up,

and modestly looking askance at him she proceeded to go away, though

her legs seemed to want all power of movement.

Then the polite and dexterous monarch approached her and said,

"Fair one, I do not ask you to welcome and entertain a person seen

for the first time, who has come from a distance, and desires no

fruit other than that of beholding you; but how is your running away

from him to be reconciled with the obligations of hermit life?" When

the king said this, the lady's attendant, who was equally dexterous,

sat down there, and entertained the king.

Then the eager king said to her with an affectionate manner, "Worthy

lady, what auspicious family is adorned by this friend of yours? What

are the ear-nectar-distilling syllables of her name? And why does

she torture in this wilderness, with the discipline appropriate to

ascetics, her body, which is soft as a flower?" When her friend heard

this speech of the king's, she answered; "This is the maiden daughter

of the great hermit Kanva, born to him by Menaká; she has been brought

up in the hermitage, and her name is Indívaraprabhá. She has come here

to bathe in this lake by permission of her father, and her father's

hermitage is at no great distance from this place."

When she said this to the king, he was delighted, and he mounted

his horse, and set out for the hermitage of the hermit Kanva,

with the intention of asking him for that daughter of his. He left

his horse outside the hermitage, and then he entered with modest

humility its enclosure, which was full of hermits with matted hair,

and coats of bark, thus resembling in appearance its trees. And in

the middle of it he saw the hermit Kanva surrounded with hermits,

delighting the eye with his brightness, like the moon surrounded

with planets. So he went up to him, and worshipped him, embracing his

feet. The wise hermit entertained him and dispelled his fatigue, and

then lost no time in saying to him; "My son Chandrávaloka, listen to

the good advice which I am about to give you. You know how all living

creatures in the world fear death: so why do you slay without cause

these poor deer? The Disposer appointed the weapon of the warrior for

the protection of the terrified. So rule your subjects righteously,

root up your enemies, and secure fleeting fortune and her gifts by

the warlike training of horse, and elephant, and so on. Enjoy the

delights of rule, give gifts, diffuse your fame throughout the world,

but abandon the vice of hunting, the cruel sport of death. What is

the profit of that mischievous hunting, in which slayer, victim,

and horse [385] are all equally beside themselves? Have you have not

heard what happened to Pándu?"

The intelligent king, Chandrávaloka, heard and accepted cheerfully

this advice of the hermit Kanva, and then answered him, "Reverend

Sir, I have been instructed by you; you have done me a great favour;

I renounce hunting, let living creatures be henceforth free from

alarm." When the hermit heard that, he said, "I am pleased with you

for thus granting security to living creatures; so choose whatever

boon you desire." When the hermit said this, the king, who knew

his time, said to him, "If you are satisfied with me, then give

me your daughter Indívaraprabhá." When the king made this request,

the hermit bestowed on him his daughter, who had just returned from

bathing, born from an Apsaras, a wife meet for him. Then the wives of

the hermits adorned her, and the marriage was solemnized, and king

Chandrávaloka mounted his horse and set out thence quickly, taking

with him his wife, whom the ascetics followed as far as the limits

of the hermitage with gushing tears. And as he went along, the sun,

seeing that the action of that day had been prolonged, [386] sat down,

as if wearied, on the peak of the mountain of setting. And in course

of time appeared the gazelle-eyed nymph of night, overflowing with

love, veiling her shape in a violet robe of darkness.

Just at that moment the king found on the road an asvattha-tree,

on the bank of a lake, the water of which was as transparent as a

good man's heart. And seeing that that spot was overshadowed with

dense boughs and leaves, and was shady and grassy, he made up his

mind that he would pass the night there. Then he dismounted from his

horse, and gave it grass and water, and rested on the sandy bank

of the lake, and drank water, and cooled himself in the breeze;

and then he lay down with that hermit's daughter, under that tree,

on a bed of flowers. And at that time the moon arose, and removing

the mantle of darkness, seized and kissed the glowing face of the

East. And all the quarters of the heaven were free from darkness,

and gleamed, embraced and illuminated by the rays of the moon,

so that there was no room for pride. [387] And so the beams of the

moon entered the interstices in the bower of creepers, and lit up

the space round the foot of the tree like jewel-lamps.

And the next morning the king left his bed, and after the morning

prayer, he made ready to set out with his wife to rejoin his army. And

then the moon, that had in the night robbed the cheeks of the lotuses

of their beauty, lost its brightness, and slunk, as if in fear, to the

hollows of the western mountain; for the sun, fiery-red with anger,

as if desirous to slay it, lifted his curved sword in his outstretched

fingers. [388] At that moment there suddenly came there a Bráhman

demon, black as soot, with hair yellow as the lightning, looking

like a thunder-cloud. He had made himself a wreath of entrails; he

wore a sacrificial cord of hair; he was gnawing the flesh of a man's

head, and drinking blood out of a skull. The monster, terrible with

projecting tusks, uttered a horrible loud laugh, and vomiting fire with

rage, menaced the king in the following words, "Villain! know that

I am a Bráhman demon, Jválámukha by name, and this asvattha-tree my

dwelling is not trespassed upon even by gods, but thou hast presumed

to occupy and enjoy it with thy wife. So receive from me, returned

from my nightly wanderings, the fruit of thy presumption. I, even I,

O wicked one, will tear out and devour the heart of thee, whose mind

love has overpowered, aye, and I will drink thy blood."

When the king heard this dreadful threat, and saw that his wife was

terrified, knowing that the monster was invulnerable, he humbly said to

him in his terror, "Pardon the sin which I have ignorantly committed

against you, for I am a guest come to this your hermitage, imploring

your protection. And I will give you what you desire, by bringing a

human victim, whose flesh will glut your appetite; so be appeased,

and dismiss your anger." When the Bráhman demon heard this speech of

the king's, he was pacified, and said to himself, "So be it! That will

do." Then he said to the king, "I will overlook the insult you have

offered me on the following conditions. You must find a Bráhman boy,

who, though seven years old and intelligent, is of so noble a character

that he is ready to offer himself for your sake. And his mother and

father must place him on the earth, and hold him firmly by the hands

and feet, while he is being sacrificed. And when you have found such

a human victim, you must yourself slay him with a sword-stroke, and

so offer him up to me on the seventh day from this. If you comply

with these conditions, well and good; but, if not, king, I will in

a moment destroy you and all your court." When the king heard this,

in his terror he agreed at once to the conditions proposed, and the

Bráhman demon immediately disappeared.

Then king Chandrávaloka mounted his horse, and set out with

Indívaraprabhá in quest of his army, in a state of the utmost

despondency. He said to himself, "Alas! I, bewildered by hunting and

love, have suddenly incurred destruction like Pándu; [389] fool that

I am! For whence can I obtain for this Rákshasa a victim, such as he

has described? So I will go in the meantime to my own town, and see

what will happen." While thus reflecting, he met his own army, that

had come in search of him, and with that and his wife he entered his

city of Chitrakúta. Then the whole kingdom rejoiced, when they saw

that he had obtained a suitable wife, but the king passed the rest

of the day in suppressed sorrow.

The next day he communicated to his ministers in secret all that

had taken place, and a discreet minister among them said to him,

"Do not be downcast, king, for I will search for and bring you such

a victim, for the earth contains many marvels."

When the minister had consoled the king in these words, he had made

with the utmost rapidity a golden image of a seven-years-old child,

and he adorned its ears with jewels, and placed it on a chariot,

and had it carried about in the towns, villages, and stations of

herdsmen. And while that image of a child was being carried about,

the minister had the following proclamation continually made in

front of it, with beat of drum; "If a Bráhman boy of seven years old

will willingly offer himself to a Bráhman demon for the good of the

community, and if his mother and father will permit the brave boy to

offer himself, and will hold his hands and feet while he is being

slain, the king will give to that boy, who is so eager to benefit

his parents as to comply with these conditions, this image of gold

and gems, together with a hundred villages."

Now it happened that a certain seven-years-old Bráhman boy, living

on a royal grant to Bráhmans, who was of great courage and admirable

character, heard this proclamation. Even in his childhood this boy

had always taken pleasure in benefiting his fellow-men, as he had

practised that virtue in a former life; in fact he seemed like the

ripe result of the merits of the king's subjects incarnate in bodily

form. So he came and said to the men who were making this proclamation,

"I will offer myself up for your good; but first, I will go and inform

my parents; then I will return to you." When he said this to them,

they were delighted, and they let him go. So he went home, and folding

his hands in an attitude of supplication, he said to his parents;

"I wish to offer for the good of the community this perishable body

of mine; so permit me to do so, and put an end to your poverty. For

if I do so, the king will give me this image of myself, made of gold

and gems, together with a hundred villages, and on receiving them,

I will make them over to you. In this way I shall pay my debt to you,

and at the same time benefit my fellow-men; and your poverty will be

at an end, and you will have many sons to replace me."

As soon as he had said this, his parents answered him; "What is

this that you say, son? Are you distracted with wind? Or are you

planet-struck? Unless you are one of these, how could you talk in this

wild way? Who would cause his son's death for the sake of wealth? What

child would sacrifice its body?" When the boy heard this speech of his

parents, he rejoined; "I do not speak from a disordered intellect;

hear my speech, which is full of sense. This body, which is full

of indescribable impurities, which is loathsome by its very birth,

and the abode of pain, will soon perish [390] anyhow. So wise men say

that the only solid and permanent thing in a fleeting universe is that

merit which is acquired by means of this very frail and perishable

body. [391] And what greater merit can there be than the benefiting

of all creatures? So, if I do not show devotion to my parents, what

fruit shall I reap from my body?" By this speech and others of the

same kind the resolute boy induced his weeping parents to consent to

his wish. And he went to the king's servants, and obtained from them

that golden image, together with a grant of a hundred villages, and

gave them to his parents. Then he made the king's servants precede

him, and went quickly, accompanied by his parents, to the king in

Chitrakúta. Then king Chandrávaloka, beholding arrived the boy,

whose courage [392] was so perfect, and who thus resembled a bright

protecting talisman, was exceedingly delighted. So he had him adorned

with garlands, and anointed with unguents, and putting him on the

back of an elephant, he took him with his parents to the abode of

the Bráhman demon.

Then the chaplain drew a circle near the asvattha-tree, and performed

the requisite rites, and made an oblation to the fire. And then

the Bráhman demon Jválámukha appeared, uttering a loud laugh, and

reciting the Vedas. His appearance was very terrible; he was drunk

with a full draught of blood, yawning, and panting frequently; his

eyes blazed, and he darkened the whole horizon with the shadow of

his body. Then king Chandrávaloka, beholding him, bent before him,

and said; "Adorable one, I have brought you this human sacrifice,

and it is now the seventh day, gentle Sir, since I promised it you;

so be propitious, receive this sacrifice, as is due." When the king

made this request, the Bráhman demon looked at the Bráhman boy,

licking the corners of his mouth with his tongue. [393]

At that moment the noble boy, in his joy, said to himself, "Let not

the merit, which I acquire by this sacrifice of my body, gain for

me heaven, or even a salvation which involves no benefits to others,

but may I be privileged to offer up my body for the benefit of others

in birth after birth!" While he was forming this aspiration, the

heaven was suddenly filled with the chariots of the heavenly host,

who rained flowers.

Then the boy was placed in front of the Bráhman demon, and his mother

took hold of his hands and his father of his feet. Then the king

drew his sword, and prepared to slay him; but at that moment the

child laughed so loudly, that all there, the Bráhman demon included,

abandoned the occupation in which they were engaged, and in their

astonishment put their palms together, and bowing, looked at his face.

When the Vetála had told this entertaining and romantic tale, he once

more put a question to king Trivikramasena; "So tell me, king, what

was the reason that the boy laughed in such an awful moment as that

of his own death? I feel great curiosity to know it, so, if you know,

and do not tell me, your head shall split into a hundred pieces."

When the king heard this from the Vetála, he answered him, "Hear

what was the meaning of that child's laugh. It is well known that

a weak creature, when danger comes upon it, calls upon its father

or mother to save its life. And if its father and mother be gone,

it invokes the protection of the king who is appointed to succour the

afflicted, and if it cannot obtain the aid of the king, it calls upon

the deity under whose special protection it is. Now, in the case of

that child, all those were present, and all behaved in exactly the

opposite manner to what might have been expected of them. The child's

parents held its hands and feet out of greed of gain, and the king

was eager to slay it, to save his own life, and the Bráhman demon,

its protecting deity, was ready to devour it. The child said to itself;

'To think that these should be thus deluded, being led so much astray

for the sake of the body, which is perishable, loathsome within, and

full of pain and disease. Why should they have such a strange longing

for the continuance of the body, in a world in which Brahmá, Indra,

Vishnu, Siva, and the other gods must certainly perish.' Accordingly

the Bráhman boy laughed out of joy and wonder, joy at feeling that he

had accomplished his object, and wonder at beholding the marvellous

strangeness of their delusion."

When the king had said this, he ceased, and the Vetála immediately left

his shoulder, and went back to his own place, disappearing by his magic

power. But the king, without hesitating for a moment, rapidly pursued

him; the hearts of great men, as of great seas, are firm and unshaken.

NOTE.

Oesterley (p. 210) tells us that a boy is in the same way sold to

a king as a victim in the 32nd tale of the Turkish collection of

tales, called "The Forty Viziers." When the king is about to rip

up the child's body, the child laughs for the same reason as in our

text. The cause of the sacrifice is however different. The king is

to be healed by placing his feet in the body of a boy.

The promise of a golden image to any one who is willing to

sacrifice his life is also found in the Bengali edition of the

Sinhásana-dvátrinsati. A rich man makes a golden image, with an

inscription on it to the effect that whoever is willing to sacrifice

his life shall have it. Vikramáditya goes to the place disguised, and

cuts off his head, but the goddess heals him, (Benfey's Panchatantra,

Vol. I, p. 109.)

CHAPTER XCV.

(Vetála 21.)

Then king Trivikramasena again went and took the Vetála from the

asoka-tree, and carried him along on his shoulder. And as he was going

along, the Vetála again said to the king, "Listen, king, I will tell

you a story of violent attachment."

Story of Anangamanjarí, her husband Manivarman, and the Bráhman

Kamalákara.

There is a city called Visálá, which is like a second city of Indra,

made by the Creator on earth, for the sake of virtuous people who

have fallen from heaven. In it there lived a fortunate king, named

Padmanábha, who was a source of joy to good men, and excelled king

Bali. In the reign of that king there lived in that city a great

merchant, named Arthadatta, who surpassed in opulence the god of

wealth. And to him there was born a daughter named Anangamanjarí,

who was exhibited on earth by the Creator as a likeness of a heavenly

nymph. And that merchant gave her to the son of a distinguished

merchant, dwelling in Támraliptí, and named Manivarman. But as he

was very fond of his daughter Anangamanjarí, because she was his only

child, he would not let her leave his house, but kept her there with

her husband. But Anangamanjarí's husband Manivarman was as distasteful

to her, as a biting bitter medicine to a sick man. But that lovely

one was dearer than life to her husband, as wealth hardly won and

long hoarded is to a miser.

Now once on a time that Manivarman, longing to see his parents, went

to his home in Támraliptí to visit them. After some days had passed,

the hot season descended upon the land, impeding the journey of men

absent from home with the sharp shafts of the sun's rays. The winds

blew laden with the fragrance of the jasmine and trumpet-flower, and

seemed like the hot [394] sighs of the cardinal points on account of

the departure of spring. Lines of dust raised by the wind flew up to

heaven, like messengers sent by the heated earth to hasten the approach

of the clouds. The days passed slowly, like travellers exhausted by

the severe heat, and longing for the shade of the trees. The nights,

pale-gleaming with moonbeams, became exceedingly [395] reduced owing

to the loss of the spring with all its happy meetings.

One day in that season, that merchant's daughter Anangamanjarí was

sitting with her intimate friend in a lofty window of her house, white

with sandal-wood ointment, and elegantly dressed in a thin garment

of silk. While there, she saw a young Bráhman, named Kamalákara, the

son of the king's chaplain, passing by, and he looked like the god of

Love, risen from his ashes, going to find Rati. And when Kamalákara

saw that lovely one overhead, like the orb of the moon, [396] he was

full of joy, and became like a cluster of kumuda-flowers. The sight

of those two young persons became to one another, by the mighty

command of Cupid, a priceless [397] fascination of the mind. And

the two were overcome by passion, which rooted up their modesty and

carried away by a storm of love-frenzy, which flung their minds to

a distance. And Kamalákara's companion, as soon as he saw that his

friend was love-smitten, dragged him off, though with difficulty,

to his own house.

As for Anangamanjarí, she enquired what his name was, and having no

will of her own, slowly entered the house with that confidante of

hers. There she was grievously afflicted with the fever of love,

and thinking on her beloved, she rolled on the bed, and neither

saw nor heard anything. After two or three days had passed, being

ashamed and afraid, unable to bear the misery of separation, thin

and pale, and despairing of union with her beloved, which seemed a

thing impossible, she determined on suicide. So, one night, when her

attendants were asleep, she went out, drawn as it were, by the moon,

which sent its rays through the window, like fingers, and made for a

tank at the foot of a tree in her own garden. There she approached

an image of the goddess Chandí, her family deity, that had been

set up with much magnificence by her father, and she bowed before

the goddess, and praised her, and said, "Though I have not obtained

Kamalákara for a husband in this life, let him be my husband in a

future birth!" When the impassioned woman had uttered these words

in front of the goddess, she made a noose with her upper garment,

and fastened it to an asoka-tree.

In the meanwhile it happened that her confidante, who was sleeping

in the same room, woke up, and not seeing her there, went to the

garden to look for her. And seeing her there engaged in fastening a

noose round her neck, she cried out, "Stop! stop!" and running up,

she cut that noose which she had made. Anangamanjarí, when she saw

that her confidante had come and cut the noose, fell on the ground in

a state of great affliction. Her confidante comforted her, and asked

her the cause of her grief, and she at once told her, and went on to

say to her, "So you see, friend Málatiká, as I am under the authority

of my parents and so on, and have little chance of being united to

my beloved, death is my highest happiness." While Anangamanjarí was

saying these words, she was exceedingly tortured with the fire of

Love's arrows, and being overpowered with despair, she fainted away.

Her friend Málatiká exclaimed, "Alas! the command of Cupid is hard

to resist, since it has reduced to this state this friend of mine,

who was always laughing at other misguided women, who shewed a want

of self-restraint. [398]" Lamenting in these words, she slowly brought

Anangamanjarí round with cold water, fanning, and so on, and in order

to allay her heat, she made her a bed of lotus-leaves, and placed on

her heart a necklace cool as snow. Then Anangamanjarí, with her eyes

gushing with tears, said to her friend, "Friend, the necklace and the

other applications do not allay my internal heat. But do you by your

cleverness accomplish something which will really allay it. Unite

me to my beloved, if you wish to preserve my life." When she said

this, Málatiká lovingly answered her, "My friend, the night is now

almost at an end, but to-morrow I will make an arrangement with your

beloved, and bring him to this very place. So in the meanwhile control

yourself, and enter your house." When she said this, Anangamanjarí

was pleased, and drawing the necklace from her neck, she gave it

to her as a present. And she said to her, "Now go to your house,

and early to-morrow go thence to the house of my beloved, and may

you prosper!" Having dismissed her confidante in these words, she

entered her own apartments.

And early next morning, her friend Málatiká went, without being seen by

any one, to the house of Kamalákara; and searching about in the garden,

she saw him at the foot of a tree. He was rolling about, burning with

the fire of love, on a bed composed of lotus-leaves moistened with

sandal-wood juice, and a confidential friend of his was trying to give

him relief by fanning him with a plantain-leaf. She said to herself,

"Is it possible that he has been reduced to this stage of love's

malady by separation from her?" So she remained there in concealment,

to find out the truth about it.

In the meanwhile that friend of Kamalákara's said to him, "Cast

your eye, my friend, for a moment round this delightful garden, and

cheer up your heart. Do not give way to despondency." When the young

Bráhman heard this, he answered his friend, "My friend, my heart has

been taken from me by Anangamanjarí the merchant's daughter, and my

breast left empty; so how can I cheer up my heart. Moreover Love,

finding me robbed of my heart, has made me a quiver for his arrows;

so enable me to get hold of that girl, who stole it."

When the young Bráhman said that, Málatiká's doubts were removed,

and she was delighted, and showed herself, and went up to him, and

said, "Happy man, Anangamanjarí has sent me to you, and I hereby

give you her message, the meaning of which is clear, 'What sort of

conduct is this for a virtuous man, to enter a fair one's bosom by

force, and after stealing away her heart, to go off without showing

himself.' It is strange too, that though you have stolen the lady's

heart, she now wishes to surrender to you herself and her life. For

day and night she furnaces forth from her hot sighs, which appear

like smoke rising from the fire of love in her burning heart. And her

tear-drops, black with collyrium, fall frequently, looking like bees

attracted by the fragrance of her lotus-like face. So if you like,

I will say what will be for the good of both of you."

When Málatiká said this, Kamalákara answered her, "My good lady, this

speech of yours, though it comforts me by shewing that my beloved

loves me, terrifies me, as it tells that the fair one is in a state

of unhappiness. So you are our only refuge in this matter; do as you

think best." When Kamalákara said this, Málatiká answered, "I will

to-night bring Anangamanjarí secretly into the garden belonging to

her house, and you must take care to be outside. Then I will manage

by some device of mine to let you in, and so you will be able to

see one another in accordance with your wishes." When Málatiká had

by these words delighted the young Bráhman, she went away, having

accomplished her object, and delighted Anangamanjarí also.

Then the sun, in love with the twilight, departed somewhere or other,

together with the day, and the heaven adorned itself, placing the

moon on its western quarter, like a patch on the forehead. And the

pure white kumuda-cluster laughed joyously with the cheerful faces of

its opened flowers, as if to say, "Fortune has left the lotus-cluster

and come to me." Thereupon the lover Kamalákara also adorned himself,

and full of impatience, slowly approached the outside of the door that

led into the garden of Anangamanjarí's house. Then Málatiká managed

to bring into that garden Anangamanjarí, who had with difficulty got

through the day. And she made her sit in the middle of it, in a bower

of mango-trees, and went out, and brought in Kamalákara also. And when

he entered, he beheld Anangamanjarí in the midst of dense-foliaged

trees, as gladly as the traveller beholds the shade.

While he was advancing towards her, she saw him, and as the violence

of her passion robbed her of shame, she eagerly ran forward, and threw

her arms round his neck. She faltered out, "Where are you going? I

have caught you," and immediately her breath was stopped by the

weight of excessive joy, and she died. And she fell on the ground,

like a creeper broken by the wind. Alas! strange is the course of

love, that is terrible in its consequences. When Kamalákara beheld

that misfortune, which was terrible as a thunder-stroke, he said,

"Alas! what is this?" and fell senseless on the ground. In a moment

he recovered consciousness; and then he took his beloved up in his

arms, and embraced and kissed her, and lamented much. And then he was

so violently oppressed by excessive weight of sorrow, that his heart

burst asunder at once, with a crack. And when Málatiká was lamenting

over their corpses, the night, seeing that both these lovers had

met their end, came to an end, as if out of grief. And the next day,

the relations of both, hearing from the gardeners what had happened,

came there distracted with shame, wonder, grief, and bewilderment. And

they remained for a long time doubtful what to do, with faces downcast

from distress; bad women are a grievous affliction, and a source of

calamity to their family.

At this moment Manivarman, the husband of Anangamanjarí, came, full

of longing to see her, from his father's house in Támraliptí. When

he reached his father-in-law's house, and heard what had taken

place, he came running to that garden, with his eyes blinded with

tears. There, beholding his wife lying dead by the side of another

man, the passionate man at once yielded up his breath, that was heated

with the fire of grief. Then the people there began to cry out, and

to make an uproar, and all the citizens heard what had taken place,

and came there in a state of astonishment.

Then the goddess Chandí, who was close at hand, having been called

down into that garden long ago by the father of Anangamanjarí, was

thus supplicated by her Ganas; "Goddess, this merchant Arthadatta,

who has established an image of thee in his garden, has always been

devoted to thee, so have mercy upon him in this his affliction." When

the beloved of Siva, the refuge of the distressed, heard this prayer

of her Ganas, she gave command that the three should return to life,

free from passion. So they all, by her favour, immediately arose, as if

awaking from sleep, free from the passion of love. Then all the people

were full of joy, beholding that marvel; and Kamalákara went home,

with his face downcast from shame; and Arthadatta, having recovered his

daughter [399] Anangamanjarí, who looked thoroughly ashamed of herself,

together with her husband, returned to his house in high spirits.

When the Vetála had told this story that night on the way, he again put

a question to king Trivikramasena. He said, "King, tell me, which of

those three, who were blinded by passion, was the most infatuated? And

remember, the curse before-mentioned will take effect, if you know

and do not say." When the king heard this question of the Vetála's, he

answered him, "It seems to me that Manivarman was the most infatuated

with passion of the three. For one can understand those two dying,

as they were desperately in love with one another, and their amorous

condition had been fully developed by lapse of time. But Manivarman

was terribly infatuated, for when he saw his wife dead of love for

another man, and the occasion called for indignation, he was so far

from being angry that, in his great love, he died of grief." When the

king had said this, the mighty Vetála again left his shoulder, and

departed to his own place, and the king again went in pursuit of him.

NOTE.