DAY 4.

Then the King said to Rasakósha: My friend, your question was again answered by the Princess, and of my days now three are gone, yet freely do I forgive you, for the sake of the glance she gave me as she went away. Oh! it snared my soul as it were in a net. And but for the portrait to keep me alive during the period of separation, beyond question I should never see the light of day. So he passed the night in a state of lovelorn recollection[1], an enemy to sleep, gazing at the portrait. And when the sun rose, he rose also, and got somehow or other through the day, by the help of Rasakósha and the garden. Then when the sun set, they went again to the hall of audience. And there they saw the Princess, clad in a sable robe and a bodice studded with sapphires, and her crown and other ornaments, sitting on her throne. And she looked kindly at the King, who sank trembling upon a couch, speechless and fascinated, under the spell of her beauty. Then Rasakósha came forward, and standing before her, began again:

Lady, there lived formerly in a certain country two brothers, Brahmans, called Bimba and Pratibimba[2], who were twins. And I think that the Creator, when he made one, had gone under water to make the other. For the moon does not more closely resemble her own image in a lake, nor one leaf on a branch another, than each of them did the other. Between them, when they were children, the sole point of distinction was the charm tied for that purpose round their necks; and when they grew up, those who saw them together imagined that their own eyes had become enemies, and were each giving a separate reflection of the self-same object. And as their external forms, so were their voices, and their internal dispositions: they corresponded in every atom, from the extremity of the skin to the inmost recesses of the heart.

Now one day it happened that Bimba saw a young woman[3] at the spring festival. And she looked at him at the same moment. And then and there the god of love penetrated their hearts, employing their mutual glances as his weapon. So having discovered her family and place of residence, Bimba used to go and visit her three days in every week. But in the excess of his own happiness, proud of the extraordinary beauty of his love, he could not contain himself, nor endure to keep the secret of his own good fortune. So he told his brother the whole story; and contriving a suitable opportunity, he exhibited to him his mistress, who was all unconscious of what he was doing. But Pratibimba, being as he was but the double of his brother, instantly conceived an equally violent passion for her. And without scruple—for what has love to do with honour?—he used to go himself, on the other three days of the week, to visit her. But she in the meanwhile, believing him to be Bimba himself, for she could not see any difference, only rejoiced in gaining as she thought the company of her lover twice as often as before.

But when some time had passed by, it fell out that Bimba, not being able to endure separation, went to visit his mistress on one of his brother's days. And when he got there, he saw Pratibimba, who had arrived before him, and was lying asleep on a couch while his beloved fanned him with a palm leaf. But she, when she saw Bimba come in, uttered a shriek of astonishment and terror, which woke Pratibimba. And while she looked in amazement from one to the other, Bimba rushed upon Pratibimba, mad with jealousy and howling with rage, while Pratibimba did the same to him. And grappling with one another, they rolled upon the floor, fighting and kicking each other, till, hearing the shrieks of the woman, the King's officers came in and separated them, and carried them all three to the judge. Then Bimba said: This man is my brother, and he has stolen my beloved from me. But Pratibimba said: No, she is mine: it is you that are the thief. Then Bimba howled: I was first, and you are a villain. And Pratibimba echoed his words[4]. So the judge said to the woman: Which of them is your lover? But she answered: Sir, I cannot tell which is which, nor did I ever know that there were two till to-day.

So now tell me, Princess, how shall the judge distinguish between them? And Rasakósha ceased. Then the Princess said: Let him take all three apart, and ask each to describe in detail the circumstances under which he saw the woman first. For though the impostor may have heard that it was at the spring festival, yet the eye that saw, aided by the heart that remembers, will convict the ear that only heard.

And when she had said this, the Princess rose up and went out, smiling at the King over her shoulder, and she drew away the King's heart after her. But the King and Rasakósha returned to their own apartments.

[1] Smara means both love and memory.

[2] Both words mean image, reflection.

[3] The hetæra plays in old Hindoo stories a still larger part than she did in Greek.

[4] There is an untranslateable play on the word here.

Then the King said to Rasakósha: My friend, though my mistress guessed your question, and now four days have gone, yet I forgive you, for the sake of the smile she gave me when she went away. Oh! it irradiated the gloom of my soul like as the moonlight illuminates the forest glades: and when she disappeared, darkness again prevailed. But for the portrait, I were a dead man before morning. And he passed the night in a state of impatience, gazing at the portrait. Then when the sun rose, he rose also, and passed the day by the help of Rasakósha and the garden. And when the sun set, they went again to the hall of audience. And there they saw the Princess, clad in a pale red[1] robe, and a bodice studded with emeralds, and her crown and ornaments, sitting on her throne. And she dropped her eyes when she saw the King, who sank with a beating heart upon a couch, speechless and fascinated, under the spell of her beauty. Then Rasakósha came forward and stood before her, and began again:

Lady, in former times there was a king, who made war upon a neighbouring king, and went out and fought a great battle with him. Now there was in his army a certain Kshatriya, who, fighting all day long in that battle, after slaying multitudes of the enemy with his single arm, at length grew tired and faint from exhaustion. And perceiving this, many of the enemy set upon him at once, and overpowered him, and after mangling him with innumerable wounds, left him for dead upon the ground. But when the moon rose, that Kshatriya recovered his senses, and as it were came back to life. And he dragged himself with difficulty as far as a neighbouring village. And then his strength failed, and sinking down exhausted at the door of a certain house, he struck one great blow upon it, and fell down senseless.

Now there lived in that house a Brahman woman, whose husband was away from home. And she was beautiful as a jasmine blossom, and pure as snow, and her name was Suwarnashílá[2]. And hearing the knock, in the dead of night, she was frightened; but she looked out of a small round window, and saw in the bright moonlight a man lying still at her door. Then she thought: This may be a snare. Alas! the neighbours praise me for my beauty, and to whom is not beauty an object of cupidity? Or how can beauty, like a great pearl, be safe when its guardian is away? Then she looked again, and saw a dark stream trickling from the body along the white ground. And her heart was filled with compassion, and she thought: Doubtless the man is wounded, and perhaps dying. The greater[3] sin would be, to leave him to die at my door. So she summoned her maid, and went out, and took in the wounded man, and dressed his wounds and nursed him, keeping him in her house till he was well.

Then that Kshatriya, seeing her daily, was burned to a cinder by the glory of her beauty, and he made evil proposals to her. But she stopped her ears, and would not listen to him, but said: What! would you repay benefits with treachery and ingratitude? Know, that to a virtuous woman her husband is a god. Depart, and let me alone. Then finding that he could not prevail upon her, the Kshatriya said to her: It is you, not your husband, that is the divinity. Your beauty would turn even a holy ascetic from his penance. And though I owe you my life, yet you have robbed me of it again. And now I must depart quickly, otherwise my passion will master me, for love is stronger than gratitude. Then he went away hurriedly, but with reluctance, somewhere else.

But when the husband returned, a certain barber's wife, who was jealous of Suwarnashílá for her beauty, met him and said: Happy are those who possess treasures. In your absence another man has been wearing your crest-jewel. So the husband, burning with jealousy, went home and asked his wife. And she said: It is true, but listen; and she told him the whole story. But he would not believe her. Then she extended her hand to the fire, and said: I appeal to the fire, if I have ever been faithless to you for a moment, even in a dream. And the fire shot up, and a bright flame licked the roof, and two tongues of flame crept out and kissed that saint, one on the mouth, and the other on the heart. But blinded with jealousy and rage, the husband said: This is a trick. And taking his sword, he said to his wife: Follow me. So she said: As my lord pleases. Then he led her away into the forest, and there he tied her to a tree, and cut off her hands and her feet, and her nose and her breasts, and went away and left her. And after a while she died alone in the forest, of cold and pain and loss of blood.

But that Kshatriya heard of what he had done. And filled with rage and despair, he went to that husband, and said to him: O fool, know, that you have murdered a saint. And but that I know that life will henceforth be a punishment to you worse than any death, I would slay you where you stand. But as it is, live, and may your guilt bring you death without a son. Then the husband, learning the truth, and discovering the villainy of that lying barber's wife, was filled with remorse. And he abandoned the world, and went to the Ganges to expiate his guilt. But the Kshatriya killed himself with his own sword.

So now tell me, Princess, why does fate inflict such terrible punishment on the innocent[4]? And Rasakósha ceased. Then the Princess said: Can emancipation be attained, save by those who are worthy of it? And how can gold[5] be tested, save by fire? And Suwarnashílá stood the test, and proved her nature: and doubtless she has her reward. For even death is not so sure as the consequences of even the minutest action.

Then a bodiless voice[6] fell from the sky, and said aloud: Well spoken, dear child. And the Princess rose up and went out, looking at the King with glistening eyes, and the heart of the King went with her. But the King and Rasakósha returned to their own apartments.

[1] Goura cannot mean white, because dhawala comes on a later day.

[2] See below.

[3] i.e. to take him in, with her husband away, would be bad enough, but, &c. A Hindoo even at the present day would murder his wife for a much smaller crime than this.

[4] This appalling question, which has puzzled the wise men of all ages, is answered by the Princess as well as by any one else.

[5] An allusion to the name Suwarnashílá, which means 'good as gold.'

[6] This is an everyday phenomenon in Hindoo stories; and its appearance in the Golden Ass of Apuleius puts it beyond all doubt that his story came originally from India.

Then when, after performing his daily ceremonies, he was going to take his seat on his throne, his prime minister, named Nayanétri[1] said to him: O king, why are your royal eyes red with want of sleep? So the king said: Nayanétri, last night it came into my head to ask myself, which of my three queens was the most beautiful. And I could not sleep for my perplexity, and even now I have not been able to solve the problem. Then Nayanétri said: O king, be content that you have queens between whom there is no distinction in beauty, and no cause of jealousy. Idle curiosity destroys peace of mind and produces evil. But the king said: I am determined, at whatever cost, to settle this point.

So finding that the king's heart was set upon the matter, Nayanétri said to him: King, ministers are like riders: a horse which they cannot restrain they must at any rate guide, or it will be the worse for both. Since it is absolutely necessary for you to decide between your queens in respect of beauty, listen to me. There has recently arrived in your capital a dissolute young Brahman called Kántígraha[2], who is famous in the three worlds as a judge of female beauty. Send for him, and let him see your queens, and he will certainly tell you which is the most beautiful. For a swan cannot more accurately separate milk from water[3], than he can distinguish the shades of beauty.

Accordingly the king, much pleased, had Kántígraha fetched; and as they stood conversing, he caused his three queens to pass in order through the room. And when the first queen passed, the Brahman stood as if rooted to the ground. And when the second passed, he trembled slightly. And when the third passed, he changed colour. Then when all had gone, the king said: Brahman, tell me, for you are a judge, which of those three is the most beautiful? But Kántígraha said to himself: If I tell the king, I may displease him, by slighting his favourite: moreover, the other two queens will certainly hear of it, and have me poisoned. So he bowed, and said: King, I must have time to decide: give me leave till to-morrow. So the king dismissed him. And Kántígraha went quickly away, intending to quit that city before nightfall, yet with reluctance, for he said to himself: There is one of those queens I would give much to enjoy.

But Nayanétri, who could read the heart from the external signs, said to the king: King, this Brahman means to give you the slip, for he is afraid, and will probably endeavour to leave the city before night. But I can tell you what to do, so as to discover his opinion. So the king did as his minister told him. And discovering which of his queens was the most beautiful, he loved her the best, so that the other two, being jealous, poisoned her. And the king, discovering it, put them to death. Thus through curiosity he lost all his queens, as Nayanétri predicted.

So now tell me, Princess, what did the king do to discover the opinion of Kántígraha? And Rasakósha ceased. Then the Princess said: He need not have done anything: the third queen was the most beautiful. For the first queen's beauty astounded that Brahman; that of the second struck him with awe: but that of the third touched his heart. However, Nayanétri wished to make sure. And so, knowing the character of Kántígraha, he caused the king to send him false letters, one from each queen, feigning love and appointing a meeting, but all for the same hour. And he, being only one, would go to that queen whom he judged most beautiful, and be caught by the guards set to watch by the king. For the actions of men are a surer indication of their hearts than their words.

And when the Princess had spoken, she rose up and went out, with a look of regret at the King, whose heart went with her. But the King and Rasakósha returned to their own apartments.

[1] A master of policy.

[2] Meaning both 'a connoisseur,' and 'a devourer of beauty,' with an allusion to Ráhu, who causes eclipses by devouring the moon.

[3] A fabled power of swans, frequently alluded to in Sanskrit poetry.

Lady[1], there was in former times a rogue, who had lost his all by gambling with other rogues like himself, and who became an ascetic in order to make a living by seeming piety. So he smeared his body with ashes, and matted his hair into a knot, and put on a yellow rag and a necklace of bones and a rosary, and went about hither and thither in the world practising hypocritical asceticism when anybody was looking at him, and begging. And one day, when he was sitting by the roadside, the daughter of the king of that country passed by on her elephant. And the wind blew aside the curtain of her howdah, and revealed her to his eyes. And she struck him with the fever of fierce desire, so that he uttered an ejaculation, and exclaimed: The fruit of my birth certainly lies in obtaining possession of that beauty. But how is it to be done?

So after meditating profoundly on the matter for a long time, he went to a large tree just outside the king's palace, and hung himself up like a bat[2], head downwards, from a branch. And thus he remained for hours, muttering to himself. And this he continued to do every day, so that the people came in crowds to see him. And news was carried to the king that a great ascetic had come, and was practising penance in a tree in front of his palace. So the king, much pleased, and thinking himself fortunate, went to examine him, and the ascetic blessed him, upside down, from the tree. Then the king was delighted, and sent food and other offerings to the rogue.

Then one day it happened that the king's daughter, whose name was Hasamúrtí[3], came by on her elephant, and saw the ascetic hanging like a bat in the tree. And the sight tickled her and she laughed aloud; and the ascetic heard her. So getting down from the tree, he went to the king. And having effected an entrance, he said to him: King, your daughter laughs at me, thus disturbing my devotions in the tree. Now in former times many great sages, irritated by scorn or neglect, have cursed the offenders, and inflicted terrible punishments on them. But I am long-suffering, and will spare your daughter. Nevertheless, I am about to curse your kingdom, so that no rain will fall on it for twenty years. Now the king was a great simpleton. And when he heard this, he was dreadfully alarmed: and he prayed so earnestly to the ascetic that the rogue, pretending to be mollified, said: Well, for this time I will abandon my design of cursing your kingdom. Only beware that it does not occur again. Then he went back to his tree, and the king scolded his daughter in private.

But the very next day the king's daughter passed again by the tree. And seeing the ascetic hanging, in spite of her promises to her father, her former hilarity returned upon her mind, and she laughed louder and longer than before. So the ascetic went again to the king, who, pale with terror, managed with difficulty and the most abject apologies once more to appease his wrath. And he returned to his tree, and the king again scolded his daughter, who promised never to offend again.

Then for two days Hasamúrtí went and came by another road, to avoid the opportunity of giving offence to the ascetic. But on the third day she forgot, and once more came past the tree, and saw him hanging. And suddenly, as if inspired by Shiwa himself[4], she burst into a peal of laughter, and she continued to laugh as if she was mad, even after she had entered the palace.

So the ascetic got down from the tree, and went to the king. And he said: O king, certainly your kingdom is doomed, and your daughter is possessed by an evil spirit. For she has laughed at me again, even worse than before, and cancelled years of my reward, by disturbing my meditations. Now therefore, prepare to suffer the extremities of my vengeance. Then the king, at his wits' end, said: Holy man, is there absolutely no remedy? The ascetic replied: Am I ever to be disturbed in my devotions? There is none; your daughter is clearly incurable. But the king said: Can nothing be done to cure her? Do you know no potent spell to conquer her malady? Then that rogue, inwardly delighted, said: Well, I will do this, out of mercy I will see your daughter, and perform incantations over her. And if I can drive out the evil spirit of unseasonable laughter that possesses her, it is well: but if not, nothing remains but the curse.

So the king carried him to his daughter's apartments, and said to his daughter: My daughter, your laughter incessantly disturbs this holy man at his devotions. And now he has come, out of mercy, to exorcise the laughing demon that possesses you: otherwise, my kingdom, cursed by him, will perish for want of rain. Then the ascetic said: Let all others depart, and leave me in private with the king's daughter. But the king said aside to the ascetic: Sir, my daughter must not be left alone with any man. Then the ascetic replied: Fear nothing on my account: I am not a man: it is many years since I sacrificed my manhood[5] to the Dweller in the Windhya hills.

But Hasamúrtí heard him, and she said to herself: My father is a fool, and doubtless this man has some design against my honour. He shall find I can do more than laugh. So she said to her father: Have no fear: this is a holy man. But she secretly stationed all her maids in readiness in the next room. Then when the ascetic found himself alone with the king's daughter, his evil passion rose to such a pitch that he could scarcely contain himself. Nevertheless he drew a circle, with trembling hands, and placing the king's daughter in it, he muttered awhile, and then said: My daughter, you must have the quarters of heaven for your only garments[6], or the spell will not work. Remove your clothes. But Hasamúrtí said: Reverend Sir, it is impossible. Then he caught hold of her. But she clapped her hands, and her maids ran in and seized him. And she said: Examine this ascetic, and see whether he is a man or not. So they did so, and said, laughing: Madam, he is very much a man indeed. Then Hasamúrtí said: Take this knife, and deprive him of his manhood. And they did as she commanded them.

Then Hasamúrtí said to him: Now go, for the incantation is finished. And if you please, complain to the king, my father: I have the evidence to convict you. So the maids released that ascetic. But he, as soon as they let him go, began to laugh, and continued to laugh till he reached the king. And he said: O king, do not hinder me: we have successfully performed the incantation, and see, I have caught the laughing demon, and am carrying him away. And he went away laughing, with death in his heart.

So now tell me, Princess, why did that ascetic laugh? And Rasakósha ceased. Then the Princess frowning slightly, replied: He laughed, in the cowardice of his soul, with exultation at having escaped from those maids as from the mouth of death: counting the failure of his scheme and the loss of his manhood as nothing, in comparison with the preservation of bare life. For cowards count the loss of life as the greatest of evils: but the great-souled esteem it as the least, and would forfeit it a thousand times, rather than fail in the object at which they aim.

And when she had said this, the Princess looked significantly at the King, and rose up and went out, and the King's heart went with her. But the King and Rasakósha returned to their own apartments.

[1] Should any reader be of opinion that I ought to have omitted or emasculated this story, I can only reply that I wish all Bowdlerisers no worse fate than that of the ascetic in the tent.

[2] History repeats itself. M. Rousselet, who travelled in India in the sixties, mentions, in his L'Inde des Rajas, a case that he saw in Rájputána of a holy man who suspended himself in a tree 'like a ham.'

[3] i.e. 'laughter incarnate.'

[4] Attahasa, 'loud laughter,' is a name of Shiwa. Kálidás (in his Cloud, v. 62) compares the snowy peaks of Mount Kailas to the laughter of Shiwa 'rolled into a ball.' (Note, that laughter is always white in Sanskrit poetry.)

[5] Spado factus sum. The 'dweller' is Párwatí, or Durgá, Shiwa's other half, in the strict sense of the term.

[6] Digambara, i.e. you must be stark-naked, or in a state of nature.

Then one day there passed by that way a Páshupata[1] ascetic. And he said to the Brahman: My son, what are you doing here? So he replied: Reverend Sir, I am performing penance, for the expiation of sin, on the banks of the Ganges. Then the ascetic said: What has this miserable puddle to do with the Ganges? And the Brahman said: Is this, then, not the Ganges? And the ascetic laughed in his face, and said: Truly, old as I am, I did not think that there had been folly like this in the world. Wretched man, who has deluded you? The Ganges is hundreds of miles away, and resembles this contemptible brook no more than Mount Méru resembles an ant hill.

Then the Brahman said: Reverend Sir, I am much obliged to you. And taking his pot and staff, he went forward, till at length he came to a broad river. And he rejoiced greatly, saying: This must be the sacred Ganges? So he settled on its bank, and remained there for five years bathing every day in its waters. Then one day there came by a Kápálika[2], who said to him: Why do you remain here, wasting precious time over a river of no account or sanctity, instead of going to the Ganges? But the Brahman was amazed, and said: And is this, then, not the Ganges? Then the Kápálika replied: This the Ganges! Is a jackal a lion, or a Chándála[3] a Brahman? Sir, you are dreaming.

Then the Brahman said sorrowfully: Worthy Kápálika, I am indebted to you. Fortunate was our meeting. And taking his pot and staff, he went forward, till at length he came to the Nermada. And thinking: Here, at last, is the sacred Ganges; he was overjoyed; and he remained on its banks for five years, bathing every day in its waters. But one day he observed on the bank near him, a pilgrim like himself, casting flowers into the river, and calling it by its name. So he went up to him and said: Sir, what is the name of this river? And the pilgrim answered: Is it possible that you do not know the holy Nermada? Then the Brahman sighed deeply. And he said: Sir, I am enlightened by you. And he took his pot and staff, and went forward.

But he was now very old and feeble. And long penance had weakened his frame and exhausted his energies. And as he toiled on in the heat of the day over the burning earth, the sun beat on his head like the thunderbolt of Indra, and struck him with fever. Still he gathered himself together and struggled on, growing weaker and weaker day by day, till at last he could go no further, but fell down and lay dying on the ground. But collecting all his remaining strength, with a last desperate effort he dragged himself up a low hill in front of him. And lo! there before him rolled the mighty stream of Ganges, with countless numbers of pilgrims doing penance on its banks and bathing in its stream. And in his agony he cried aloud: O Mother Ganges! alas! alas! I have pursued you all my life, and now I die here helpless in sight of you. So his heart broke, and he never reached its shore.

But when he got to the other world, Yama said to Chitragupta[4]; What is there down against him? And Chitragupta said: I find against him a terrible sin. But that he has expiated by fifteen years' penance on the banks of Ganges. Then that Brahman was amazed, and said: Lord, you are mistaken. I never reached the Ganges. And Yama smiled.

Now tell me, Princess, what did Yama mean by his smile? And Rasakósha ceased. Then the Princess said: Yama is just, and cannot err: and Chitragupta cannot be deceived. But what is this whole world but illusion! And just as penance performed in an improper spirit, even on the actual banks of Ganges, would be no true penance, so that poor simple Brahman's penance, performed in the belief that he had reached the Ganges, was counted by that holy One as truly so performed. For men judge by the fallacious testimony of the senses, but the gods judge by the heart.

And when the Princess had said this, she rose up and went out, smiling at the King, whose heart went with her. But the King and Rasakósha returned to their own apartments.

[1] A particular follower of Shiwa.

[2] Another sect of Shiwa worshippers.

[3] The lowest of all the castes, a synonym for all that is vile and impure, like the 'Jew dog' of the Middle Ages.

[4] Yama (pronounce Yum) is the judge of the dead, and Chitragupta his recorder, who keeps account of man's actions.

Lady, in a certain city there was a wealthy merchant, who possessed a very beautiful wife; and he loved her more than his own soul. But she was of light conduct, and walked in a path independent of her husband[1], and looked after other men, and her virtue under temptation was like a blade of grass in a forest conflagration. And though out of his great love for her, that merchant forgave her all her faults, she only despised him for it, and disliked him the more.

And one day, she looked out of her window, and saw in the street a handsome young Rajpoot. And smitten with passion, she instantly left her husband and her home, and ran away with him. But when he found that she had gone, that merchant, her husband, in his despair almost abandoned the body. But the hope that she would one day return kept him alive: hope alone binds those whom separation has made miserable to the world. Nevertheless, from the day she departed, all other things became abominable in his eyes. And neglecting his business, he sank into poverty, and became an object of contempt and derision to his friends. And forsaking all occupation or pleasure, he remained alone in his empty house, with the image of his runaway wife in his heart, night and day. And thus he lived for three years, every hour of which seemed to him as long as a kalpa, in the black darkness of desolation.

But she, in the meanwhile, after living with that Rajpoot for some time, grew tired of him, and left him for another paramour, and him again for another, flitting from one to another like a bee from flower to flower. And it happened that one night, when she was living with a certain merchant's son, he, in the new ardour of his admiration for her beauty, suddenly stooped down to kiss her feet. But not being aware of his intention, she drew her foot abruptly away, and it caught on the jewel of a ring in his ear, and was torn. And even though it was cured, the scar remained.

And one day, when three years had gone by, her husband, the merchant, was sitting by himself in his deserted house, gazing with the eye of his heart[2] at the image of his wife, when there came a knock at the door. And as his servants had all long ago left him, for he had no money to give them, he went to open it himself. And when he did so, he looked, and there before him was his wife. She was worn, and old, and the flower of her beauty was gone, and she was clothed in rags and dusty with travel, and she looked at her husband with eyes dim with tears and shame and fear, as she leaned against the doorpost, faint from hunger and thirst and fatigue. But when he saw her, his heart stopped, and his hair stood on end, and he uttered an exclamation of wonder and joy. And taking her in his arms, he carried her in, and put her on the bed which she had abandoned and disgraced; and fetching food and water, with feet that stumbled from the ecstasy of his joy, he washed the dust off her, and dispelled her anxiety and fear, and revived her heart, and uttered no reproaches, but blessed her for her return, with laughter and tears; and it was as though she had never been away, even in a dream. And as he was gently cherishing her, and shampooing her all over to soothe her fatigue, his eye fell on the scar that had remained on her foot from the wound caused by the merchant's son. And putting his finger on it, he said to her with a smile of compassion: Poor wounded foot, it has found a resting-place at last. But she looked at him silently, with large eyes, and suddenly she laughed, and then and there her heart broke and she died. And he, when he found that she was dead, fell down on the floor at her feet, and followed her.

So now, tell me, Princess, why did that woman's heart break? And Rasakósha ceased. Then the Princess said: It broke with grief. For when she saw that her husband repaid her evil conduct with kindness, and remembered the occasion that had caused that wound upon her foot, repentance came suddenly and flowed into her, like a river too great for her heart to hold it, and it split and broke, and she died.

And when she had spoken, the Princess rose up and went out slowly, looking regretfully at the King, whose heart went with her. But the King and Rasakósha returned to their own apartments.

[1] An independent woman is a synonym for a harlot, in Sanskrit.

[2] Smara means 'love' and also 'memory.'

Lady[1], there lived formerly in a certain village, a tawny-haired wrestler, who kept in his house a pet. And one day he returned home and found that it had gone out. So he ran out into the street to look for it. And seeing a man sitting at the corner of the street, he asked him: Have you seen my pet? The man said: Had it a string tied round its neck? The wrestler said: Yes. Then the man said: It went this way. So the wrestler went on, and enquired again. And one said: I saw it standing on two legs, endeavouring to climb that wall. Then another said: And I saw it on all fours crawling along by the wall. And a third said: And I saw it, on three legs, scratching its head with the fourth. So going still further, he met a washerman, who told him: It came this way and made faces at its own face in the water. And going still further, he met a fruit-seller, who said: I saw it sitting under that tree, pulling out the feathers of a bleeding crow[2], and I gave it a handful of monkey nuts.

Then going on, he met two men conversing together, and he asked them. And one said: I saw it with another of its own species searching for fleas in its hair. And the other said: What was the colour of the hair[3]? The wrestler answered: The same as mine. So the other replied: It is over yonder in the tree, swinging on a branch.

So now tell me, Princess, what kind of creature was that wrestler's pet? And Rasakósha ceased. Then the Princess smiled and said: It was no ape, but a child; perhaps his own son.

And when she had said this, she rose up and went out, as if with difficulty, looking reproachfully at the King, whose heart went with her. But the King and Rasakósha returned to their own apartments.

[1] The point of this crafty little story almost evaporates in translation. It is artfully contrived to entrap the Princess into saying 'an ape:' but she is too cunning. Tawny-haired means, literally, 'ape-coloured.'

[2] The pun is untranslateable: it may mean also, 'tossing up its gory locks' (kákapaksha).

[3] This is the critical point. These words may also mean: What is the caste of the child? The wrestler's answer fits both. The searching for fleas, as applied to the child, will surprise no one who has been in India.

In the meantime, his wife, consumed by the fever of desire, and unable any longer to endure separation, seized the opportunity afforded by her husband's absence, and went like an abhisáriká[1], to the house of her Brahman lover. And so it happened, that when the chaplain arrived at her house, she was not there. So he remained there, cursing his fate, and devoured by impatience, all night long. But she on her part arrived at his house, just before her husband, in the form of the chaplain, came there also. And when he went in, he was astonished to see his own wife. But she, not recognising who he was, but imagining him to be her lover, ran towards him and threw her arms round his neck, exclaiming: At last I have you. And that foolish husband was so delighted, for for a long time his wife had treated him coldly, that he forgot everything in the joy of the moment, and remained with her all night, enjoying the company of his own wife.

Then in the morning she rose up early while he was still asleep, and went secretly back to her own house. And the chaplain, on his part, wearied out with waiting, and in a very bad humour, left her house before she arrived, and returned home. And when he got there, he saw, to his astonishment, the husband in his body, lying asleep on his bed. So he woke him and said angrily: What are you doing in my bed? Then the husband replied: What do you mean by running away with my body? The chaplain said: Enough of this! I have suffered the tortures of hell in your abominable body, and I have a good mind to burn it. So the husband trembled for fear, and said humbly: I had no body but yours to enter, and I was cold; give me back mine, and take your own as soon as possible. So the chaplain carried him away to the cemetery, and by his magic power caused them to quit their bodies, and each re-entered his own.

But no sooner had the husband got back into his own body than he woke as it were from a dream, and remembered all: and he exclaimed: Rogue of a Brahman, it was you my wife embraced. But the chaplain replied: What have I had to do with your wife? But mad with rage, the husband laid hold of him, and dragged him to the king's officers. And he fetched his wife, and told the judge the whole story, and said: Punish these wicked persons: for they have robbed me of my honour. Then the chaplain said: I have not touched your wife. And she said: Of what are you complaining? Was it not yourself that I embraced[2]? But the judge was puzzled, and did not know what to say.

Now, Princess, decide for him. And Rasakósha ceased. Then the Princess said: The chaplain was a rogue, and intended wickedness, yet he was not amenable to the pains of law; for though he had planned, he had not executed, his scheme. And the woman, though she had done wrong, yet did it under the eye and sanction of her own husband, who acquiesced in and approved of her act. But that husband, whose passions were so little under control that he could aid and abet his wife in soiling his own honour, well knowing what he was about, deserves nothing but contempt and derision as the author of his own misfortune. Therefore let all three be dismissed unpunished.

And when the Princess had spoken, she rose up and went out, reluctantly, and the King's heart went with her. But the King and Rasakósha returned to their own apartments.

[1] A term, very common in Sanskrit poetry, for a woman who goes of her own accord to her lover.

[2] It is not clear how she knew this, unless she heard him tell the judge.

Then the King said to Rasakósha: My friend, though I hear but little of your stories, for the beauty of my beloved holds me spellbound and stops my ears, yet methinks her intelligence must be more than human, for as yet even you have not succeeded in posing it. And now eleven of my days are gone, and only ten remain. Never will I forgive you if I lose her. For day by day her looks grow kinder, and the moment of separation more appalling, and the efficacy of the portrait less potent to soothe me in her absence, so that it is doubtful whether I can live till to-morrow. And the King passed the night in a state of sickness gazing at the portrait. And when the sun rose, he rose also, and passed the day with difficulty, aided by Rasakósha and the garden. Then when the sun set, they went again to the hall of audience. And there they saw the Princess, clad in a robe of rose colour, and a bodice studded with ox-eyes[1], and her crown and other ornaments, sitting on her throne. And she leaned eagerly forward to see the King come in, and he sank upon a couch, speechless and fascinated, under the spell of her beauty. Then Rasakósha came forward and stood before her, and began again:

Lady, there was once a lordly elephant, the leader of a forest herd. And he rushed through the forest, like a thunderbolt of Indra, and the rain of ichor poured down from his mighty temples in streams, as he broke down the bushes and young trees in his charge. And then, having sported to his heart's content, he marched slowly through the glades like a mountain, with his herd behind him. And coming to an ant-hill, he drove his tusks into it, and cast up the earth. And then going onward, he stood at rest in a little pool, and drenched his sides with clear water collected in his trunk: and running his tusks into a bank, he stood leaning against a lord of the forest[2], swaying gently to and fro, with his eyes shut, and his basket-ears cocked, and his trunk hanging down. And the ivory of his tusks showed against his great dark-blue body like a double row of white swans against a thunder-cloud.

But meanwhile, the ants were thrown into confusion by his destruction of their hill, which killed many thousands of them. And they said: What! are we to die for the wanton sport of this rogue of an elephant? So they determined to send a deputation to the elephant, to demand reparation. And they chose seven of the wisest among them, So the ambassadors went and crawled in a row up the bole of the great tree against which the king of the elephants was leaning, till they reached the level of his ear. Then they delivered their message, saying: O king of the elephants, the ants have sent us to demand reparation from you for causing the death of great numbers of their caste. If not, there is no resource but war. But when the elephant heard this, he looked sideways out of the corner of his eye, and saw the row of ants upon the trunk of the tree. And he said to himself: This is a pleasant thing. What can these contemptible little ants do to us elephants? And taking water in his trunk, he discharged it with a blast against them, and destroyed them.

But when the ants saw the destruction of their ambassadors, they were enraged. And waiting till night, they crept out of the ground in innumerable myriads while the elephants were asleep, and gnawed the skin of their toes and the soles of their feet, old and young[3]. Then when in the morning the elephants began to move, they found their feet so sore as to be almost useless. So trumpeting with rage and pain they rushed about the forest destroying the ant-hills. But they could not reach the ants, who crept into the earth, while the more they ran about the worse grew their feet. So finding all their efforts useless, they desisted: and fearing for the future, they resolved to conclude peace with the ants. But not being able to find any, they sent a mouse, who went underground, and carried their message to the ants. But the ants replied: We will make no peace with the elephants, unless they deliver up their king to be punished for slaying our ambassadors. So the mouse went back to the elephants, and told them. And seeing that there was no help for it, they submitted.

Then the king of the elephants came alone into the forest, with drooping ears, to deliver himself up to the ants. And the ants said to the Shami[4] creeper: Bind this evil-doer, or we will gnaw your roots and destroy you. So the creeper threw its arms round the elephant, and bound him so tightly that he could not stir. And then the ants crawled out in myriads and buried him in earth, till he resembled a mountain. And the worms devoured his flesh, and nothing but his bones and his tusks remained. So the ants remained unmolested in the forest, and the elephants chose another king.

So now tell me, Princess, what is the moral[5] of this story? And Rasakósha ceased. Then the Princess pondered awhile and said: Even united, the weak are not always stronger than the strong. For an elephant is still an elephant, and an ant but an ant. But the strength of the strong is to be estimated by their weakness[6]. For if the elephants had known this, and protected their feet, they might have laughed at all that the ants could do to them, and even a single elephant would have been more than a match for all the ants in the world.

And when the Princess had said this, she rose up and went out slowly, looking sorrowfully at the King, whose heart went with her. But the King and Rasakósha returned to their own apartments.

[1] It is not clear what goméda means.

[2] i.e. a tall tree. Our idiom is the same.

[3] The author probably knew that the elephant's feet are very apt to go wrong and cause trouble: but whether 'white ants' or any other ants could produce the disease is a point for the natural historian to determine.

[4] Famous in poetry for its extraordinary toughness.

[5] Literally, what is the error of policy (nítídósha) in the story.

[6] i.e. 'a chain is no stronger than its weakest link.' The Princess's answer is exceedingly clever: and there are few who would not have given the obvious answer which she rejects.

Then his story went abroad, and the people said: What difficulty is there in this? The sun of the desert made him mad. But his relations said: Out on this madman! he has destroyed us with his folly. And a certain ascetic heard the story: and he laughed to himself, and said: Trashy trishy washy wishy[1]. Says the pot to the pipkin: Out on you, miserable clay!

Now tell me, Princess, what did that ascetic mean? And Rasakósha ceased. Then the Princess said: His relations blamed the madness of that caravan-leader, in that he took mirage for reality, not knowing that they were themselves no less mad, in taking this world and its perishable wealth for reality, and pursuing, as he did, phantoms. For what is this world but illusion? Thus they resembled pots of clay abusing clay pipkins for being made of clay.

And when the Princess had spoken she rose up and went out slowly, looking at the King sadly, and the King's heart went with her. But the King and Rasakósha returned to their own apartments.

[1] I have slightly modified the original jingle, which means: The thirst for delusion is the bane of the universe.