In the city of Kauśámbí there lived a Bráhman called Somadatta, who also had the title of Agniśikha, and his wife was called Vasudattá. She was the daughter of a hermit, and was born into the world in this position in consequence of a curse; and I was born by her to this excellent Bráhman, also in consequence of a curse. Now while I was still quite a child my father died, but my mother continued to support me, as I grew up, by severe drudgery; then one day two Bráhmans came to our house to stop a night, exceedingly dusty with a long journey; and while they were staying in our house there arose the noise of a tabor, thereupon my mother said to me, sobbing, as she called to mind her husband—“there, my son, is your father’s friend Bhavananda, giving a dramatic entertainment.” I answered, “I will go and see it, and will exhibit the whole of it to you, with a recitation of all the speeches.” On hearing that speech of mine, those Bráhmans were astonished, but my mother said to them—“Come, my children, there is no doubt about the truth of what he says; this boy will remember by heart everything that he has heard once.”8 Then they, in order to test me, recited to me a Prátiśákhya9; immediately I repeated the whole in their presence, then I went with the two Bráhmans and saw that play, and when I came home, I went through the whole of it in front of my mother: then one of the Bráhmans, named Vyáḍi, having ascertained that I was able to recollect a thing on hearing it once, told with submissive reverence this tale to my mother.

Mother, in the city of Vetasa there were two Bráhman brothers, Deva-Swámin and Karambaka, who loved one another very dearly; this Indradatta here is the son of one of them, and I am the son of the other, and my name [8]is Vyáḍi. It came to pass that my father died. Owing to grief for his loss, the father of Indradatta went on the long journey,10 and then the hearts of our two mothers broke with grief; thereupon being orphans though we had wealth,11 and, desiring to acquire learning, we went to the southern region to supplicate the lord Kártikeya. And while we were engaged in austerities there, the god gave us the following revelation in a dream. “There is a city called Páṭaliputra, the capital of king Nanda, and in it there is a Bráhman, named Varsha, from him ye shall learn all knowledge, therefore go there.” Then we went to that city, and when we made enquiries there, people said to us: “There is a blockhead of a Bráhman in this town, of the name of Varsha.” Immediately we went on with minds in a state of suspense, and saw the house of Varsha in a miserable condition, made a very ant-hill by mice, dilapidated by the cracking of the walls, untidy,12 deprived of eaves, looking like the very birth-place of misery.

Then, seeing Varsha plunged in meditation within the house, we approached his wife, who shewed us all proper hospitality; her body was emaciated and begrimed, her dress tattered and dirty; she looked like the incarnation of poverty, attracted thither by admiration for the Bráhman’s virtues. Bending humbly before her, we then told her our circumstances, and the report of her husband’s imbecility, which we heard in the city. She exclaimed—“My children, I am not ashamed to tell you the truth; listen! I will relate the whole story,” and then she, chaste lady, proceeded to tell us the tale which follows:

There lived in this city an excellent Bráhman, named Śankara Svámin, and he had two sons, my husband Varsha, and Upavarsha; my husband was stupid and poor, and his younger brother was just the opposite: and Upavarsha appointed his own wife to manage his elder brother’s house.13 Then in the course of time, the rainy season came on, and at this time the women are in the habit of making a cake of flour mixed with molasses, of an unbecoming and disgusting shape,14 and giving it to any Bráhman who is thought to be a blockhead, and if they act thus, this cake is said to remove their discomfort caused by bathing in the cold season, and their exhaustion15 [9]caused by bathing in the hot weather; but when it is given, Bráhmans refuse to receive it, on the ground that the custom is a disgusting one. This cake was presented by my sister-in-law to my husband, together with a sacrificial fee; he received it, and brought it home with him, and got a severe scolding from me; then he began to be inwardly consumed with grief at his own stupidity, and went to worship the sole of the foot of the god Kártikeya: the god, pleased with his austerities, bestowed on him the knowledge of all the sciences; and gave him this order—“When thou findest a Bráhman who can recollect what he has heard only once, then thou mayest reveal these”—thereupon my husband returned home delighted, and when he had reached home, told the whole story to me. From that time forth, he has remained continually muttering prayers and meditating: so find you some one who can remember anything after hearing it once, and bring him here: if you do that, you will both of you undoubtedly obtain all that you desire.

Having heard this from the wife of Varsha, and having immediately given her a hundred gold pieces to relieve her poverty, we went out of that city; then we wandered through the earth, and could not find anywhere a person who could remember what he had only heard once: at last we arrived tired out at your house to-day, and have found here this boy, your son, who can recollect anything after once hearing it: therefore give him us and let us go forth to acquire the commodity knowledge.

Having heard this speech of Vyáḍi, my mother said with respect, “All this tallies completely; I repose confidence in your tale: for long ago at the birth of this my only son, a distinct spiritual16 voice was heard from [10]heaven. “A boy has been born who shall be able to remember what he has heard once; he shall acquire knowledge from Varsha, and shall make the science of grammar famous in the world, and he shall be called Vararuchi by name, because whatever is excellent,17 shall please him.” Having uttered this, the voice ceased. Consequently, ever since this boy has grown big, I have been thinking, day and night, where that teacher Varsha can be, and to-day I have been exceedingly gratified at hearing it from your mouth. Therefore take him with you: what harm can there be in it, he is your brother?” When they heard this speech of my mother’s, those two, Vyáḍi and Indradatta, overflowing with joy, thought that night but a moment in length. Then Vyáḍi quickly gave his own wealth to my mother to provide a feast, and desiring that I should be qualified to read the Vedas, invested me with the Bráhmanical thread. Then Vyáḍi and Indradatta took me, who managed by my own fortitude to control the excessive grief I felt at parting, while my mother in taking leave of me could with difficulty suppress her tears, and considering that the favour of Kártikeya towards them had now put forth blossom, set out rapidly from that city; then in course of time we arrived at the house of the teacher Varsha: he too considered that I was the favour of Kártikeya arrived in bodily form. The next day he placed us in front of him, and sitting down in a consecrated spot, he began to recite the syllable Om with heavenly voice. Immediately the Vedas with the six supplementary sciences rushed into his mind, and then he began to teach them to us; then I retained what the teacher told us after hearing it once, Vyáḍi after hearing it twice, and Indradatta after hearing it three times: then the Bráhmans of the city hearing of a sudden that divine sound, came at once from all quarters with wonder stirring in their breasts to see what this new thing might be; and with their reverend mouths loud in his praises honoured Varsha with low bows. Then beholding that wonderful miracle, not only Upavarsha, but all the citizens of Páṭaliputra18 kept high festival. Moreover the king Nanda of exalted fortune, seeing the power of the boon of the son of Śiva, was delighted, and immediately filled the house of Varsha with wealth, shewing him every mark of respect.19 [11]

There is a sanctifying place of pilgrimage, named Kanakhala, at the point where the Ganges issues from the hills,2 where the sacred stream was brought down from the table-land of mount Uśínara, by Kánchanapáta the elephant of the gods, having cleft it asunder.3 In that place lived a certain Bráhman from the Deccan, performing austerities in the company of his wife, and to him were born there three sons. In the course of time he and his wife went to heaven, and those sons of his went to a place named Rájagṛiha, for the sake of acquiring learning. And having studied the sciences there, the three, grieved at their unprotected condition, went to the Deccan in order to visit the shrine of the god Kártikeya. Then they reached a city named Chinchiní on the shore of the sea, and dwelt in the house of a Bráhman named Bhojika, and he gave them his three daughters in marriage, and bestowed on them all his wealth, and having no other children, went to the Ganges to perform austerities. And while they were living there in the house of their father-in-law, a terrible famine arose produced by drought, thereupon the three Bráhmans fled, abandoning their virtuous wives, (since no care for their families touches the hearts of cruel men,) then the middle one of the three sisters was found to be pregnant; and those ladies repaired to the house of Yajnadatta a friend of their father’s: there they remained in a miserable condition, thinking each on her own husband, (for even in calamity women of good family do not forget the [12]duties of virtuous wives). Now in course of time the middle one of the three sisters gave birth to a son, and they all three vied with one another in love towards him. So it happened once upon a time that, as Śiva was roaming through the air, the mother of Skanda4 who was reposing on Śiva’s breast, moved with compassion at seeing their love for their child, said to her husband, “My lord, observe, these three women feel great affection for this boy, and place hope in him, trusting that he may some day support them; therefore bring it about that he may be able to maintain them, even in his infancy.” Having been thus entreated by his beloved, Śiva, the giver of boons, thus answered her: I adopt him as my protégé, for in a previous birth he and his wife propitiated me, therefore he has been born on the earth to reap the fruit of his former austerities; and his former wife has been born again as Páṭalí the daughter of the king Mahendravarman, and she shall be his wife in this birth also. Having said this, that mighty god told those three virtuous women in a dream,—“This young son of yours shall be called Putraka; and every day when he awakes from sleep, a hundred thousand gold pieces shall be found under his pillow,5 and at last he shall become a king.” Accordingly, when he woke up from sleep, those virtuous daughters of Yajnadatta found the gold and rejoiced that their vows and prayers had brought forth fruit. Then by means of that gold Putraka having in a short time accumulated great treasure, became a king, for good fortune is the result of austerities.6 Once upon a time Yajnadatta said in private to Putraka,—“King, your father and uncles have gone away into the wide world on account of a famine, therefore give continually to Bráhmans, in order that they may hear of it and return: and now listen, I will tell you the story of Brahmadatta.”

“There lived formerly in Benares a king named Brahmadatta. He saw a pair of swans flying in the air at night. They shone with the lustre of gleaming gold, and were begirt with hundreds of white swans, and so looked like a sudden flash of lightning, surrounded by white clouds. And his desire to behold them again kept increasing so mightily that he took no pleasure in the delights of royalty. And then having taken counsel with his ministers he caused a fair tank to be made according to a design of his own, and gave to all living creatures security from injury. In a short time he perceived that those two swans had settled in that lake, and when they had become tame he asked them the reason of their golden plumage. And then those swans addressed the king with an articulate voice. ‘In a former [13]birth, O king, we were born as crows; and when we were fighting for the remains of the daily offering8 in a holy empty temple of Śiva, we fell down and died within a sacred vessel belonging to that sanctuary, and consequently we have been born as golden swans with a remembrance of our former birth’;—having heard this the king gazed on them to his heart’s content, and derived great pleasure from watching them.

“Therefore you will gain back your father and uncles by an unparalleled gift.” When Yajnadatta had given him this advice, Putraka did as he recommended; when they heard the tidings of the distribution those Bráhmans arrived: and when they were recognized they had great wealth bestowed on them, and were reunited to their wives. Strange to say, even after they have gone through calamities, wicked men having their minds blinded by want of discernment, are unable to put off their evil nature. After a time they hankered after royal power, and being desirous of murdering Putraka they enticed him under pretext of a pilgrimage to the temple of Durgá: and having stationed assassins in the inner sanctuary of the temple, they said to him, “First go and visit the goddess alone, step inside.” Thereupon he entered boldly, but when he saw those assassins preparing to slay him, he asked them why they wished to kill him. They replied, “We were hired for gold to do it by your father and uncles.” Then the discreet Putraka said to the assassins, whose senses were bewildered by the goddess, “I will give you this priceless jewelled ornament of mine. Spare me, I will not reveal your secret; I will go to a distant land.” The assassins said, “So be it,” and taking the ornament they departed, and falsely informed the father and uncles of Putraka that he was slain. Then those Bráhmans returned and endeavoured to get possession of the throne, but they were put to death by the ministers as traitors. How can the ungrateful prosper?

In the meanwhile that king Putraka, faithful to his promise, entered the impassable wilds of the Vindhya, disgusted with his relations: as he wandered about he saw two heroes engaged heart and soul in a wrestling-match, and he asked them who they were. They replied, “We are the two sons of the Asura Maya, and his wealth belongs to us, this vessel, and this stick, and these shoes; it is for these that we are fighting, and whichever of us proves the mightier is to take them.” When he heard this speech of theirs, Putraka said with a smile—“That is a fine inheritance for a man.” Then they said—“By putting on these shoes one gains the power of flying through the air; whatever is written with this staff turns out true; and whatever food a man wishes to have in the vessel is found there immediately.” [14]When he heard this, Putraka said—“What is the use of fighting? Make this agreement, that whoever proves the best man in running shall possess this wealth.”9 Those simpletons said—“Agreed”—and set off to run, while the prince put on the shoes and flew up into the air, taking with him the [15]staff and the vessel; then he went a great distance in a short time and saw beneath him a beautiful city named Ákarshiká and descended into it from the sky. He reflected with himself; “hetæræ are prone to deceive, Bráhmans are like my father and uncles, and merchants are greedy of wealth; in whose house shall I dwell?” Just at that moment he reached a lonely dilapidated house, and saw a single old woman in it; so he gratified that old woman with a present, and lived unobserved in that broken down old house, waited upon respectfully by the old woman.

Once upon a time the old woman in an affectionate mood said to Putraka—“I am grieved, my son, that you have not a wife meet for you. But here there is a maiden named Páṭalí, the daughter of the king, and she is preserved like a jewel in the upper story of a seraglio.” While he was listening to this speech of hers with open ear, the god of love found an unguarded point, and entered by that very path into his heart. He made up his mind that he must see that damsel that very day, and in the night flew up through the air to where she was, by the help of his magic shoes. He then entered by a window, which was as high above the ground as the peak of a mountain, and beheld that Páṭalí, asleep in a secret place in the seraglio, continually bathed in the moonlight that seemed to cling to her limbs: as it were the might of love in fleshly form reposing after the conquest of this world. While he was thinking how he should awake her, suddenly outside a watchman began to chant: “Young men obtain the fruit of their birth, when they awake the sleeping fair one, embracing her as she sweetly scolds, with her eyes languidly opening.” On hearing this encouraging prelude, he embraced that fair one with limbs trembling with excitement, and then she awoke. When she beheld that prince, there was a contest between shame and love in her eye, which was alternately fixed on his face and averted. When they had conversed together, and gone through the ceremony of the Gándharva marriage, that couple found their love continually increasing, as the night waned away. Then Putraka took leave of his sorrowing wife, and with his mind dwelling only on her went in the last watch of the night to the old woman’s house. So every night the prince kept going backwards and forwards, and at last the intrigue was discovered by the guards of the seraglio, accordingly they revealed the matter to the lady’s father, and he appointed a woman to watch secretly in the seraglio at night. She, finding the prince asleep, made a mark with red lac upon his garment to facilitate his recognition. In the morning she informed the king of what she had done, and he sent out spies in all directions, and Putraka was discovered by the mark and dragged out from the dilapidated house into the presence of the king. Seeing that the king was enraged, he flew up into the air with the help of the shoes, and entered the palace of Páṭalí. He said to her,—“We are discovered, therefore rise [16]up, let us escape with the help of the shoes, and so taking Páṭalí in his arms he flew away from that place through the air.10 Then descending from heaven near the bank of the Ganges, he refreshed his weary beloved with cakes provided by means of the magic vessel. When Páṭalí saw the power of Putraka she made a request to him, in accordance with which he sketched out with the staff a city furnished with a force of all four arms.11 In that city he established himself as king, and his great power having attained full development, he subdued that father-in-law of his, and became ruler of the sea-engirdled earth. This is that same divine city, produced by magic, together with its citizens; hence it bears the name of Páṭaliputra, and is the home of wealth and learning.

When we heard from the mouth of Varsha the above strange and extraordinarily marvellous story, our minds, O Káṇabhúti, were for a long time delighted with thrilling wonder.

Upakośá on her part anxious for my success, remained in her own house, bathing every day in the Ganges, strictly observing her vow. One [18]day, when spring had come, she being still beautiful, though thin and slightly pale, and charming to the eyes of men, like the streak of the new moon, was seen by the king’s domestic chaplain while going to bathe in the Ganges, and also by the head magistrate, and by the prince’s minister; and immediately they all of them became a target for the arrows of love. It happened too somehow or other that she took a long time bathing that day, and as she was returning in the evening, the prince’s minister laid violent hands on her, but she with great presence of mind said to him, “Dear Sir, I desire this as much as you, but I am of respectable family, and my husband is away from home. How can I act thus? Some one might perhaps see us, and then misfortune would befall you as well as me. Therefore you must come without fail to my house in the first watch of the night of the spring-festival when the citizens are all excited.”6 When she had said this, and pledged herself, he let her go, but, as chance would have it, she had not gone many steps further, before she was stopped by the king’s domestic chaplain. She made a similar assignation with him also for the second watch of the same night; and so he too was, though with difficulty, induced to let her go; but, after she had gone a little further, up comes a third person, the head magistrate, and detains the trembling lady. Then she made a similar assignation with him too for the third watch of the same night, and having by great good fortune got him to release her, she went home all trembling, and of her own accord told her handmaids the arrangements she had made, reflecting, “Death is better for a woman of good family when her husband is away, than to meet the eyes of people who lust after beauty.” Full of these thoughts and regretting me, the virtuous lady spent that night in fasting, lamenting her own beauty. Early the next morning she sent a maid-servant to the merchant Hiraṇyagupta to ask for some money in order that she might honour the Bráhmans: then that merchant also came and said to her in private, “Shew me love, and then I will give you what your husband deposited.” When she heard that, she reflected that she had no witness to prove the deposit of her husband’s wealth, and perceived that the merchant was a villain, and so tortured with sorrow and grief, she made a fourth and last assignation with him for the last watch of the same night; so he went away. In the meanwhile she had prepared by her handmaids in a large vat lamp-black mixed with oil and scented with musk and other perfumes, and she made ready four pieces of rag anointed with it, and she caused to be made a large trunk with a fastening outside. So on that day of the spring-festival the prince’s minister came in the first watch of the night in gorgeous array. When he had entered without being observed Upakośá said to him, “I will not receive you until you have bathed, so go in and bathe.” The simpleton agreed to [19]that, and was taken by the handmaids into a secret dark inner apartment. There they took off his under-garments and his jewels, and gave him by way of an under-garment a single piece of rag, and they smeared the rascal from head to foot with a thick coating of that lamp-black and oil, pretending it was an unguent, without his detecting it. While they continued rubbing it into every limb, the second watch of the night came and the chaplain arrived, the handmaids thereupon said to the minister,—“here is the king’s chaplain come, a great friend of Vararuchi’s, so creep into this box”—and they bundled him into the trunk, just as he was, all naked, with the utmost precipitation: and then they fastened it outside with a bolt. The priest too was brought inside into the dark room on the pretence of a bath, and was in the same way stripped of his garments and ornaments, and made a fool of by the handmaids by being rubbed with lamp-black and oil, with nothing but the piece of rag on him, until in the third watch the chief magistrate arrived. The handmaids immediately terrified the priest with the news of his arrival, and pushed him into the trunk like his predecessor. After they had bolted him in, they brought in the magistrate on the pretext of giving him a bath, and so he, like his fellows, with the piece of rag for his only garment, was bamboozled by being continually anointed with lamp-black, until in the last watch of the night the merchant arrived. The handmaids made use of his arrival to alarm the magistrate and bundled him also into the trunk, and fastened it on the outside. So those three being shut up inside the box, as if they were bent on accustoming themselves to live in the hell of blind darkness, did not dare to speak on account of fear, though they touched one another. Then Upakośá brought a lamp into the room, and making the merchant enter it, said to him, “give me that money which my husband deposited with you.” When he heard that, the rascal said, observing that the room was empty, “I told you that I would give you the money your husband deposited with me.” Upakośá calling the attention of the people in the trunk, said—“Hear, O ye gods this speech of Hiraṇyagupta.” When she had said this, she blew out the light, and the merchant, like the others, on the pretext of a bath was anointed by the handmaids for a long time with lamp-black. Then they told him to go, for the darkness was over, and at the close of the night they took him by the neck and pushed him out of the door sorely against his will. Then he made the best of his way home, with only the piece of rag to cover his nakedness, and smeared with the black dye, with the dogs biting him at every step, thoroughly ashamed of himself, and at last reached his own house; and when he got there he did not dare to look his slaves in the face while they were washing off that black dye. The path of vice is indeed a painful one. In the early morning Upakośá accompanied by her handmaids went, without informing her parents, to the palace of king [20]Nanda, and there she herself stated to the king that the merchant Hiraṇyagupta was endeavouring to deprive her of money deposited with him by her husband. The king in order to enquire into the matter immediately had the merchant summoned, who said—“I have nothing in my keeping belonging to this lady.” Upakośá then said, “I have witnesses, my lord; before he went, my husband put the household gods into a box, and this merchant with his own lips admitted the deposit in their presence. Let the box be brought here and ask the gods yourself.” Having heard this the king in astonishment ordered the box to be brought.

Thereupon in a moment that trunk was carried in by many men. Then Upakośá said—“Relate truly, O gods, what that merchant said and then go to your own houses; if you do not, I will burn you or open the box in court.” Hearing that, the men in the box, beside themselves with fear, said—“It is true, the merchant admitted the deposit in our presence.” Then the merchant being utterly confounded confessed all his guilt; but the king, being unable to restrain his curiosity, after asking permission of Upakośá, opened the chest there in court by breaking the fastening, and those three men were dragged out, looking like three lumps of solid darkness, and were with difficulty recognised by the king and his ministers. The whole assembly then burst out laughing, and the king in his curiosity asked Upakośá, what was the meaning of all this; so the virtuous lady told the whole story. All present in court expressed their approbation of Upakośá’s conduct, observing: “The virtuous behaviour of women of good family who are protected by their own excellent disposition7 only, is incredible.”

Then all those coveters of their neighbour’s wife were deprived of all their living, and banished from the country. Who prospers by immorality? Upakośá was dismissed by the king, who shewed his great regard for her by a present of much wealth, and said to her: “Henceforth thou art my sister,”—and so she returned home. Varsha and Upavarsha when they heard it, congratulated that chaste lady, and there was a smile of admiration on the face of every single person in that city.8 [21]

In the meanwhile, by performing a very severe penance on the snowy mountain, I propitiated the god, the husband of Párvatí, the great giver of all good things; he revealed to me that same treatise of Páṇini; and in accordance with his wish I completed it: then I returned home without feeling the fatigue of the journey, full of the nectar of the favour of that god who wears on his crest a digit of the moon; then I worshipped the feet of my mother and of my spiritual teachers, and heard from them the wonderful achievement of Upakośá, thereupon joy and astonishment swelled to the upmost height in my breast, together with natural affection and great respect for my wife.

Now Varsha expressed a desire to hear from my lips the new grammar, and thereupon the god Kártikeya himself revealed it to him. And it came to pass that Vyáḍi and Indradatta asked their preceptor Varsha what fee they should give him? He replied, “Give me ten millions of gold pieces.” So they, consenting to the preceptor’s demand, said to me; “Come with us, friend, to ask the king Nanda to give us the sum required for our teacher’s fee; we cannot obtain so much gold from any other quarter: for he possesses nine hundred and ninety millions, and long ago he declared your wife Upakośá, his sister in the faith, therefore you are his brother-in-law; we shall obtain something for the sake of your virtues.” Having formed this resolution, we three fellow-students9 went to the camp of king Nanda in Ayodhyá, and the very moment we arrived, the king died; accordingly an outburst of lamentation arose in the kingdom, and we were reduced to despair. Immediately Indradatta, who was an adept in magic, said, “I will enter the body of this dead king10; let Vararuchi prefer the petition to me, and I will give him the gold, and let Vyáḍi guard my body until I return.” Saying this, Indradatta entered into the body of king Nanda, and when the king came to life again, there was great rejoicing in the kingdom. While Vyáḍi remained in an empty temple to guard the body of Indradatta, I went to the king’s palace. I entered, and after making the usual salutation, I asked the supposed Nanda for ten million gold pieces as my instructor’s fee. Then he ordered a man named Śakatála, the minister of the real Nanda, to give me ten million of gold pieces. That minister, when he saw that the dead king had come to life, and that the petitioner immediately got what he asked, guessed the real state of the case. What is there that the wise cannot understand? That minister said—“It shall be given, your Highness,” and reflected with himself; “Nanda’s son is but a child, and our realm is menaced by many enemies, so I will do my best for the present to [22]keep his body on the throne even in its present state.” Having resolved on this, he immediately took steps to have all dead bodies burnt, employing spies to discover them, and among them was found the body of Indradatta, which was burned after Vyáḍi had been hustled out of the temple. In the meanwhile the king was pressing for the payment of the money, but Śakatála, who was still in doubt, said to him, “All the servants have got their heads turned by the public rejoicing, let the Bráhman wait a moment until I can give it.” Then Vyáḍi came and complained aloud in the presence of the supposed Nanda, “Help, help, a Bráhman engaged in magic, whose life had not yet come to an end in a natural way, has been burnt by force on the pretext that his body was untenanted, and this in the very moment of your good fortune.”11 On hearing this the supposed Nanda was in an indescribable state of distraction from grief: but as soon as Indradatta was imprisoned in the body of Nanda, beyond the possibility of escape, by the burning of his body, the discreet Śakatála went out and gave me that ten millions.

Then the supposed Nanda,12 full of grief, said in secret to Vyáḍi,—“Though a Bráhman by birth I have become a Śúdra, what is the use of my royal fortune to me though it be firmly established?” When he heard that, Vyáḍi comforted him,13 and gave him seasonable advice, “You have been discovered by Śakatála, so you must henceforth be on your guard against him, for he is a great minister, and in a short time he will, when it suits his purpose, destroy you, and will make Chandragupta, the son of the previous Nanda, king. Therefore immediately appoint Vararuchi your minister, in order that your rule may be firmly established by the help of his intellect, which is of god-like acuteness.” When he had said this, Vyáḍi departed to give that fee to his preceptor, and immediately Yogananda sent for me and made me his minister. Then I said to the king, “Though your caste as a Bráhman has been taken from you, I do not consider your throne secure as long as Śakatála remains in office, therefore destroy him by some stratagem.” When I had given him this advice, Yogananda threw Śakatála into a dark dungeon, and his hundred sons with him,14 proclaiming as [23]his crime that he had burnt a Bráhman alive. One porringer of barley-meal and one of water was placed inside the dungeon every day for Śakatála and his sons, and thereupon he said to them;—“My sons, even one man alone would with difficulty subsist on this barley-meal, much less can a number of people do so. Therefore let that one of us, who is able to take vengeance on Yogananda, consume every day the barley-meal and the water.” His sons answered him, “You alone are able to punish him, therefore do you consume them.” For vengeance is dearer to the resolute than life itself. So Śakatála alone subsisted on that meal and water every day. Alas! those whose souls are set on victory are cruel. Śakatála in the dark dungeon, beholding the death agonies of his starving sons, thought to himself, “A man who desires his own welfare should not act in an arbitrary manner towards the powerful, without fathoming their character and acquiring their confidence.” Accordingly his hundred sons perished before his eyes, and he alone remained alive surrounded by their skeletons. Then Yogananda took firm root in his kingdom. And Vyáḍi approached him after giving the present to his teacher, and after coming near to him said, “May thy rule, my friend, last long! I take my leave of thee, I go to perform austerities somewhere.” Hearing that, Yogananda, with his voice choked with tears, said to him, “Stop thou, and enjoy pleasures in my kingdom, do not go and desert me.” Vyáḍi answered—“King! Life comes to an end in a moment. What wise man, I pray you, drowns himself in these hollow and fleeting enjoyments? Prosperity, a desert mirage, does not turn the head of the wise man.” Saying this he went away that moment resolved to mortify his flesh with austerities. Then that Yogananda went to his metropolis Páṭaliputra, for the purpose of enjoyment, accompanied by me, and surrounded with his whole army. So I, having attained prosperity, lived for a long time in that state, waited upon by Upakośá, and bearing the burden of the office of prime-minister to that king, accompanied by my mother and my preceptors. There the Ganges, propitiated by my austerities, gave me every day much wealth, and Sarasvatí present in bodily form told me continually what measures to adopt.

There reigned here long ago a king named Ádityavarman, and he had a very wise minister, named Śivavarman. Now it came to pass that one of that king’s queens became pregnant, and when he found it out, the king said to the guards of the harem, “It is now two years since I entered this place, then how has this queen become pregnant? Tell me.” Then they said, “No man except your minister Śivavarman is allowed to enter here, but he enters without any restriction.” When he heard that, the king thought,—“Surely he is guilty of treason against me, and yet if I put him to death publicly, I shall incur reproach,”—thus reflecting, that king sent that Śivavarman on some pretext to Bhogavarman a neighbouring chief,7 who was an ally of his, and immediately afterwards the king secretly sent off a messenger to the same chief, bearing a letter by which he was ordered to put the minister to death. When a week had elapsed after the minister’s departure, that queen tried to escape out of fear, and was taken by the guards with a man in woman’s attire, then Ádityavarman when he heard of it was filled with remorse, and asked himself why he had causelessly brought about the death of so excellent a minister. In the meanwhile Śivavarman reached the Court of Bhogavarman, and that messenger came bringing the letter; and fate would have it so that after Bhogavarman had read the letter he told to Śivavarman in secret the order he had received to put him to death.

The excellent minister Śivavarman in his turn said to that chief,—[28]“put me to death; if you do not, I will slay myself with my own hand.” When he heard that, Bhogavarman was filled with wonder, and said to him, “What does all this mean? Tell me Bráhman, if you do not, you will lie under my curse.” Then the minister said to him, “King, in whatever land I am slain, on that land God will not send rain for twelve years.” When he heard that, Bhogavarman debated with his minister,—“that wicked king desires the destruction of our land, for could he not have employed secret assassins to kill his minister? So we must not put this minister to death, moreover we must prevent him from laying violent hands on himself.” Having thus deliberated and appointed him guards, Bhogavarman sent Śivavarman out of his country that moment; so that minister by means of his wisdom returned alive, and his innocence was established from another quarter, for righteousness cannot be undone.

In the same way your innocence will be made clear, Kátyáyana; remain for a while in my house; this king too will repent of what he has done. When Śakatála said this to me, I spent those days concealed in his house, waiting my opportunity.

Then it came to pass that one day, O Káṇabhúti, a son of that Yogananda named Hiraṇyagupta went out hunting, and when he had somehow or other been carried to a great distance by the speed of his horse, while he was alone in the wood the day came to an end; and then he ascended a tree to pass the night. Immediately afterwards a bear, which had been terrified by a lion, ascended the same tree; he seeing the prince frightened, said to him with a human voice, “Fear not, thou art my friend,” and thus promised him immunity from harm. Then the prince confiding in the bear’s promise went to sleep, while the bear remained awake. Then the lion below said to the bear, “Bear, throw me down this man, and I will go away.” Then the bear said, “Villain, I will not cause the death of a friend.” When in course of time the bear went to sleep while the prince was awake, the lion said again, “Man, throw me down the bear.” When he heard that, the prince, who through fear for his own safety wished to propitiate the lion, tried to throw down the bear, but wonderful to say, it did not fall, since Fate caused it to awake. And then that bear said to the prince, “become insane, thou betrayer of thy friend,”8 laying upon him a curse destined not to end until a third person guessed the whole transaction. Accordingly the prince, when he reached his palace in the morning went out of his mind, and Yogananda seeing it, was immediately plunged in despondency; and said, “If Vararuchi were alive at this moment, all this matter would be known; curse on my readiness to have him put to death!” [29]Śakatála, when he heard this exclamation of the king’s, thought to himself, “Ha! here is an opportunity obtained for bringing Kátyáyana out of concealment, and he being a proud man will not remain here, and the king will repose confidence in me.” After reflecting thus, he implored pardon, and said to the king, “O King, cease from despondency, Vararuchi remains alive.” Then Yogananda said, “Let him be brought quickly.” Then I was suddenly brought by Śakatála into the presence of Yogananda and beheld the prince in that state; and by the favour of Sarasvatí I was enabled to reveal the whole occurrence; and I said, “King, he has proved a traitor to his friend”; then I was praised by that prince who was delivered from his curse; and the king asked me how I had managed to find out what had taken place. Then I said, “King, the minds of the wise see everything by inference from signs, and by acuteness of intellect. So I found out all this in the same way as I found out that mole.” When I had said this, that king was afflicted with shame. Then without accepting his munificence, considering myself to have gained all I desired by the clearing of my reputation, I went home: for to the wise character is wealth. And the moment I arrived, the servants of my house wept before me, and when I was distressed at it Upavarsha came to me and said, “Upakośá, when she heard that the king had put you to death, committed her body to the flames, and then your mother’s heart broke with grief.” Hearing that, senseless with the distraction produced by recently aroused grief, I suddenly fell on the ground like a tree broken by the wind: and in a moment I tasted the relief of loud lamentations; whom will not the fire of grief, produced by the loss of dear relations, scorch? Varsha came and gave me sound advice in such words as these, “The only thing that is stable in this ever-changeful world is instability, then why are you distracted though you know this delusion of the Creator”? By the help of these and similar exhortations I at length, though with difficulty, regained my equanimity; then with heart disgusted with the world, I flung aside all earthly lords, and choosing self-restraint for my only companion, I went to a grove where asceticism was practised.

Then, as days went by, once on a time a Bráhman from Ayodhyá came to that ascetic-grove while I was there: I asked him for tidings about Yogananda’s government, and he recognizing me told me in sorrowful accents the following story:

“Hear what happened to Nanda after you had left him. Śakatála after waiting for it a long time, found that he had now obtained an opportunity of injuring him. While thinking how he might by some device get Yogananda killed, he happened to see a Bráhman named Cháṇakya digging up the earth in his path; he said to him, “Why are you digging up the earth?” The Bráhman, whom he had asked, said, I am rooting up a plant [30]of darbha grass here, because it has pricked my foot.9 When he heard that, the minister thought that Bráhman who formed such stern resolves out of anger, would be the best instrument to destroy Nanda with. After asking his name he said to him, “Bráhman, I assign to you the duty of presiding at a śráddha on the thirteenth day of the lunar fortnight, in the house of king Nanda; you shall have one hundred thousand gold pieces by way of fee, and you shall sit at the board above all others; in the meanwhile come to my house.” Saying this, Śakatála took that Bráhman to his house, and on the day of the śráddha he showed the Bráhman to the king, and he approved of him. Then Cháṇakya went and sat at the head of the table during the śráddha, but a Bráhman named Subandhu desired that post of honour for himself. Then Śakatála went and referred the matter to king Nanda, who answered, “Let Subandhu sit at the head of the table, no one else deserves the place.” Then Śakatála went, and, humbly bowing through fear, communicated that order of the king’s to Cháṇakya, adding, “it is not my fault.” Then that Cháṇakya, being, as it were, inflamed all over with wrath, undoing the lock of hair on the crown of his head, made this solemn vow, “Surely this Nanda must be destroyed by me within seven days, and then my anger being appeased I will bind up my lock.” When he had said this, Yogananda was enraged; so Cháṇakya escaped unobserved, and Śakatála gave him refuge in his house. Then being supplied by Śakatála with the necessary instruments, that Bráhman Cháṇakya went somewhere and performed a magic rite; in consequence of this rite Yogananda caught a burning fever, and died when the seventh day arrived; and Śakatála, having slain Nanda’s son Hiraṇyagupta, bestowed the royal dignity upon Chandragupta a son of the previous Nanda. And after he had requested Cháṇakya, equal in ability to Bṛihaspati,10 to be Chandragupta’s prime-minister, and established him in the office, that minister, considering that all his objects had been accomplished, as he had wreaked his vengeance on Yogananda, despondent through sorrow for the death of his sons, retired to the forest.”11

After I had heard this, O Káṇabhúti, from the mouth of that Bráhman, I became exceedingly afflicted, seeing that all things are unstable; and on account of my affliction I came to visit this shrine of Durgá, and through her favour having beheld you, O my friend, I have remembered my former birth. [31]

And having obtained divine discernment I have told you the great tale: now as my curse has spent its strength, I will strive to leave the body; and do you remain here for the present, until there comes to you a Bráhman named Guṇáḍhya, who has forsaken the use of three languages,12 surrounded with his pupils, for he like myself was cursed by the goddess in anger, being an excellent Gaṇa Mályaván by name, who for taking my part has become a mortal. To him you must tell this tale originally told by Siva, then you shall be delivered from your curse, and so shall he.

Having said all this to Káṇabhúti, that Vararuchi set forth for the holy hermitage of Badariká in order to put off his body. As he was going along he beheld on the banks of the Ganges a vegetable-eating13 hermit, and while he was looking on, that hermit’s hand was pricked with kuśa grass. Then Vararuchi turned his blood, as it flowed out, into sap14 through his magic power, out of curiosity, in order to test his egotism; on beholding that, the hermit exclaimed, “Ha! I have attained perfection;” and so he became puffed up with pride. Then Vararuchi laughed a little and said to him, “I turned your blood into sap in order to test you, because even now, O hermit, you have not abandoned egotism. Egotism is in truth an obstacle in the road to knowledge hard to overcome, and without knowledge liberation cannot be attained even by a hundred vows. But the perishable joys of Svarga cannot attract the hearts of those who long for liberation, therefore, O hermit, endeavour to acquire knowledge by forsaking egotism.” Having thus read that hermit a lesson, and having been praised by him prostrate in adoration, Vararuchi went to the tranquil site of the hermitage of Badarí.15 There he, desirous of putting off his mortal condition, resorted for protection with intense devotion to that goddess who only can protect, and she manifesting her real form to him told him the secret of that meditation which arises from fire, to help him to put off the body. Then Vararuchi having consumed his body by that form of meditation, reached his own heavenly home; and henceforth that Káṇabhúti remained in the Vindhya forest eager for his desired meeting with Guṇáḍhya. [32]

It is not very wonderful that a thrifty man should acquire wealth by wealth; but I long ago achieved prosperity without any wealth to start with. My father died before I was born, and then my mother was deprived by wicked relations of all she possessed. Then she fled through fear of them, watching over the safety of her unborn child, and dwelt in the house of Kumáradatta a friend of my father’s, and there the virtuous woman gave birth to me, who was destined to be the means of her future maintenance; and so she reared me up by performing menial drudgery. And as she was so poor, she persuaded a teacher by way of charity to give me some instruction in writing and ciphering. Then she said to me, “You are the son of a merchant, so you must now engage in trade, and there is a very rich merchant in this country called Viśákhila; he is in the habit of lending capital to poor men of good family, go and entreat him to give you something to start with.” Then I went to his house, and he at the very moment I entered, said in a rage to some merchant’s son; “you see this [34]dead mouse here upon the floor, even that is a commodity by which a capable man would acquire wealth, but I gave you, you good-for-nothing fellow, many dínárs,5 and so far from increasing them, you have not even been able to preserve what you got.” When I heard that, I suddenly said to that Viśákhila, “I hereby take from you that mouse as capital advanced;” saying this I took the mouse up in my hand, and wrote him a receipt for it, which he put in his strong box, and off I went. The merchant for his part burst out laughing. Well, I sold that mouse to a certain merchant as cat’s-meat for two handfuls of gram, then I ground up that gram, and taking a pitcher of water, I went and stood on the cross-road in a shady place, outside the city; there I offered with the utmost civility the water and gram to a band of wood-cutters;6 every wood-cutter gave me as a token of gratitude two pieces of wood; and I took those pieces of wood and sold them in the market; then for a small part of the price which I got for them, I bought a second supply of gram, and in the same way on a second day I obtained wood from the wood-cutters. Doing this every day I gradually acquired capital, and I bought from those wood-cutters all their wood for three days. Then suddenly there befell a dearth of wood on account of heavy rains, and I sold that wood for many hundred paṇas, with that wealth I set up a shop, and engaging in traffic, I have become a very wealthy man by my own ability. Then I made a mouse of gold, and gave it to that Viśákhila, then he gave me his daughter; and in consequence of my history I am known in the world by the name of Mouse. So without a coin in the world I acquired this prosperity. All the other merchants then, when they heard this story, were astonished. How can the mind help being amazed at pictures without walls?7

In another place a Bráhman who had got eight gold máshas as a present, a chanter of the Sáma Veda, received the following piece of advice from a man who was a bit of a roué, “You get enough to live upon by your position as a Bráhman, so you ought now to employ this gold for the purpose of learning the way of the world in order that you may become a knowing fellow.” The fool said “Who will teach me?” Thereupon the roué said to him, “This lady8 named Chaturiká, go to her house.” The [35]Bráhman said, “What am I to do there”? The roué replied—“Give her gold, and in order to please her make use of some sáma.”9 When he heard this, the chanter went quickly to the house of Chaturiká; when he entered, the lady advanced to meet him and he took a seat. Then that Bráhman gave her the gold and faltered out the request, “Teach me now for this fee the way of the world.” Thereupon the people who were there began to titter, and he, after reflecting a little, putting his hands together in the shape of a cow’s ear, so that they formed a kind of pipe, began, like a stupid idiot, to chant with a shrill sound the Sáma Veda, so that all the roués in the house came together to see the fun; and they said “Whence has this jackal blundered in here? Come, let us quickly give him the half-moon10 on his throat.” Thereupon the Bráhman supposing that the half-moon meant an arrow with a head of that shape, and afraid of having his head cut off, rushed out of the house, bellowing out, “I have learnt the way of the world;” then he went to the man who had sent him, and told him the whole story. He replied “when I told you to use sáma, I meant coaxing and wheedling; what is the propriety of introducing the Veda in a matter of this kind? The fact is, I suppose, that stupidity is engrained in a man who muddles his head with the Vedas?” So he spoke, bursting with laughter all the while, and went off to the lady’s house, and said to her, “Give back to that two-legged cow his gold-fodder.” So she laughing gave back the money, and when the Bráhman got it, he went back to his house as happy as if he had been born again.

Witnessing strange scenes of this kind at every step, I reached the palace of the king which was like the court of Indra. And then I entered it, with my pupils going before to herald my arrival, and saw the king Sátaváhana sitting in his hall of audience upon a jewelled throne, surrounded by his ministers, Śarvavarman and his colleagues, as Indra is by the gods. After I had blessed him and had taken a seat, and had been honoured by the king, Śarvavarman and the other ministers praised me in the following words, “This man, O king, is famous upon the earth as skilled in all lore, and therefore his name Guṇáḍhya11 is a true index of his nature.” Sátaváhana hearing me praised in this style by his ministers, was pleased with me and immediately entertained me honourably, and appointed me to the office of Minister. Then I married a wife, and lived there comfortably, looking after the king’s affairs and instructing my pupils. [36]

Once, as I was roaming about at leisure on the banks of the Godávarí out of curiosity, I beheld a garden called Devíkṛiti, and seeing that it was an exceedingly pleasant garden, like an earthly Nandana,12 I asked the gardener how it came there, and he said to me, “My lord, according to the story which we hear from old people, long ago there came here a certain Bráhman who observed a vow of silence and abstained from food, he made this heavenly garden with a temple; then all the Bráhmans assembled here out of curiosity, and that Bráhman being persistently asked by them told his history. There is in this land a province called Vakakachchha on the banks of the Narmadá, in that district I was born as a Bráhman, and in former times no one gave me alms, as I was lazy as well as poor; then in a fit of annoyance I quitted my house being disgusted with life, and wandering round the holy places, I came to visit the shrine of Durgá the dweller in the Vindhya hills, and having beheld that goddess, I reflected, ‘People propitiate with animal offerings this giver of boons, but I will slay myself here, stupid beast that I am.’ Having formed this resolve, I took in hand a sword to cut off my head. Immediately that goddess being propitious, herself said to me, ‘Son, thou art perfected, do not slay thyself, remain near me;’ thus I obtained a boon from the goddess and attained divine nature; from that day forth my hunger and thirst disappeared; then once on a time, as I was remaining there, that goddess herself said to me, ‘Go, my son, and plant in Pratishṭhána a glorious garden;’ thus speaking, she gave me, with her own hands, heavenly seed; thereupon I came here and made this beautiful garden by means of her power; and this garden you must keep in good order. Having said this, he disappeared. In this way this garden was made by the goddess long ago, my lord.” When I had heard from the gardener this signal manifestation of the favour of the goddess, I went home penetrated with wonder.

When Guṇáḍhya had said this, Káṇabhúti asked, “Why, my lord, was the king called Sátaváhana?” Then Guṇáḍhya said, Listen, I will tell you the reason. There was a king of great power named Dvípikarṇi. He had a wife named Śaktimatí, whom he valued more than life, and once upon a time a snake bit her as she was sleeping in the garden. Thereupon she died, and that king thinking only of her, though he had no son, took a vow of perpetual chastity. Then once upon a time the god of the moony crest said to him in a dream—“While wandering in the forest thou shalt behold a boy mounted on a lion, take him and go home, he shall be thy son.” Then the king woke up, and rejoiced remembering that dream, and one day in his passion for the chase he went to a distant wood; there in the middle of the day that king beheld on the bank of a lotus-lake a boy [37]splendid as the sun, riding on a lion; the lion desiring to drink water set down the boy, and then the king remembering his dream slew it with one arrow. The creature thereupon abandoned the form of a lion, and suddenly assumed the shape of a man; the king exclaimed, “Alas! what means this? tell me!” and then the man answered him—“O king, I am a Yaksha of the name of Sáta, an attendant upon the god of wealth; long ago I beheld the daughter of a Ṛishi bathing in the Ganges; she too, when she beheld me, felt love arise in her breast, like myself: then I made her my wife by the Gándharva form of marriage; and her relatives, finding it out, in their anger cursed me and her, saying, “You two wicked ones, doing what is right in your own eyes, shall become lions.” The hermit-folk appointed that her curse should end when she gave birth to offspring, and that mine should continue longer, until I was slain by thee with an arrow. So we became a pair of lions; she in course of time became pregnant, and then died after this boy was born, but I brought him up on the milk of other lionesses, and lo! to-day I am released from my curse having been smitten by thee with an arrow. Therefore receive this noble son which I give thee, for this thing was foretold long ago by those hermit-folk.” Having said this that Guhyaka named Sáta disappeared,13 and the king taking the boy went home; and because he had ridden upon Sáta he gave the boy the name of Sátaváhana, and in course of time he established him in his kingdom. Then, when that king Dvípikarṇi went to the forest, this Sátaváhana became sovereign of the whole earth.

Having said this in the middle of his tale in answer to Káṇabhúti’s question, the wise Guṇáḍhya again called to mind and went on with the main thread of his narrative. Then once upon a time, in the spring festival that king Sátaváhana went to visit the garden made by the goddess, of which I spake before. He roamed there for a long time like Indra in the garden of Nandana, and descended into the water of the lake to amuse himself in company with his wives. There he sprinkled his beloved ones sportively with water flung by his hands, and was sprinkled by them in return like an elephant by its females. His wives with faces, the eyes of which were slightly reddened by the collyrium washed into them, and which were streaming with water, and with bodies the proportions of which were revealed by their clinging garments, pelted him vigorously; and as the wind strips the creepers in the forest of leaves and flowers, so he made his fair ones who fled into the adjoining shrubbery lose the marks on their foreheads14 and their ornaments. Then one of his queens tardy [38]with the weight of her breasts, with body tender as a śirísha flower, became exhausted with the amusement; she not being able to endure more, said to the king who was sprinkling her with water,—“do not pelt me with water-drops;” on hearing that, the king quickly had some sweetmeats15 brought; then the queen burst out laughing and said again—“king, what do we want with sweetmeats in the water? For I said to you, do not sprinkle me with water-drops. Do you not even understand the coalescence of the words má and udaka, and do you not know that chapter of the grammar,—how can you be such a blockhead?” When the queen, who knew grammatical treatises, said this to him, and the attendants laughed, the king was at once overpowered with secret shame; he left off romping in the water and immediately entered his own palace unperceived, crest-fallen, and full of self-contempt. Then he remained lost in thought, bewildered, averse to food and other enjoyments, and, like a picture, even when asked a question, he answered nothing. Thinking that his only resource was to acquire learning or die, he flung himself down on a couch, and remained in an agony of grief. Then all the king’s attendants, seeing that he had suddenly fallen into such a state, were utterly beside themselves to think what it could mean. Then I and Śarvavarman came at last to hear of the king’s condition, and by that time the day was almost at an end. So perceiving that the king was still in an unsatisfactory condition, we immediately summoned a servant of the king named Rájahansa. And he, when asked by us about the state of the king’s health, said this—“I never before in my life saw the king in such a state of depression: and the other queens told me with much indignation that he had been humiliated to-day by that superficial blue-stocking, the daughter of Vishṇuśakti.” When Śarvavarman and I had heard this from the mouth of the king’s servant, we fell into a state of despondency, and thus reflected in our dilemma; “If the king were afflicted with bodily disease, we might introduce the physicians, but if his disease is mental it is impossible to find the cause of it. For there is no enemy in his country the thorns of which are destroyed, and these subjects are attached to him; no dearth of any kind is to be seen; so how can this sudden melancholy of the king’s have arisen?” After we had debated to this effect, the wise Śarvavarman said as follows—“I know the cause, this king is distressed by sorrow for his own ignorance, for he is always expressing a desire for culture, saying ‘I am a blockhead;’ I long ago detected this desire of his, and we have heard that the occasion of the present fit is his having been humiliated by the queen.” Thus we debated with one another and after [39]we had passed that night, in the morning we went to the private apartments of the sovereign. There, though strict orders had been given that no one was to enter, I managed to get in with difficulty, and after me Śarvavarman slipped in quickly. I then sat down near the king and asked him this question—“Why, O king, art thou without cause thus despondent?” Though he heard this, Sátaváhana nevertheless remained silent, and then Śarvavarman uttered this extraordinary speech, “King, thou didst long ago say to me, ‘Make me a learned man.’ Thinking upon that I employed last night a charm to produce a dream.16 Then I saw in my dream a lotus fallen from heaven, and it was opened by some heavenly youth, and out of it came a divine woman in white garments, and immediately, O king, she entered thy mouth. When I had seen so much I woke up, and I think without doubt that the woman who visibly entered thy mouth was Sarasvatí.” As soon as Śarvavarman had in these terms described his dream, the king broke his silence and said to me with the utmost earnestness,—“In how short a time can a man, who is diligently taught, acquire learning? Tell me this. For without learning all this regal splendour has no charms for me. What is the use of rank and power to a blockhead? They are like ornaments on a log of wood.” Then I said, “King, it is invariably the case that it takes men twelve years to learn grammar, the gate to all knowledge. But I, my sovereign, will teach it you in six years.” When he heard that, Śarvavarman suddenly exclaimed in a fit of jealousy—“How can a man accustomed to enjoyment endure hardship for so long? So I will teach you grammar, my prince, in six months.” When I heard this promise which it seemed impossible to make good, I said to him in a rage, “If you teach the king in six months, I renounce at once and for ever Sanskrit, Prakṛit, and the vernacular dialect, these three languages which pass current among men;”17 then Śarvavarman said—“And if I do not do this, I Śarvavarman, will carry your shoes on my head for twelve years.” Having said this he went out; I too went home; and the king for his part was comforted, expecting that he would attain his object by means of one of us two. Now Śarvavarman being in a dilemma, seeing that his promise was one very difficult to perform, and regretting what he had done, told the whole story to his wife, and she grieved to hear it said to him, “My lord, in this difficulty there is no way of escape for you except the favour of the Lord Kártikeya.”18 “It is so,” said Śarvavarman and determined to implore it. Accordingly [40]in the last watch of the night, Śarvavarman set out fasting for the shrine of the god. Now I came to hear of it by means of my secret emissaries, and in the morning I told the king of it; and he, when he heard it, wondered what would happen. Then a trusty Rájpút called Sinhagupta said to him, “When I heard, O king, that thou wast afflicted I was seized with great despondency. Then I went out of this city, and was preparing to cut off my own head before the goddess Durgá in order to ensure thy happiness. Then a voice from heaven forbade me, saying, ‘Do not so, the king’s wish shall be fulfilled.’ Therefore, I believe, thou art sure of success.” When he had said this, that Sinhagupta took leave of the king, and rapidly despatched two emissaries after Śarvavarman; who feeding only on air, observing a vow of silence, steadfast in resolution, reached at last the shrine of the Lord Kártikeya. There, pleased with his penance that spared not the body, Kártikeya favoured him according to his desire; then the two spies sent by Sinhagupta came into the king’s presence and reported the minister’s success. On hearing that news the king was delighted and I was despondent, as the cháṭaka joys, and the swan grieves, on seeing the cloud.19 Then Śarvavarman arrived successful by the favour of Kártikeya, and communicated to the king all the sciences, which presented themselves to him on his thinking of them. And immediately they were revealed to the king Sátaváhana. For what cannot the grace of the Supreme Lord accomplish? Then the kingdom rejoiced on hearing that the king had thus obtained all knowledge, and there was high festival kept throughout it; and that moment banners were flaunted from every house, and being fanned by the wind, seemed to dance. Then Śarvavarman was honoured with abundance of jewels fit for a king by the sovereign, who bowed humbly before him, calling him his spiritual preceptor, and he was made governor of the territory called Vakakachchha, which lies along the bank of the Narmadá. The king being highly pleased with that Rájpút Sinhagupta, who first heard by the mouth of his spies, that the boon had been obtained from the six-faced god,20 made him equal to himself in splendour and power. And that queen too, the daughter of Vishṇuśakti, who was the cause of his acquiring learning, he exalted at one bound above all the queens, through affection anointing21 her with his own hand. [41]

Hearing this question from Káṇabhúti, Guṇáḍhya said to him. On the bank of the Ganges there is a district granted to Bráhmans by royal charter, named Bahusuvarṇaka, and there lived there a very learned Bráhman named Govindadatta, and he had a wife Agnidattá who was devoted to her husband. In course of time that Bráhman had five sons by her. And they, being handsome but stupid, grew up insolent fellows. Then a guest came to the house of Govindadatta, a Bráhman Vaiśvánara by name, like a second god of fire.7 As Govindadatta was away from home when he arrived, he came and saluted his sons, and they only responded to his salute with a laugh; then that Bráhman in a rage prepared to depart from his house. While he was in this state of wrath Govindadatta came, and asked the cause, and did his best to appease him, but the excellent Bráhman nevertheless spoke as follows—“Your sons have become outcasts, as being blockheads, and you have lost caste by associating with them, therefore I will not eat in your house; if I did so, I should not be able to purify myself by any expiatory ceremony.” Then Govindadatta said to him with an oath, “I will never even touch these wicked sons of mine.” His hospitable wife also came and said the same to her guest; then Vaiśvánara was with difficulty induced to accept their hospitality. One of Govindadatta’s sons, named Devadatta, when he saw that, was grieved at his father’s sternness, and thinking a life of no value which was thus branded by his parents, went in a state of despondency to the hermitage of Badariká to perform penance; there he first ate leaves, and afterwards he fed only on smoke, persevering in a long course of austerities in order to propitiate the husband of Umá8. So Śambhu,8 won over by his severe austerities, manifested [44]himself to him, and he craved a boon from the god, that he might ever attend upon him. Śambhu thus commanded him—“Acquire learning, and enjoy pleasures on the earth, and after that thou shalt attain all thy desire.” Then he, eager for learning, went to the city of Páṭaliputra, and according to custom waited on an instructor named Vedakumbha. When he was there, the wife of his preceptor distracted by passion, which had arisen in her heart, made violent love to him; alas! the fancies of women are ever inconstant! Accordingly Devadatta left that place, as his studies had been thus interfered with by the god of love, and went to Pratishṭhána with unwearied zeal. There he repaired to an old preceptor named Mantrasvámin, with an old wife, and acquired a perfect knowledge of the sciences. And after he had acquired learning, the daughter of the king Suśarman, Śrí by name, cast eyes upon the handsome youth, as the goddess Śrí upon Vishṇu. He also beheld that maiden at a window, looking like the presiding goddess of the moon, roaming through the air in a magic chariot. Those two were, as it were, fastened together by that look which was the chain of love, and were unable to separate. The king’s daughter made him a sign to come near with one finger, looking like Love’s command in fleshly form. Then he came near her, and she came out of the women’s apartments, and took with her teeth a flower and threw it down to him. He, not understanding this mysterious sign made by the princess, puzzled as to what he ought to do, went home to his preceptor. There he rolled on the ground unable to utter a word, being consumed within with burning pain, like one dumb and distracted; his wise preceptor guessing what was the matter by these love-symptoms, artfully questioned him, and at last he was with difficulty persuaded to tell the whole story. Then the clever preceptor guessed the riddle, and said to him,9 “By letting drop a flower with her tooth she made a sign to you, that you were to go to this temple rich in flowers called Pushpadanta, and wait there: so you had better go now.” When he heard this and knew the meaning of the sign, the youth forgot his grief. Then he went into that temple and remained there. The princess on her part also went there, giving as an excuse that it was the eighth day of the month, and then entered the inner shrine in order to present herself alone before the god; then she touched her lover who was behind the panel of the door, and he suddenly springing up threw his arms round her neck. She exclaimed, “this is strange; how did you guess the meaning of that sign of mine?” He replied, “it was my preceptor that found it out, not I.” Then the princess flew into a passion and said, “Let me go, you are a dolt,” and immediately rushed out of the temple, fearing that her secret would be discovered. Devadatta on his part went away, and thinking in solitude on his beloved, who was no sooner seen [45]than lost to his eyes, was in such a state that the taper of his life was well nigh melted away in the fire of bereavement. Śiva, who had been before propitiated by him, commanded an attendant of his, of the name of Panchaśikha, to procure for him the desire of his heart. That excellent Gaṇa thereupon came, and consoled him, and caused him to assume the dress of a woman, and he himself wore the semblance of an aged Bráhman. Then that worthy Gaṇa went with him to king Suśarman the father of that bright-eyed one, and said to him; “My son has been sent away somewhere, I go to seek him: accordingly I deposit with thee this daughter-in-law of mine, keep her safely, O king.” Hearing that, king Suśarman afraid of a Bráhman’s curse, took the young man and placed him in his daughter’s guarded seraglio, supposing him to be a woman. Then after the departure of Panchaśikha, the Bráhman dwelt in woman’s clothes in the seraglio of his beloved, and became her trusted confidante. Once on a time the princess was full of regretful longing at night, so he discovered himself to her and secretly married her by the Gándharva form of marriage. And when she became pregnant, that excellent Gaṇa came on his thinking of him only, and carried him away at night without its being perceived. Then he quickly rent off from the young man his woman’s dress, and in the morning Panchaśikha resumed the semblance of a Bráhman; and going with the young man to the king Suśarman he said; “O king, I have this day found my son: so give me back my daughter-in-law.” Then the king, supposing that she had fled somewhere at night, alarmed at the prospect of being cursed by the Bráhman, said this to his ministers. “This is no Bráhman, this is some god come to deceive me, for such things often happen in this world.

So in former times there was a king named Śivi, self-denying, compassionate, generous, resolute, the protector of all creatures; and in order to beguile him Indra assumed the shape of a hawk, and swiftly pursued Dharma,10 who by magic had transformed himself into a dove. The dove in terror went and took refuge in the bosom of Śivi. Then the hawk addressed the king with a human voice; ‘O king, this is my natural food, surrender the dove to me, for I am hungry. Know that my death will immediately follow if you refuse my prayer; in that case where will be your righteousness?’ Then Śivi said to the god,—‘this creature has fled to me for protection, and I cannot abandon it, therefore I will give you an equal weight of some other kind of flesh.’ The hawk said, ‘if this be so, then give me your own flesh.’ The king, delighted, consented to do so. But as fast as he cut off his flesh and threw it on the scale, the dove seemed to weigh more and more in the balance. Then the king threw his whole body on to the scale, and thereupon a celestial voice was heard, ‘Well done! this [46]is equal in weight to the dove.’ Then Indra and Dharma abandoned the form of hawk and dove, and being highly pleased restored the body of king Śivi whole as before, and, after bestowing on him many other blessings, they both disappeared. In the same way this Bráhman is some god that has come to prove me.”11

Having said this to his ministers, that king Suśarman of his own motion said to that excellent Gaṇa that had assumed the form of a Bráhman, prostrating himself before him in fear, “Spare me; that daughter-in-law of thine was carried off last night. She has been taken somewhere or other by magic arts, though guarded night and day.” Then the Gaṇa, who had assumed the Bráhman’s semblance, pretending to be with difficulty won over to pity him, said, “If this be so, king, give thy daughter in marriage to my son.” When he heard this, the king afraid of being cursed, gave his own daughter to Devadatta: then Panchaśikha departed. Then Devadatta having recovered his beloved, and that in an open manner, flourished in the power and splendour of his father-in-law who had no son but him. And in course of time Suśarman anointed the son of his daughter by Devadatta, Mahídhara by name, as successor in his room, and retired to the forest. Then having seen the prosperity of his son, Devadatta considered that he had attained all his objects, and he too with the princess retired to the forest. There he again propitiated Śiva, and having laid aside his mortal body, by the special favour of the god he attained the position of a Gaṇa. Because he did not understand the sign given by the flower dropped from the tooth of his beloved, therefore he became known by the name of Pushpadanta in the assembly of the Gaṇas. And his wife became a door-keeper in the house of the goddess, under the name of Jayá: this is how he came to be called Pushpadanta: now hear the origin of my name.

Long ago I was a son of that same Bráhman called Govindadatta the father of Devadatta, and my name was Somadatta. I left my home indignant for the same reason as Devadatta, and I performed austerities on the Himálaya continually striving to propitiate Śiva with offerings of many garlands. The god of the moony crest, being pleased, revealed himself to me in the same way as he did to my brother, and I chose the privilege of attending upon him as a Gaṇa, not being desirous of lower pleasures. The husband of the daughter of the mountain, that mighty god, thus addressed [47]me; “Because I have been worshipped by thee with garlands of flowers growing in trackless forest-regions, brought with thy own hand, therefore thou shalt be one of my Gaṇas, and shalt bear the name of Mályaván.” Then I cast off my mortal frame, and immediately attained the holy state of an attendant on the god. And so my name of Mályaván was bestowed upon me by him who wears the burden of the matted locks,12 as a mark of his special favour. And I, that very Mályaván, have once more, O Káṇabhúti, been degraded to the state of a mortal, as thou seest, owing to the curse of the daughter of the mountain, therefore do thou now tell me the tale told by Śiva, in order that the state of curse of both of us may cease.

“Rákshasas, Yakshas, and Piśáchas have no power in the day, being dazed with the brightness of the sun therefore they delight in the night.”

Farmer commenting on Hamlet, Act I, Sc. I, 150, quotes the following lines of Prudentius Ad Gallicinium. Ferunt vagantes dæmonas, Lætos tenebris noctium, Gallo canente exterritos, Sparsim timere et cedere. Hoc esse signum præscii Norunt repromissæ spei, Qua nos soporis liberi Speramus adventum Dei. Douce quotes from another hymn said to have been composed by Saint Ambrose and formerly used in the Salisbury service. Præco dici jam sonat, Noctis profundæ pervigil; Nocturna lux viantibus, A nocte noctem segregans. Hoc excitatus Lucifer Solvit polum caligine; Hoc omnis errorum cohors Viam nocendi deserit. Gallo canente spes redit &c.

See also Grössler’s Sagen der Grafschaft Mansfeld, pp. 58 and 59; the Pentamerone of Basile, translated by Liebrecht, Vol. I, p. 251; Dasent’s Norse Tales, p. 347, “The Troll turned round, and, of course, as soon as he saw the sun, he burst;” Grimm’s Irische Märchen, p. x; Kuhn’s Westfälische Märchen, p. 63; Schöppner’s Sagenbuch der Bayerischen Lande, Vol. I, pp. 123, and 228; and Bernhard Schmidt’s Griechische Märchen, p. 138. He quotes the following interesting passage from the Philopseudes of Lucian, Συνῆν ἄχρι δὴ ἀλεκτρυόνων ἠκούσαμεν ᾳδόντων τότε δὴ ἥ τε Σελήνη ἀνέπτατο εἰς τὸν οὐρανὸν καὶ ἡ Ἑκάτη ἔδυ κατὰ τῆς γῆς, καὶ τὰ ἄλλα φάσματα ἠφανίσθη, &c.

There is a land famous under the name of Vatsa, that appears as if it had been made by the Creator as an earthly rival to dash the pride of heaven. In the centre of it is a great city named Kauśámbí, the favourite dwelling-place of the goddess of prosperity; the ear-ornament, so to speak, of the earth. In it dwelt a king named Śatáníka, sprung from the Páṇḍava family, he was the son of Janamejaya, and the grandson of king Paríkshit, who was the great-grandson of Abhimanyu. The first progenitor of his race was Arjuna, the might of whose strong arms was tested in a struggle with the mighty arms of Śiva;2 his wife was the earth, and also Vishṇumatí [52]his queen; the first produced jewels, but the second did not produce a son. Once on a time, as that king was roaming about in his passion for the chase, he made acquaintance in the forest with the hermit Śándilya. That worthy sage finding out that the king desired a son, came to Kauśámbí and administered to his queen an artfully prepared oblation3 consecrated with mystic verses. Then he had a son born to him called Sahasráníka. And his father was adorned by him as excellence is by modesty. Then in course of time Śatáníka made that son crown-prince and though he still enjoyed kingly pleasures, ceased to trouble himself about the cares of government. Then a war arose between the gods and Asuras, and Indra sent Mátali as a messenger to that king begging for aid. Then he committed his son and his kingdom to the care of his principal minister, who was called Yogandhara, and his Commander-in-chief, whose name was Supratíka, and went to Indra with Mátali to slay the Asuras in fight. That king, having slain many Asuras, of whom Yamadanshṭra was the chief, under the eyes of Indra, met death in that very battle. The king’s body was brought back by Mátali, and the queen burnt herself with it, and the royal dignity descended to his son Sahasráníka. Wonderful to say, when that king ascended his father’s throne, the heads of the kings on every side of his dominions were bent down with the weight. Then Indra sent Mátali, and brought to heaven that Sahasráníka, as being the son of his friend, that he might be present at the great feast which he was holding to celebrate his victory over his foes. There the king saw the gods, attended by their fair ones, sporting in the garden of Nandana, and desiring for himself a suitable wife, fell into low spirits. Then Indra, perceiving this desire of his, said to him; “King, away with despondency, this desire of thine shall be accomplished. For there has been born upon the earth one, who was long ago ordained a suitable match for thee. For listen to the following history, which I now proceed to relate to thee.

“Long ago I went to the court of Brahmá in order to visit him, and a certain Vasu named Vidhúma followed me. While we were there, an Apsaras4 named Alambushá came to see Brahmá, and her robe was blown aside by the wind. And the Vasu, when he beheld her, was overpowered by love, and the Apsaras too had her eyes immediately attracted by his form. The lotus-sprung god,5 when he beheld that, looked me full in the face, and I, knowing his meaning, in wrath cursed those two, ‘Be born, you two, shameless creatures, into the world of mortals, and there become man and [53]wife.’ That Vasu has been born as thou, Sahasráníka, the son of Śatáníka, an ornament to the race of the moon. And that Apsaras too has been born in Ayodhyá as the daughter of king Kṛitavarman, Mṛigávatí by name, she shall be thy wife.” By these words of Indra the flame of love was fanned in the passionate6 heart of the king and burst out into full blaze; as a fire when fanned by the wind. Indra then dismissed the king from heaven with all due honour in his own chariot, and he set out with Mátali7 for his capital. But as he was starting, the Apsaras Tilottamá said to him out of affection, “King I have somewhat to say to thee, wait a moment.” But he, thinking on Mṛigávatí, went off without hearing what she said, then Tilottamá in her rage cursed him; “King, thou shalt be separated for fourteen years from her who has so engrossed thy mind that thou dost not hear my speech.” Now Mátali heard that curse, but the king, yearning for his beloved, did not. In the chariot he went to Kauśámbí but in spirit he went to Ayodhyá. Then the king told with longing heart, all that he had heard from Indra with reference to Mṛigávatí, to his ministers, Yogandhara and the others: and not being able to endure delay, he sent an ambassador to Ayodhyá to ask her father Kṛitavarman for the hand of that maiden. And Kṛitavarman having heard from the ambassador his commission, told in his joy the queen Kalávatí, and then she said to him—“King we ought certainly to give Mṛigávatí to Sahasráníka, and, I remember, a certain Bráhman told me this very thing in a dream”; then in his delight the king showed to the ambassador Mṛigávatí’s wonderful skill in dancing, singing, and other accomplishments, and her matchless beauty; so the king Kṛitavarman gave to Sahasráníka that daughter of his who was unequalled as a mine of graceful arts, and who shone like an incarnation of the moon; that marriage of Sahasráníka and Mṛigávatí was one in which the good qualities of either party supplemented those of the other, and might be compared to the union of learning and intelligence.

Not long after sons were born to the king’s ministers; Yogandhara had a son born to him named Yaugandharáyaṇa; and Supratíka had a son born to him named Rumaṇvat. And to the king’s master of the revels was born a son named Vasantaka. Then in a few days Mṛigávatí became slightly pale and promised to bear a child to king Sahasráníka. And then she asked the king, who was never tired of looking at her, to gratify her longing by filling a tank full of blood for her to bathe in. Accordingly the king, who was a righteous man, in order to gratify her desire, had a tank filled with the juice of lac and other red extracts, so that it seemed to be full of blood.8 And while she was bathing in that lake, and covered [54]with red dye, a bird of the race of Garuḍa9 suddenly pounced upon her and carried her off thinking she was raw flesh. As soon as she was carried away in some unknown direction by the bird, the king became distracted, and his self-command forsook him as if in order to go in search of her. His heart was so attached to his beloved that it was in very truth carried off by that bird, and thus he fell senseless upon the earth. As soon as he had recovered his senses, Mátali, who had discovered all by his divine power, descended through the air and came where the king was. He consoled the king, and told him the curse of Tilottamá with its destined end, as he had heard it long ago, and then he took his departure. Then the king tormented with grief lamented on this wise; “Alas my beloved, that wicked Tilottamá has accomplished her desire.” But having learned the facts about the curse, and having received advice from his ministers, he managed, though with difficulty, to retain his life through hope of a future reunion.

But that bird, which had carried off Mṛigávatí, as soon as it found out that she was alive, abandoned her, and as fate would have it, left her on the mountain where the sun rises. And when the bird let her drop and departed, the queen, distracted with grief and fear, saw that she was left unprotected on the slope of a trackless mountain. While she was weeping in the forest, alone, with one garment only to cover her, an enormous serpent rose up and prepared to swallow her. Then she, for whom prosperity was reserved in the future, was delivered by some heavenly hero that came down and slew the serpent, and disappeared almost as soon as he was seen. Thereupon she, longing for death, flung herself down in front of a wild elephant, but even he spared her as if out of compassion. Wonderful was it that even a wild beast did not slay her when she fell in his way! Or rather it was not to be wondered at. What cannot the will of Śiva effect?

Then the girl tardy with the weight of her womb, desiring to hurl herself down from a precipice, and thinking upon that lord of hers, wept aloud; and a hermit’s son, who had wandered there in search of roots and fruits, hearing that, came up, and found her looking like the incarnation [55]of sorrow. And he, after questioning the queen about her adventures, and comforting her as well as he could, with a heart melted with compassion led her off to the hermitage of Jamadagni. There she beheld Jamadagni, looking like the incarnation of comfort, whose brightness so illumined the eastern mountain that it seemed as if the rising sun ever rested on it. When she fell at his feet, that hermit who was kind to all that came to him for help, and possessed heavenly insight, said to her who was tortured with the pain of separation; “Here there shall be born to thee, my daughter, a son that shall uphold the family of his father, and thou shalt be reunited to thy husband, therefore weep not.” When that virtuous woman heard that speech of the hermit’s, she took up her abode in that hermitage, and entertained hope of a reunion with her beloved. And some days after, the blameless one gave birth to a charmingly beautiful son, as association with the good produces good manners. At that moment a voice was heard from heaven; “an august king of great renown has been born, Udayana by name, and his son shall be monarch of all the Vidyádharas.” That voice restored to the heart of Mṛigávatí joy which she had long forgotten. Gradually that boy grew up to size and strength in that grove of asceticism, accompanied by his own excellent qualities as playmates. And the heroic child had the sacraments appropriate to a member of the warrior-caste performed for him by Jamadagni, and was instructed by him in the sciences, and the practice of archery. And out of love for him Mṛigávatí drew off from her own wrist, and placed on his, a bracelet marked with the name of Sahasráníka. Then that Udayana roaming about once upon a time in pursuit of deer, beheld in the forest a snake that had been forcibly captured by a Śavara.10 And he, feeling pity for the beautiful snake, said to that Śavara, “Let go this snake to please me.” Then that Śavara said, “My lord, this is my livelihood, for I am a poor man, and I always maintain myself by exhibiting dancing snakes. The snake I previously had having died, I searched through this great wood, and, finding this one, overpowered him by charms and captured him.” When he heard this, the generous Udayana gave that Śavara the bracelet which his mother had bestowed on him, and persuaded him to set the snake at liberty. The Śavara took the bracelet and departed, and then the snake being pleased with Udayana bowed before him and said as follows, “I am the eldest brother of Vásuki,11 called Vasunemi: receive from me, whom thou hast preserved, this lute, sweet in the sounding of its strings, divided according to the division of the quarter-tones; [56]and betel leaf, together with the art of weaving unfading garlands, and adorning the forehead with marks that never become indistinct.” Then Udayana furnished with all these, and dismissed by the snake, returned to the hermitage of Jamadagni, raining nectar, so to speak, into the eyes of his mother.

In the meanwhile that Śavara who had lighted on this forest, and while roaming about in it had obtained the bracelet from Udayana by the will of fate, was caught attempting to sell this ornament marked with the king’s name in the market, and was arrested by the police, and brought up in court before the king. Then king Sahasráníka himself asked him in sorrow whence he had obtained the bracelet. Then that Śavara told him the whole story of his obtaining possession of the bracelet, beginning with his capture of the snake upon the eastern mountain. Hearing that from the Śavara, and beholding that bracelet of his beloved, king Sahasráníka ascended the swing of doubt.

Then a divine voice from heaven delighted the king who was tortured with the fire of separation, as the rain-drops delight the peacock when afflicted with the heat, uttering these words—“Thy curse is at an end, O king, and that wife of thine Mṛigávatí is residing in the hermitage of Jamadagni together with thy son.” Then that day at last came to an end, though made long by anxious expectation, and on the morrow that king Sahasráníka, making the Śavara show him the way, set out with his army for that hermitage on the eastern mountain, in order quickly to recover his beloved wife.

Once on a time there lived in the country of Málava a Bráhman named Yajnasoma. And that good man had two sons born to him, beloved by men. One of them was known as Kálanemi and the second was named [57]Vigatabhaya. Now, when their father had gone to heaven, those two brothers, having passed through the age of childhood, went to the city of Páṭaliputra to acquire learning. And when they had completed their studies, their teacher Devaśarman gave them his own two daughters, like another couple of sciences incarnate in bodily form.

Then seeing that the householders around him were rich, Kálanemi through envy made a vow and propitiated the goddess of Fortune with burnt-offerings. And the goddess being satisfied appeared in bodily form and said to him—“Thou shalt obtain great wealth and a son who shall rule the earth; but at last thou shalt be put to death like a robber, because thou hast offered flesh in the fire with impure motives.” When she had said this, the goddess disappeared; and Kálanemi in course of time became very rich; moreover after some days a son was born to him. So the father, whose desires were now accomplished, called that son Śrídatta,1 because he had been obtained by the favour of the goddess of Fortune. In course of time Śrídatta grew up, and though a Bráhman, became matchless upon earth in the use of weapons, and in boxing and wrestling.

Then Kálanemi’s brother Vigatabhaya went to a foreign land, having become desirous of visiting places of pilgrimage, through sorrow for his wife, who died of the bite of a snake.

Moreover the king of the land, Vallabhaśakti, who appreciated good qualities, made Śrídatta the companion of his son Vikramaśakti. So he had to live with a haughty prince, as the impetuous Bhíma lived in his youth with Duryodhana. Then two Kshatriyas, natives of Avanti, Báhuśálin and Vajramushṭi became friends of that Bráhman’s. And some other men from the Deccan, sons of ministers, having been conquered by him in wrestling, resorted to him out of spontaneous friendship, as they knew how to value merit. Mahábala and Vyághrabhaṭa and also Upendrabala and a man named Nishṭhuraka became his friends. One day, as years rolled on, Śrídatta, being in attendance on the prince, went with him and those friends to sport on the bank of the Ganges; then the prince’s own servants made him king, and at the same time Śrídatta was chosen king by his friends. This made the prince angry, and in over-weening confidence he at once challenged that Bráhman hero to fight. Then being conquered by him in wrestling, and so disgraced, he made up his mind that this rising hero should be put to death. But Śrídatta found out that intention of the prince’s, and withdrew in alarm with those friends of his from his presence. And as he was going along, he saw in the middle of the Ganges a woman being dragged under by the stream, looking like the goddess of Fortune in the middle of the sea. And then he plunged in to pull her out of the water, leaving Báhuśálin and his five other friends on the bank. Then that woman, [58]though he seized her by the hair, sank deep in the water; and he dived as deep in order to follow her. And after he had dived a long way, he suddenly saw a splendid temple of Śiva, but no water and no woman.2 After beholding that wonderful sight, being wearied out he paid his adorations to the god whose emblem is a bull, and spent that night in a beautiful garden attached to the temple. And in the morning that lady was seen by him having come to worship the god Śiva, like the incarnate splendour of beauty attended by all womanly perfections. And after she had worshipped the god, the moon-faced one departed to her own house, and Śrídatta for his part followed her. And he saw that palace of hers resembling the city of the gods, which the haughty beauty entered hurriedly in a contemptuous manner. And without deigning to address him, the graceful lady sat down on a sofa in the inner part of the house, waited upon by thousands of women. And Śrídatta also took a seat near her; then suddenly that virtuous lady began to weep. The tear-drops fell in an unceasing shower on her bosom, and that moment pity entered into the heart of Śrídatta. And then he said to her, “Who art thou, and what is thy sorrow? Tell me, fair one, for I am able to remove it.” Then she said reluctantly, “We are the thousand granddaughters of Bali3 the king of the Daityas, and I am the eldest of all, and my name is Vidyutprabhá. That grandfather of ours was carried off by Vishṇu to long imprisonment, and the same hero slew our father in a wrestling-match. And after he had slain him, he excluded us from our own city, and he placed a lion in it to prevent us from entering. The lion occupies that place, and grief our hearts. It is a Yaksha that was made a lion by the curse of Kuvera, and long ago it was predicted that the Yaksha’s curse should end when he was conquered by some mortal; so Vishṇu deigned to inform us on our humbly asking him how we might be enabled to enter our city. Therefore subdue that lion our enemy; it was for that reason, O hero, that I enticed you hither. And when you have overcome him you will obtain from him a sword named Mṛigánka, by the virtue of which you shall conquer the world and become a king.” When he heard that, Śrídatta agreed to undertake the adventure, and after that day had passed, on the morrow he took those Daitya maidens with him as guides, and went to that city, and there he overcame in wrestling that haughty lion.4 He being freed from his curse [59]assumed a human form, and out of gratitude gave his sword to the man who had put an end to his curse, and then disappeared together with the burden of the sorrow of the great Asura’s daughter. Then that Śrídatta, together with the Daitya’s daughter, who was accompanied by her younger sisters, entered that splendid city which looked like the serpent Ananta5 having emerged from the earth. And that Daitya maiden gave him a ring that destroyed the effect of poison. Then that young man remaining there fell in love with her. And she cunningly said to him, “Bathe in this tank, and when you dive in, take with you this sword6 to keep off the danger of crocodiles.” He consented, and diving into the tank, rose upon that very bank of the Ganges from which he first plunged in. Then he, seeing the ring and the sword, felt astonishment at having emerged from the lower regions, and despondency at having been tricked by the Asura maid. Then he went towards his own house to look for his friends, and as he was going he saw on the way his friend Nishṭhuraka. Nishṭhuraka came up to him and saluted him, and quickly took him aside into a lonely place, and when asked by him for news of his relations, gave him this answer; “On that occasion when you plunged into the Ganges we searched for you many days, and out of grief we were preparing to cut off our heads, but a voice from heaven forbade that attempt of ours saying, ‘My sons, do no rash act, your friend shall return alive.’ And then we were returning into the presence of your father, when on the way a man hurriedly advanced to meet us and said this—‘You must not enter this city at present, for the king of it Vallabhaśakti is dead, and the ministers have with one accord conferred the royal dignity on Vikramaśakti;’ now the day after he was made king he went to the house of Kálanemi, and full of wrath asked him where his son Śrídatta was, and he replied—‘I do not know.’ Then the king in a rage, supposing he had concealed his son, had him put to death by impalement as a thief. When his wife saw that, her heart broke. Men of cruel deeds must always pile one evil action upon another in long succession; and so Vikramaśakti is searching for Śrídatta to slay him, and you are his friends, therefore leave this place.’ When the man had given us this warning, Báhuśálin and his four companions being grieved went by common consent to their own home in Ujjayiní. And they left me here in concealment, my friend, for your sake. So come, let us go to that very place to meet our friends.” Having heard this from Nishṭhuraka, and having bewailed his parents, Śrídatta cast many a look at his sword, as if reposing in that his hope of vengeance; then the hero, biding his time, set out accompanied by Nishṭhuraka for that city of Ujjayiní in order to meet his friends. [60]

And as he was relating to his friend his adventures from the time of his plunging into the stream, Śrídatta beheld a woman weeping in the road; when she said, “I am a woman going to Ujjayiní and I have lost my way,” Śrídatta out of pity made her journey along with him. He and Nishṭhuraka, together with that woman, whom he kept with him out of compassion, halted that day in a certain deserted town. There he suddenly woke up in the night and beheld that the woman had slain Nishṭhuraka, and was devouring his flesh with the utmost delight. Then he rose up drawing his sword Mṛigánka, and that woman assumed her own terrible form, that of a Rákshasí,7 and he seized that night-wanderer by her hair, to slay her. That moment she assumed a heavenly shape and said to him, “Slay me not, mighty hero, let me go, I am not a Rákshasí; the hermit Viśvámitra imposed this condition on me by a curse. For once when he was performing austerities from a desire to attain the position of the god of wealth, I was sent by the god to impede him. Then finding that I was not able to seduce him with my alluring form, being abashed, I assumed in order to terrify him a formidable shape. When he saw this, that hermit laid on me a curse suitable to my offence, exclaiming—‘Wicked one, become a Rákshasí and slay men.’ And he appointed that my curse should end when you took hold of my hair; accordingly I assumed this detestable condition of a Rákshasí, and I have devoured all the inhabitants of this town: now to-day after a long time you have brought my curse to an end in the manner foretold; therefore receive now some boon.” When he heard that speech of hers, Śrídatta said respectfully, “Mother grant that my friend may be restored to life. What need have I of any other boon?” “So be it,” said she, and after granting the boon disappeared. And Nishṭhuraka rose up again alive without a scratch on his body. Then Śrídatta set out the next morning with him, delighted and astonished, and at last reached Ujjayiní. There he revived by his appearance the spirits of his friends, who were anxiously expecting him, as the arrival of the cloud revives the peacocks. And after he had told all the wonders of his adventures, Báhuśálin went through the usual formalities of hospitality, taking him to his own home. There Śrídatta was taken care of by the parents of Báhuśálin, and lived with his friends as comfortably as if he were in his own house.

Once on a time, when the great feast of spring-tide8 had arrived, he went with his friends to behold some festal rejoicings in a garden. There he beheld a maiden, the daughter of king Bimbaki, who had come to see the show, looking like the goddess of the Splendour of Spring present in bodily form. She, by name Mṛigánkavatí, that moment penetrated into his heart, as if through the openings left by the expansion of his eye. Her [61]passionate look too, indicative of the beginning of love, fixed on him, went and returned like a confidante. When she entered a thicket of trees, Śrídatta not beholding her, suddenly felt his heart so empty that he did not know where he was. His friend Báhuśálin, who thoroughly understood the language of gestures, said to him, “My friend, I know your heart, do not deny your passion, therefore, come, let us go to that part of the garden where the king’s daughter is.” He consented and went near her accompanied by his friend. That moment a cry was heard there, which gave great pain to the heart of Śrídatta, “Alas the princess has been bitten by a snake!” Báhuśálin then went and said to the chamberlain—“My friend here possesses a ring that counteracts the effects of poison, and also healing spells.” Immediately the chamberlain came, and bowing at his feet, quickly led Śrídatta to the princess. He placed the ring on her finger, and then muttered his spells so that she revived. Then all the attendants were delighted, and loud in praise of Śrídatta, and the king Bimbaki hearing the circumstances came to the place. Accordingly Śrídatta returned with his friends to the house of Báhuśálin without taking back the ring. And all the gold and other presents, which the delighted king sent to him there, he handed over to the father of Báhuśálin. Then, thinking upon that fair one, he was so much afflicted, that his friends became utterly bewildered as to what to do with him. Then a dear friend of the princess, Bhávaniká, by name, came to him on pretence of returning the ring; and said to him, “That friend of mine, illustrious Sir, has made up her mind, that either you must save her life by becoming her husband, or she will be married to her grave.” When Bhávaniká had said this, Śrídatta and Báhuśálin and the others quickly put their heads together and came to the following resolution, “We will carry off this princess secretly by a stratagem, and will go unperceived from here to Mathurá and live there.” The plan having been thoroughly talked over, and the conspirators having agreed with one another what each was to do in order to carry it out, Bhávaniká then departed. And the next day Báhuśálin, accompanied by three of his friends, went to Mathurá on pretext of trafficking, and as he went he posted in concealment at intervals swift horses for the conveyance of the princess. But Śrídatta then brought at eventide a woman with her daughter into the palace of the princess, after making them both drink spirits, and then Bhávaniká, on pretence of lighting up the palace, set fire to it, and secretly conveyed the princess out of it; and that moment Śrídatta, who was remaining outside, received her, and sent her on to Báhuśálin, who had started in the morning, and directed two of his friends to attend on her and also Bhávaniká. Now that drunken woman and her daughter were burnt in the palace of the princess, and people supposed that the princess had been burnt with her friend. [62]But Śrídatta took care to show himself in the morning as before, in the city; then on the second night, taking with him his sword Mṛigánka, he started to follow his beloved, who had set out before him. And in his eagerness he accomplished a great distance that night, and when the morning watch9 had passed, he reached the Vindhya forest. There he first beheld unlucky omens, and afterwards he saw all those friends of his together with Bhávaniká lying in the road gashed with wounds. And when he came up all distracted, they said to him, “We were robbed to-day by a large troop of horsemen that set upon us. And after we were reduced to this state, one of the horsemen threw the terrified princess on his horse and carried her off. So before she has been carried to a great distance, go in this direction, do not remain near us, she is certainly of more importance than we.” Being urged on with these words by his friends, Śrídatta rapidly followed after the princess, but could not help frequently turning round to look at them. And after he had gone a considerable distance, he caught up that troop of cavalry, and he saw a young man of the warrior caste in the midst of it. And he beheld that princess held by him upon his horse. So he slowly approached that young warrior; and when soft words would not induce him to let the princess go, he hurled him from his horse with a blow of his foot, and dashed him to pieces on a rock. And after he had slain him, he mounted on his horse and slew a great number of the other horsemen who charged him in anger. And then those who remained alive, seeing that the might which the hero displayed was more than human, fled away in terror; and Śrídatta mounted on the horse with the princess Mṛigánkavatí and set out to find those friends of his. And after he had gone a little way, he and his wife got off the horse which had been severely wounded in the fight, and soon after it fell down and died. And then his beloved Mṛigánkavatí, exhausted with fear and exertion, became very thirsty. And leaving her there, he roamed a long distance hither and thither, and while he was looking for water the sun set. Then he discovered that, though he had found water, he had lost his way, and he passed that night in the wood roaming about, moaning aloud like a Chakraváka.10 And in the morning he reached that place, which was easy to recognise by the carcass of the horse. And nowhere there did he behold his beloved princess. Then in his distraction he placed his sword Mṛigánka on the ground, and climbed to the top of a tree, in order to cast his eye in all directions for her. That very moment a certain Śavara chieftain passed that way; and he came up and took the sword from the foot of the tree. Beholding that Śavara [63]chieftain, Śrídatta came down from the top of the tree, and in great grief asked him for news of his beloved. The Śavara chieftain said—“Leave this place and come to my village; I have no doubt she whom you seek has gone there; and I shall come there and return you this sword.” When the Śavara chieftain urged him to go with these words, Śrídatta, being himself all eagerness, went to that village with the chief’s men. And there those men said to him,—“Sleep off your fatigue,”—and when he reached the house of the chief of the village, being tired he went to sleep in an instant. And when he woke up he saw his two feet fastened with fetters, like the two efforts he had made in order to obtain his beloved, which failed to reach their object. Then he remained there weeping for his darling, who, like the course of destiny, had for a moment brought him joy, and the next moment blasted his hopes.

One day a serving maid of the name of Mochaniká came to him and said,—Illustrious Sir, unwittingly you have come hither to your death? For the Śavara chieftain has gone somewhither to accomplish certain weighty affairs, and when he returns, he will offer you to Chaṇḍiká.11 For with that object he decoyed you here by a stratagem from this slope of the wild Vindhya hill, and immediately threw you into the chains in which you now are. And it is because you are intended to be offered as a victim to the goddess, that you are continually served with garments and food. But I know of only one expedient for delivering you, if you agree to it. This Śavara chieftain has a daughter named Sundarí, and she having seen you is becoming exceedingly love-sick; marry her who is my friend, then you will obtain deliverance.12 When she said this to him, Śrídatta consented, desiring to be set at liberty, and secretly made that Sundarí his wife by the Gándharva form of marriage. And every night she removed his chains and in a short time Sundarí became pregnant. Then her mother, having heard the whole story from the mouth of Mochaniká, out of love for her son-in-law Śrídatta, went and of her own accord said to him—“My son, Śríchaṇḍa the father of Sundarí is a wrathful man, and will show thee no mercy. Therefore depart, but thou must not forget Sundarí.” When his mother-in-law had said this, she set him at liberty, and Śrídatta departed after telling Sundarí that the sword, which was in her father’s possession, really belonged to himself.

So he again entered full of anxiety that forest, in which he had before wandered about, in order again to search for traces of Mṛigávatí. And having seen an auspicious omen he came to that same place, where that [64]horse of his died before, and whence his wife was carried off. And there he saw near13 him a hunter coming towards him, and when he saw him he asked him for news of that gazelle-eyed lady. Then the hunter asked him “Are you Śrídatta?” and he sighing replied “I am that unfortunate man.” Then that hunter said, “Listen, friend, I have somewhat to tell you. I saw that wife of yours wandering hither and thither lamenting your absence, and having asked her her story, and consoled her, moved with compassion I took her out of this wood to my own village. But when I saw the young Pulindas14 there, I was afraid, and I took her to a village named Nágasthala near Mathurá.15 And then I placed her in the house of an old Bráhman named Viśvadatta commending her with all due respect to his care. And thence I came here having learnt your name from her lips. Therefore you had better go quickly to Nágasthala to search for her.” When the hunter had told him this, Śrídatta quickly set out, and he reached Nágasthala in the evening of the second day. Then he entered the house of Viśvadatta and when he saw him said, “Give me my wife who was placed here by the hunter.” Viśvadatta when he heard that, answered him, “I have a friend in Mathurá a Bráhman, dear to all virtuous men, the spiritual preceptor and minister of the king Śúrasena. In his care I placed your wife. For this village is an out-of-the-way place and would not afford her protection. So go to that city to-morrow morning, but to-day rest here.” When Viśvadatta said this, he spent that night there, and the next morning he set off, and reached Mathurá on the second day. Being weary and dusty with the long journey, he bathed outside that city in the pellucid water of a lake. And he drew out of the middle of the lake a garment placed there by some robbers, not suspecting any harm. But in one corner of the garment, which was knotted up, a necklace was concealed.16 Then Śrídatta took that garment, and in his eagerness to meet his wife did not notice the necklace, and so entered the city of Mathurá. Then the city police recognized the garment, and finding the necklace, arrested Śrídatta as a thief, and carried him off, and brought him before the chief magistrate exactly as he was found, with the garment in his possession; by him he was handed up to the king, and the king ordered him to be put to death.

Then, as he was being led off to the place of execution with the drum being beaten behind him,17 his wife Mṛigánkavatí saw him in the distance. She went in a state of the utmost distraction and said to the chief minister, in whose house she was residing, “Yonder is my husband being led off [65]to execution.” Then that minister went and ordered the executioners to desist, and, by making a representation to the king, got Śrídatta pardoned, and had him brought to his house. And when Śrídatta reached his house, and saw that minister, he recognised him and fell at his feet, exclaiming, “What! is this my uncle Vigatabhaya, who long ago went to a foreign country, and do I now by good luck find him established in the position of a minister?” He too recognised to his astonishment Śrídatta as his brother’s son, and embraced him, and questioned him about all his adventures. Then Śrídatta related to his uncle his whole history beginning with the execution of his father. And he, after weeping, said to his nephew in private, “Do not despond, my son, for I once brought a female Yaksha into subjection by means of magic; and she gave me, though I have no son, five thousand horses and seventy millions of gold pieces: and all that wealth is at your disposal.” After telling him this, his uncle brought him his beloved, and he, having obtained wealth, married her on the spot. And then he remained there in joy, united with that beloved Mṛigánkavatí as a bed of white lotuses18 with the night. But even when his happiness was at its full, anxiety for Báhuśálin and his companions clouded his heart, as a spot of darkness does the full moon. Now one day his uncle said secretly to Śrídatta: “my son, the king Śúrasena has a maiden daughter, and in accordance with his orders I have to take her to the land of Avanti to give her away in marriage; so I will take her away on that very pretext, and marry her to you. Then, when you have got possession of the force that follows her, with mine already at your disposal, you will soon gain the kingdom that was promised you by the goddess Śrí.” Having resolved on this, and having taken that maiden, Śrídatta and his uncle set out with their army and their attendants. But as soon as they had reached the Vindhya forest, before they were aware of the danger, a large army of brigands set upon them showering arrows. After routing Śrídatta’s force, and seizing all the wealth, they bound Śrídatta himself, who had fainted from his wounds, and carried him off to their village. And they took him to the awful temple of Durgá, in order to offer him up in sacrifice, and, as it were, summoned Death with the sound of their gongs. There Sundarí saw him, one of his wives, the daughter of the chief of the village, who had come with her young son to visit the shrine of the goddess. Full of joy she ordered the brigands, who were between her and her husband, to stand aside, and then Śrídatta entered her palace with her. Immediately Śrídatta obtained the sovereignty of that village, which Sundarí’s father, having no son, bequeathed to her when he went to heaven. So Śrídatta recovered his wife and his sword Mṛigánka, and also his uncle and [66]his followers, who had been overpowered by the robbers. And, while he was in that town, he married the daughter of Śúrasena, and became a great king there. And from that place he sent ambassadors to his two fathers-in-law, to Bimbaki, and king Śúrasena. And they, being very fond of their daughters, gladly recognised him as a connection, and came to him accompanied by the whole of their armies. And his friends Báhuśálin and the others, who had been separated from him, when they heard what had happened, came to him with their wounds healed and in good health. Then the hero marched, united with his fathers-in-law, and made that Vikramaśakti, who had put his father to death, a burnt-offering in the flame of his wrath. And then Śrídatta, having gained dominion over the sea-encircled earth, and deliverance from the sorrow of separation, joyed in the society of Mṛigánkavatí. Even so, my king, do men of firm resolution cross the calamitous sea of separation and obtain prosperity.

After hearing this tale from Sangataka, the king Sahasráníka, though longing for the sight of his beloved one, managed to get through that night on the journey. Then, engrossed with his desire, sending his thoughts on before, in the morning Sahasráníka set out to meet his darling. And in a few days he reached that peaceful hermitage of Jamadagni, in which even the deer laid aside their wantonness. And there he beheld with reverence that Jamadagni, the sight of whom was sanctifying, like the incarnate form of penance, who received him hospitably. And the hermit handed over to him that queen Mṛigávatí with her son, regained by the king after long separation, like tranquillity accompanied with joy. And that sight which the husband and wife obtained of one another, now that the curse had ceased, rained, as it were, nectar into their eyes, which were filled with tears of joy. And the king embracing that son Udayana, whom he now beheld for the first time, could with difficulty let him go, as he was, so to speak, riveted to his body with his own hairs that stood erect from joy.19 Then king Sahasráníka took his queen Mṛigávatí with Udayana, and, bidding adieu to Jamadagni, set out from that tranquil hermitage for his own city, and even the deer followed him as far as the border of the hermitage with tearful eyes. Beguiling the way by listening to the adventures of his beloved wife during the period of separation, and by relating his own, he at length reached the city of Kauśámbí, in which triumphal arches were erected and banners displayed. And he entered that city in company with his wife and child, being, so to speak, devoured20 by the eyes of the citizens, that had the fringe of their lashes elevated. And immediately the king appointed his son Udayana crown-prince, being incited to it by his excellent qualities. [67]And he assigned to him as advisers the sons of his own ministers, Vasantaka and Rumaṇvat and Yaugandharáyaṇa. Then a rain of flowers fell, and a celestial voice was heard—“By the help of these excellent ministers, the prince shall obtain dominion over the whole earth.” Then the king devolved on his son the cares of empire, and enjoyed in the society of Mṛigávatí the long-desired pleasures of the world. At last the desire of earthly enjoyment, beholding suddenly that old age, the harbinger of composure had reached the root of the king’s ear,21 became enraged and fled far from him. Then that king Sahasráníka established in his throne his excellent son Udayana,22 whom the subjects loved so well, to ensure the world’s prosperity, and accompanied by his ministers, and his beloved wife, ascended the Himálaya to prepare for the last great journey.

There is in this land a city named Ujjayiní, the ornament of the earth, that, so to speak, laughs to scorn with its palaces of enamelled whiteness6 Amarávatí, the city of the gods. In that city dwells Śiva himself, the lord of existence, under the form of Mahákála,7 when he desists from the kingly vice of absenting himself on the heights of mount Kailása. In that city lived a king named Mahendravarman, best of monarchs, and he had a son like himself, named Jayasena. Then to that Jayasena was born a son named Mahásena, matchless in strength of arm, an elephant among monarchs. And that king, while cherishing his realm, reflected, “I have not a sword worthy of me,8 nor a wife of good family.” Thus reflecting that monarch went to the temple of Durgá, and there he remained without food, propitiating for a long time the goddess. Then he cut off pieces of his own flesh, and offered a burnt-offering with them, whereupon the goddess Durgá being pleased appeared in visible shape and said to him, “I am pleased with thee, receive from me this excellent sword, by means of its magic power thou shalt be invincible to all thy enemies. Moreover thou shalt soon obtain as a wife Angáravatí, the daughter of the Asura Angáraka, the most beautiful maiden in the three worlds. And since thou didst here perform this very cruel penance, therefore thy name shall be Chaṇḍamahásena.” Having said this and given him the sword, the goddess disappeared. But in the king there appeared joy at the fulfilment of his desire. He now possessed, O king, two jewels, his sword and a furious elephant named Naḍágiri, which were to him what the thunderbolt and Airávaṇa are to Indra. Then that king, delighting in the power of these two, one day went to a great forest to hunt; and there he [70]beheld an enormous and terrible wild boar; like the darkness of the night suddenly condensed into a solid mass in the day time. That boar was not wounded by the king’s arrows, in spite of their sharpness, but after breaking the king’s chariot9 fled and entered a cavern. The king, leaving that car of his, in revengeful pursuit of the boar, entered into that cavern with only his bow to aid him. And after he had gone a long distance, he beheld a great and splendid capital, and astonished he sat down inside the city on the bank of a lake. While there, he beheld a maiden moving along, surrounded by hundreds of women, like the arrow of love that cleaves the armour of self-restraint. She slowly approached the king, bathing him, so to speak, again and again in a look, that rained in showers the nectar of love.10 She said, “who art thou, illustrious sir, and for what reason hast thou entered our home on this occasion?” The king, being thus questioned by her, told her the whole truth; hearing which, she let fall from her eyes a passionate flood of tears, and from her heart all self-control. The king said, “Who art thou, and why dost thou weep?” When he asked her this question, she, being a prisoner to love at his will, answered him, “The boar that entered here is the Daitya Angáraka by name. And I am his daughter, O king, and my name is Angáravatí. And he is of adamantine frame, and has carried off these hundred princesses from the palaces of kings and appointed them to attend on me. Moreover this great Asura has become a Rákshasa owing to a curse, but to-day as he was exhausted with thirst and fatigue, even when he found you, he spared you. At present he has put off the form of a boar and is resting in his own proper shape, but when he wakes up from his sleep, he will without fail do you an injury. It is for this reason that I see no hope of a happy issue for you, and so these tear-drops fall from my eyes like my vital spirits boiled with the fire of grief.” When he heard this speech of Angáravatí’s the king said to her,—“If you love me, do this which I ask you. When your father awakes, go and weep in front of him, and then he will certainly ask you the cause of your agitation; then you must say—If some one were to slay thee, what would become of me?11 This is the cause of [71]my grief. If you do this, there will be a happy issue both for you and me.” When the king said this to her, she promised him that she would do what he wished. And that Asura maiden, apprehending misfortune, placed the king in concealment, and went near her sleeping father. Then the Daitya woke up, and she began to weep. And then he said to her, “Why do you weep, my daughter?” She with affected grief said to him, “If some one were to slay thee, what would become of me?” Then he burst out laughing and said;—“Who could possibly slay me, my daughter, for I am cased in adamant all over, only in my left hand is there an unguarded place, but that is protected by the bow.” In these words the Daitya consoled his daughter, and all this was heard by the king in his concealment. Immediately afterwards the Dánava rose up and took his bath, and proceeded in devout silence to worship the god Śiva; at that moment the king appeared with his bow bent, and rushing up impetuously towards the Daitya, challenged him to fight. He, without interrupting his devout silence, lifted his left hand towards the king and made a sign that he must wait for a moment. The king for his part, being very quick of hand, immediately smote him with an arrow in that hand which was his vital part. And that great Asura Angáraka, being pierced in a vital spot, immediately uttered a terrible cry and fell on the ground, and exclaimed, as his life departed,—“If that man, who has slain me when thirsty, does not offer water to my manes every year, then his five ministers shall perish.” After he had said this, that Daitya died, and the king, taking his daughter Angáravatí as a prize, returned to Ujjayiní. There the king Chaṇḍamahásena married that Daitya maiden, and two sons were born to him, the first named Gopálaka, and the second Pálaka; and when they were born, he held a feast in honour of Indra on their account. Then Indra, being pleased, said to that king in a dream, “By my favour thou shalt obtain a matchless daughter.” Then in course of time a graceful daughter was born to that king, like a second and more wonderful shape of the moon made by the Creator. And on that occasion a voice was heard from heaven;—“She shall give birth to a son, who shall be a very incarnation of the god of love, and king of the Vidyádharas.” Then the king gave that daughter the name of Vásavadattá, because she was given by Indra being pleased with him. And that maiden still remains unmarried in the house of her father, like the goddess of prosperity in the hollow cavity of the ocean before it was churned. That king Chaṇḍamahásena cannot indeed be conquered by you, O king, in the first place because he is so powerful, and in the next place because his realm is situated in a difficult country. Moreover he is ever longing to give you that daughter of his in marriage, but being a proud monarch, he desires the triumph of himself and his adherents. But, I think, you must certainly marry that Vásavadattá. When he heard this, that king of Vatsa immediately lost his heart to Vásavadattá. [72]

There is in this country a city named Mathurá, the birthplace of Kṛishṇa, in it there was a hetæra known by the name of Rúpiṇiká; she had for a mother an old kuṭṭiní named Makaradanshṭrá, who seemed a lump of poison in the eyes of the young men attracted by her daughter’s charms. One day Rúpiṇiká went at the time of worship to the temple to perform her duty,7 and beheld from a distance a young man. When she saw that handsome young fellow, he made such an impression upon her heart, that all her mother’s instructions vanished from it. Then she said to her maid, “Go and tell this man from me, that he is to come to my house to-day.” The maid said, “So I will,” and immediately went and told him. Then the man thought a little and said to her; “I am a Bráhman named Lohajangha8; I have no wealth; then what business have I in the house of Rúpiṇiká which is only to be entered by the rich.” The maid said,—“My mistress does not desire wealth from you,”—whereupon Lohajangha consented to do as she wished. When she heard that from the maid, Rúpiṇiká went home in a state of excitement, and remained with her eyes fixed on the path by which he would come. And soon Lohajangha came to her house, while the kuṭṭiní Makaradanshṭrá looked at him, and wondered where he came from. Rúpiṇiká, for her part, when she saw him, rose up to meet him herself with the utmost respect, and clinging to his neck in her joy, led him to her own private apartments. Then she was captivated with Lohajangha’s wealth of accomplishments, and considered that she had been only born to love him. So she avoided the society of other men, and that young fellow lived with her in her house in great comfort. Rúpiṇiká’s mother, Makaradanshṭrá, who had trained up many hetæræ, was annoyed when she saw this, and said to her in private; “My daughter, why do you associate with a poor man? Hetæræ of good taste embrace a corpse in preference to a poor man. What business has a hetæra like you with affection? How have you come to forget that great principle? The light of a red9 sunset lasts but a short time, and so does the splendour of a hetæra who gives way to affection. A hetæra, like an actress, should exhibit an assumed affection in order to get wealth; so forsake this pauper, do not ruin yourself.” When she heard this speech of her mother’s, Rúpiṇiká said in a rage, “Do not talk in this way, for I love him more than my life. And as for wealth, I have plenty, what do I want with more? So you must not speak to me again, mother, in this way.” When she heard this, Makaradanshṭrá was in a rage, and she remained thinking over some device for getting rid of this Lohajangha. Then she saw coming along the road a certain Rájpút, who had spent all his wealth, surrounded by retainers with [77]swords in their hands. So she went up to him quickly and taking him aside, said—“My house is beset by a certain poor lover. So come there yourself to-day, and take such order with him that he shall depart from my house, and do you possess my daughter.” “Agreed,” said the Rájpút, and entered that house. At that precise moment Rúpiṇiká was in the temple, and Lohajangha meanwhile was absent somewhere, and suspecting nothing, he returned to the house a moment afterwards. Immediately the retainers of the Rájpút ran upon him, and gave him severe kicks and blows on all his limbs, and then they threw him into a ditch full of all kinds of impurities, and Lohajangha with difficulty escaped from it. Then Rúpiṇiká returned to the house, and when she heard what had taken place, she was distracted with grief, so the Rájpút, seeing that, returned as he came.

Lohajangha, after suffering this brutal outrage by the machinations of the kuṭṭiní, set out for some holy place of pilgrimage, in order to leave his life there, now that he was separated from his beloved. As he was going along in the wild country,10 with his heart burning with anger against the kuṭṭiní, and his skin with the heat of the summer, he longed for shade. Not being able to find a tree, he lighted on the body of an elephant, which had been stripped of all its flesh11 by jackals making their way into it by the hind-quarters; accordingly Lohajangha being worn out crept into this carcase, which was a mere shell, as only the skin remained, and went to sleep in it, as it was kept cool by the breeze which freely entered. Then suddenly clouds arose from all sides, and began to pour down a pelting shower of rain; that rain made the elephant’s skin contract so that no aperture was left, and immediately a copious inundation came that way, and carrying off the elephant’s hide swept it into the Ganges; so eventually the inundation bore it into the sea. And there a bird of the race of Garuḍa saw that hide, and supposing it to be carrion, took it to the other side of the sea; there it tore open the elephant’s hide with its claws, and, seeing that there was a man inside it, fled away. But Lohajangha was awaked by the bird’s pecking and scratching, and came out through the aperture made by its beak. And finding that he was on the other side of the sea, he was astonished, and looked upon the whole thing as a day-dream; then he saw there to his terror two horrible Rákshasas, and those two for their part contemplated him from a distance with feelings of fear. Remembering [78]how they were defeated by Ráma, and seeing that Lohajangha was also a man who had crossed the sea, they were once more alarmed in their hearts. So, after they had deliberated together, one of them went off immediately and told the whole occurrence to king Vibhíshaṇa; king Vibhíshaṇa too, as he had seen the prowess of Ráma, being terrified at the arrival of a man, said to that Rákshasa; “Go, my good friend, and tell that man from me in a friendly manner, that he is to do me the favour of coming to my palace.” The Rákshasa said, “I will do so,” and timidly approached Lohajangha, and told him that request of his sovereign’s. Lohajangha for his part accepted that invitation with unruffled calm, and went to Lanká with that Rákshasa and his companion. And when he arrived in Lanká, he was astonished at beholding numerous splendid edifices of gold, and entering the king’s palace, he saw Vibhíshaṇa. The king welcomed the Bráhman who blessed him in return, and then Vibhíshaṇa said, “Bráhman, how did you manage to reach this country?” Then the cunning Lohajangha said to Vibhíshaṇa—“I am a Bráhman of the name of Lohajangha residing in Mathurá; and I, Lohajangha being afflicted at my poverty, went to the temple of the god, and remaining fasting, for a long time performed austerities in the presence of Náráyaṇa.12 Then the adorable Hari12 commanded me in a dream, saying, ‘Go thou to Vibhíshaṇa, for he is a faithful worshipper of mine, and he will give thee wealth.’ Then, I said, ‘Vibhíshaṇa is where I cannot reach him’—but the lord continued, ‘To-day shalt thou see that Vibhíshaṇa.’ So the lord spake to me, and immediately I woke up and found myself upon this side of the sea. I know no more.” When Vibhíshaṇa heard this from Lohajangha, reflecting that Lanká was a difficult place to reach, he thought to himself—“Of a truth this man possesses divine power.” And he said to that Bráhman,—“Remain here, I will give you wealth.” Then he committed him to the care of the man-slaying Rákshasas as an inviolable deposit; and sent some of his subjects to a mountain in his kingdom called Swarṇamúla, and brought from it a young bird belonging to the race of Garuḍa; and he gave it to that Lohajangha, (who had to take a long journey to Mathurá,) to ride upon, in order that he might in the meanwhile break it in. Lohajangha for his part mounted on its back, and riding about on it in Lanká, rested there for some time, being hospitably entertained by Vibhíshaṇa.

One day he asked the king of the Rákshasas, feeling curiosity on the point, why the whole ground of Lanká was made of wood; and Vibhíshaṇa when he heard that, explained the circumstance to him, saying, “Bráhman, if you take any interest in this matter, listen, I will explain it to you. Long ago Garuḍa the son of Kaśyapa, wishing to redeem his mother from her slavery to the snakes, to whom she had been subjected in accordance [79]with an agreement,13 and preparing to obtain from the gods the nectar which was the price of her ransom, wanted to eat something which would increase his strength, and so he went to his father, who being importuned said to him, “My son, in the sea there is a huge elephant, and a huge tortoise. They have assumed their present forms in consequence of a curse: go and eat them.” Then Garuḍa went and brought them both to eat, and then perched on a bough of the great wishing-tree of paradise. And when that bough suddenly broke with his weight, he held it up with his beak, out of regard to the Bálakhilyas14 who were engaged in austerities underneath it. Then Garuḍa, afraid that the bough would crush mankind, if he let it fall at random, by the advice of his father brought the bough to this uninhabited part of the earth, and let it drop. Lanká was built on the top of that bough, therefore the ground here is of wood.” When he heard this from Vibhíshaṇa, Lohajangha was perfectly satisfied.

Then Vibhíshaṇa gave to Lohajangha many valuable jewels, as he desired to set out for Mathurá. And out of his devotion to the god Vishṇu, who dwells at Mathurá, he entrusted to the care of Lohajangha a lotus, a club, a shell, and a discus all of gold, to be offered to the god; Lohajangha took all these, and mounted the bird given to him by Vibhíshaṇa, that could accomplish a hundred thousand yojanas,15 and rising up into the air in Lanká, he crossed the sea and without any difficulty arrived at Mathurá. And there he descended from the air in an empty convent outside the town, and deposited there his abundant treasure, and tied up that bird. And then he went into the market and sold one of his jewels, and bought garments and scented unguents, and also food. And he ate the food in that convent where he was, and gave some to his bird; and he adorned himself with the garments, unguents, flowers and other decorations. And when night came, he mounted that same bird and went to the house of Rúpiṇiká, bearing in his hand the shell, discus and mace; then he hovered over it in the air, knowing the place well, and made a low deep sound, to attract the attention of his beloved, who was alone. But Rúpiṇiká, as soon as she heard that sound, came out, and saw hovering in the air by night a being like Náráyaṇa, gleaming with jewels. He said to her, “I am Hari come hither for thy sake;” whereupon she bowed with her face to the earth and said—[80]“May the god have mercy upon me!” Then Lohajangha descended and tied up his bird, and entered the private apartments of his beloved hand in hand with her. And after remaining there a short time, he came out, and mounting the bird as before, went off through the air.16 In the morning Rúpiṇiká remained observing an obstinate silence, thinking to herself—“I am the wife of the god Vishṇu, I must cease to converse with mortals.” And then her mother Makaradanshṭrá said to her,—“Why do you behave in this way, my daughter?” And after she had been perseveringly questioned by her mother, she caused to be put up a curtain between herself and her parent, and told her what had taken place in the night, which was the cause of her silence. When the kuṭṭiní heard that, she felt doubt on the subject, but soon after at night she saw that very Lohajangha mounted on the bird, and in the morning Makaradanshṭrá came secretly to Rúpiṇiká, who still remained behind the curtain, and inclining herself humbly, preferred to her this request; “Through the favour of the god, thou, my daughter, hast obtained here on earth the rank of a goddess, and I am thy mother in this world, therefore grant me a reward for giving thee birth; entreat the god that, old as I am, with this very body I may enter Paradise; do me this favour.” Rúpiṇiká consented and requested that very boon from Lohajangha, who came again at night disguised as Vishṇu. Then Lohajangha, who was personating the god, said to that beloved of his—“Thy mother is a wicked woman, it would not be fitting to take her openly to Paradise, but on the morning of the eleventh day the door of heaven is opened, and many of the Gaṇas, Śiva’s companions, enter into it before any one else is admitted. Among them I will introduce this mother of thine, if she assume their appearance. So, shave her head with a razor, in such a manner that five locks shall be left, put a necklace of sculls round her neck, and stripping off her clothes, paint one side of her body with lamp-black, and the other with red lead,17 for when she has in this way been made to resemble a Gaṇa, I shall find it an easy matter to get her into heaven.” When he had said this, Lohajangha remained a short time, and then departed. And in the morning Rúpiṇiká attired her mother as he had directed; and then she remained with her mind entirely fixed on Paradise. So, when night came, Lohajangha appeared again, and Rúpiṇiká handed over her mother to [81]him. Then he mounted on the bird, and took the kuṭṭiní with him naked, and transformed as he had directed, and he flew up rapidly with her into the air. While he was in the air, he beheld a lofty stone pillar in front of a temple, with a discus on its summit. So he placed her on the top of the pillar, with the discus as her only support,18 and there she hung like a banner to blazon forth his revenge for his ill-usage. He said to her—“Remain here a moment while I bless the earth with my approach,” and vanished from her sight. Then beholding a number of people in front of the temple, who had come there to spend the night in devout vigils before the festive procession, he called aloud from the air—“Hear, ye people, this very day there shall fall upon you here the all-destroying goddess of Pestilence, therefore fly to Hari for protection.” When they heard this voice from the air, all the inhabitants of Mathurá who were there, being terrified, implored the protection of the god, and remained devoutly muttering prayers to ward off calamity. Lohajangha, for his part, descended from the air, and encouraged them to pray, and after changing that dress of his, came and stood among the people, without being observed. The kuṭṭiní thought, as she sat upon the top of the pillar,—“the god has not come as yet, and I have not reached heaven.” At last feeling it impossible to remain up there any longer, she cried out in her fear, so that the people below heard; “Alas! I am falling, I am falling.” Hearing that, the people in front of the god’s temple were beside themselves, fearing that the destroying goddess was falling upon them, even as had been foretold, and said, “O goddess, do not fall, do not fall.” So those people of Mathurá, young and old, spent that night in perpetual dread that the destroying goddess would fall upon them, but at last it came to an end; and then beholding that kuṭṭiní upon the pillar in the state described,19 the citizens and the king recognized her at once; all the people thereupon forgot their alarm, and burst out laughing, and Rúpiṇiká herself at last arrived having heard of the occurrence. And when she saw it, she was abashed, and with the help of the people, who were there, she managed to get that mother of hers down from the top of the pillar immediately: then that kuṭṭiní was asked by all the people there, who were filled with curiosity, to tell them the whole story, and she [82]did so. Thereupon the king, the Bráhmans, and the merchants, thinking that that laughable incident must have been brought about by a sorcerer or some person of that description, made a proclamation, that whoever had made a fool of the kuṭṭiní, who had deceived innumerable lovers, was to shew himself, and he would receive a turban of honour on the spot. When he heard that, Lohajangha made himself known to those present, and being questioned, he related the whole story from its commencement. And he offered to the god the discus, shell, club, and lotus of gold, the present which Vibhíshaṇa had sent, and which aroused the astonishment of the people. Then all the people of Mathurá, being pleased, immediately invested him with a turban of honour, and by the command of the king, made that Rúpiṇiká a free woman. And then Lohajangha, having wreaked upon the kuṭṭiní his wrath caused by her ill-usage of him, lived in great comfort in Mathurá with that beloved of his, being very well off by means of the large stock of jewels which he brought from Lanká.

Hearing this tale from the mouth of the transformed Vasantaka, Vásavadattá who was sitting at the side of the fettered king of Vatsa, felt extreme delight in her heart.

There is a city in the world famous under the name of Támraliptá, and in that city there was a very rich merchant named Dhanadatta. And he, being childless, assembled many Bráhmans and said to them with due respect; “Take such steps as will procure me a son soon.” Then those Bráhmans said to him: “This is not at all difficult, for Bráhmans can accomplish all things in this world by means of ceremonies in accordance with the scriptures. To give you an instance there was in old time a king who had no sons, and he had a hundred and five wives in his harem. And by means of a sacrifice to procure a son, there was born to him a son named Jantu, who was like the rising of the new moon to the eyes of his wives. Once on a time an ant bit the boy on the thigh as he was crawling about on his knees, so that he was very unhappy and sobbed loudly. Thereupon the whole harem was full of confused lamentation, and the king himself shrieked out ‘My son! my son!’ like a common man. The boy was soon comforted, the ant having been removed, and the king blamed the misfortune of his only having one son as the cause of all his grief. And he asked the Bráhmans in his affliction if there was any expedient by which he might obtain a large number of children. They answered him,—‘O king, there is one expedient open to you; you must slay this son and offer up all his flesh in the fire. By smelling the smell of that sacrifice all thy wives will obtain sons.’ When he heard that, the king had the whole ceremony performed as they directed; and he obtained as many sons as he had wives. So we can obtain a son for you also by a burnt-offering.” When they had said this to Dhanadatta, the Bráhmans, after a sacrificial fee had been promised them, performed a sacrifice: then a son was born to that merchant. That son was called Guhasena, and he gradually grew up to man’s estate. Then his father Dhanadatta began to look out for a wife for him.

Then his father went with that son of his to another country, on the pretence of traffic, but really to get a daughter-in-law, there he asked an excellent merchant of the name of Dharmagupta to give him his daughter named Devasmitá for his son Guhasena. But Dharmagupta, who was tenderly attached to his daughter, did not approve of that connexion, reflecting that the city of Támraliptá was very far off. But when Devasmitá beheld that Guhasena, her mind was immediately attracted by his virtues, and she was set on abandoning her relations, and so she made an assignation with him by means of a confidante, and went away from that country at night with her beloved and his father. When they reached Támraliptá they were married, and the minds of the young couple were firmly knit [86]together by the bond of mutual love. Then Guhasena’s father died, and he himself was urged by his relations to go to the country of Kaṭáha4 for the purpose of trafficking; but his wife Devasmitá was too jealous to approve of that expedition, fearing exceedingly that he would be attracted by some other lady. Then, as his wife did not approve of it, and his relations kept inciting him to it, Guhasena, whose mind was firmly set on doing his duty, was bewildered. Then he went and performed a vow in the temple of the god, observing a rigid fast, trusting that the god would shew him some way out of his difficulty. And his wife Devasmiṭá also performed a vow with him; then Śiva was pleased to appear to that couple in a dream; and giving them two red lotuses the god said to them,—“take each, of you one of these lotuses in your hand. And if either of you shall be unfaithful during your separation, the lotus in the hand of the other shall fade, but not otherwise5.” After hearing this, the two woke up, and each [87]beheld in the hand of the other a red lotus, and it seemed as if they had got one another’s hearts. Then Guhasena set out, lotus in hand, but Devasmitá remained in the house with her eyes fixed upon her flower. Guhasena for his part quickly reached the country of Kaṭáha, and began to buy and sell jewels there. And four young merchants in that country, seeing that that unfading lotus was ever in his hand, were greatly astonished. Accordingly they got him to their house by an artifice, and made him drink a great deal of wine, and then asked him the history of the lotus, and he being intoxicated told them the whole story. Then those four young merchants, knowing that Guhasena would take a long time to complete his sales and purchases of jewels and other wares, planned together, like rascals as they were, the seduction of his wife out of curiosity, and eager to accomplish it set out quickly for Támraliptá without their departure being noticed. There they cast about for some instrument, and at last had recourse to a female ascetic of the name of Yogakaraṇḍiká, who lived in a sanctuary of Buddha; and they said to her in an affectionate manner, “Reverend madam, if our object is accomplished by your help, we will give you much wealth.” She answered them; “No doubt, you young men desire some woman in this city, so tell me all about it, I will procure you the object of your desire, but I have no wish for money; I have a pupil of distinguished ability named Siddhikarí; owing to her kindness I have obtained untold wealth.” The young merchants asked—“How have you obtained untold wealth by the assistance of a pupil?” Being asked this question, the female ascetic said,—“If you feel any curiosity about the matter, listen, my sons, I will tell you the whole story.”

Long ago a certain merchant came here from the north; while he was dwelling here, my pupil went and obtained, with a treacherous object, the position of a serving-maid in his house, having first altered her appearance, and after she had gained the confidence of that merchant, she stole all his hoard of gold from his house, and went off secretly in the morning twilight. And as she went out from the city moving rapidly through fear, a certain Ḍomba6 with his drum in his hand, saw her, and pursued her at full speed with the intention of robbing her. When she had reached the foot of a Nyagrodha tree, she saw that he had come up with her, and so the cunning Siddhikarí said this to him in a plaintive manner, “I have had a jealous quarrel with my husband, and I have left [88]his house to die, therefore my good man, make a noose for me to hang myself with.” Then the Ḍomba thought, “Let her hang herself, why should I be guilty of her death, especially as she is a woman,” and so he fastened a noose for her to the tree. Then Siddhikarí, feigning ignorance, said to the Ḍomba, “How is the noose slipped round the neck? shew me, I entreat you.” Then the Ḍomba placed the drum under his feet, and saying,—“This is the way we do the trick”—he fastened the noose round his own throat; Siddhikarí for her part smashed the drum to atoms with a kick, and that Ḍomba hung till he was dead.7 At that moment the merchant arrived in search of her, and beheld from a distance Siddhikarí, who had stolen from him untold treasures, at the foot of the tree. She too saw him coming, and climbed up the tree without being noticed, and remained there on a bough, having her body concealed by the dense foliage. When the merchant came up with his servants, he saw the Ḍomba hanging by his neck, but Siddhikarí was nowhere to be seen. Immediately one of his servants said “I wonder whether she has got up this tree,” and proceeded to ascend it himself. Then Siddhikarí said—“I have always loved you, and now you have climbed up where I am, so all this wealth is at your disposal, handsome man, come and embrace me.” So she embraced the merchant’s servant, and as she was kissing his mouth, she bit off the fool’s tongue. He, overcome with the pain, fell from that tree, spitting blood from his mouth, uttering some indistinct syllables, which sounded like Lalalla. When he saw that, the merchant was terrified, and supposing that his servant had been seized by a demon, he fled from that place, and went to his own house with his attendants. Then Siddhikarí the female ascetic, equally frightened, descended from the top of the tree, and brought home with her all that wealth. Such a person is my pupil, distinguished for her great discernment, and it is in this way, my sons, that I have obtained wealth by her kindness.

When she had said this to the young merchants, the female ascetic shewed to them her pupil who happened to come in at that moment; and said to them, “Now, my sons, tell me the real state of affairs—what woman do you desire? I will quickly procure her for you.” When they heard that they said, “procure us an interview with the wife of the merchant Guhasena named Devasmitá.” When she heard that, the ascetic undertook to manage that business for them, and she gave those young merchants her own house to reside in. Then she gratified the servants at Guhasena’s house with gifts of sweetmeats and other things, and afterwards entered it with her [89]pupil. Then, as she approached the private rooms of Devasmitá, a bitch, that was fastened there with a chain, would not let her come near, but opposed her entrance in the most determined way. Then Devasmitá seeing her, of her own accord sent a maid, and had her brought in, thinking to herself, “What can this person be come for?” After she had entered, the wicked ascetic gave Devasmitá her blessing, and, treating the virtuous woman with affected respect, said to her—“I have always had a desire to see you, but to-day I saw you in a dream, therefore I have come to visit you with impatient eagerness; and my mind is afflicted at beholding you separated from your husband, for beauty and youth are wasted when one is deprived of the society of one’s beloved.” With this and many other speeches of the same kind she tried to gain the confidence of the virtuous woman in a short interview, and then taking leave of her she returned to her own house. On the second day she took with her a piece of meat full of pepper dust, and went again to the house of Devasmitá, and there she gave that piece of meat to the bitch at the door, and the bitch gobbled it up, pepper and all. Then owing to the pepper dust, the tears flowed in profusion from the animal’s eyes, and her nose began to run. And the cunning ascetic immediately went into the apartment of Devasmitá, who received her hospitably, and began to cry. When Devasmitá asked her why she shed tears, she said with affected reluctance: “My friend, look at this bitch weeping outside here. This creature recognized me to-day as having been its companion in a former birth, and began to weep; for that reason my tears gushed through pity.” When she heard that, and saw that bitch outside apparently weeping, Devasmitá thought for a moment to herself, “What can be the meaning of this wonderful sight?” Then the ascetic said to her, “My daughter, in a former birth, I and that bitch were the two wives of a certain Bráhman. And our husband frequently went about to other countries on embassies by order of the king. Now while he was away from home, I lived with other men at my pleasure, and so did not cheat the elements, of which I was composed, and my senses, of their lawful enjoyment. For considerate treatment of the elements and senses is held to be the highest duty. Therefore I have been born in this birth with a recollection of my former existence. But she, in her former life, through ignorance, confined all her attention to the preservation of her character, therefore she has been degraded and born again as one of the canine race, however, she too remembers her former birth.” The wise Devasmitá said to herself, “This is a novel conception of duty; no doubt this woman has laid a treacherous snare for me”; and so she said to her, “Reverend lady, for this long time I have been ignorant of this duty, so procure me an interview with some charming man.”—Then the ascetic said—“There are residing here some young merchants that have come from another country, [90]so I will bring them to you.” When she had said this, the ascetic returned home delighted, and Devasmitá of her own accord said to her maids: “No doubt those scoundrelly young merchants, whoever they may be, have seen that unfading lotus in the hand of my husband, and have on some occasion or other, when he was drinking wine, asked him out of curiosity to tell the whole story of it, and have now come here from that island to seduce me, and this wicked ascetic is employed by them. So bring quickly some wine mixed with Datura,8 and when you have brought it, have a dog’s foot of iron made as quickly as possible.” When Devasmitá had given these orders, the maids executed them faithfully, and one of the maids, by her orders, dressed herself up to resemble her mistress. The ascetic for her part chose out of the party of four merchants, (each of whom in his eagerness said—“let me go first”—) one individual, and brought him with her. And concealing him in the dress of her pupil, she introduced him in the evening into the house of Devasmitá, and coming out, disappeared. Then that maid, who was disguised as Devasmitá, courteously persuaded the young merchant to drink some of that wine drugged with Datura. That liquor,9 like his own immodesty, robbed him of his senses, and then the maids took away his clothes and other equipments and left him stark naked; then they branded him on the forehead with the mark of a dog’s foot, and during the night took him and pushed him into a ditch full of filth. Then he recovered consciousness in the last watch of the night, and found himself plunged in a ditch, as it were the hell Avíchi assigned to him by his sins. Then he got up and washed himself and went to the house of the female ascetic, in a state of nature, feeling with his fingers the mark on his forehead. And when he got there, he told his friends that he had been robbed on the way, in order that he might not be the only person made ridiculous. And the next morning he sat with a cloth wrapped round his branded forehead, giving as an excuse that he had a headache from keeping awake so long, and drinking too much. In the same way the next young merchant was maltreated, when he got to the house of Devasmitá, and when he returned home naked, he said, “I put on my ornaments there, and as I was coming out I was plundered by robbers.” In the morning he also, on the plea of a headache, put a wrapper on to cover his branded forehead.

In the same way all the four young merchants suffered in turns branding and other humiliating treatment, though they concealed the fact. And they went away from the place, without revealing to the female Buddhist ascetic the ill-treatment they had experienced, hoping that she would suffer [91]in a similar way. On the next day the ascetic went with her disciple to the house of Devasmitá, much delighted at having accomplished what she undertook to do. Then Devasmitá received her courteously, and made her drink wine drugged with Datura, offered as a sign of gratitude. When she and her disciple were intoxicated with it, that chaste wife cut off their ears and noses, and flung them also into a filthy pool. And being distressed by the thought that perhaps these young merchants might go and slay her husband, she told the whole circumstance to her mother-in-law. Then her mother-in-law said to her,—“My daughter, you have acted nobly, but possibly some misfortune may happen to my son in consequence of what you have done.” Then Devasmitá said—I will deliver him even as Śaktimatí in old time delivered her husband by her wisdom. Her mother-in-law asked; “How did Śaktimatí deliver her husband? tell me, my daughter.” Then Devasmitá related the following story:

In our country, within the city, there is the shrine of a powerful Yaksha named Maṇibhadra, established by our ancestors. The people there come and make petitions at this shrine, offering various gifts, in order to obtain various blessings. Whenever a man is found at night with another man’s wife, he is placed with her within the inner chamber of the Yaksha’s temple. And in the morning he is taken away from thence with the woman to the king’s court, and his behaviour being made known, he is punished; such is the custom. Once on a time in that city a merchant, of the name of Samudradatta, was found by a city-guard in the company of another man’s wife. So he took him and placed him with the woman in that temple of the Yaksha, fastening the door firmly. And immediately the wise and devoted wife of that merchant, whose name was Śaktimatí, came to hear of the occurrence; then that resolute woman, disguising herself, went confidently at night to the temple of the Yaksha, accompanied by her friends, taking with her offerings for the god. When she arrived there, the priest whose business it was to eat the offerings, through desire for a fee, opened the door and let her enter, informing the magistrate of what he had done. And she, when she got inside, saw her husband looking sheepish, with a woman, and she made the woman put on her own dress, and told her to go out. So that woman went out in her dress by night, and got off, but Śaktimatí remained in the temple with her husband. And when the king’s officers came in the morning to examine the merchant, he was seen by all to be in the company of his own wife.10 When he heard [92]that, the king dismissed the merchant from the temple of the Yaksha, as it were from the mouth of death, and punished the chief magistrate. So Śaktimatí in old time delivered her husband by her wisdom, and in the same way I will go and save my husband by my discretion.

So the wise Devasmitá said in secret to her mother-in-law, and, in company with her maids, she put on the dress of a merchant. Then she embarked on a ship, on the pretence of a mercantile expedition, and came to the country of Kaṭáha where her husband was. And when she arrived there, she saw that husband of hers, Guhasena, in the midst of a circle of merchants, like consolation in external bodily form. He seeing her afar off in the dress of a man,11 as it were, drank her in with his eyes, and thought to himself, “Who may this merchant be that looks so like my beloved wife”? So Devasmitá went and represented to the king that she had a petition to make, and asked him to assemble all his subjects. Then the king full of curiosity assembled all the citizens, and said to that lady disguised as a merchant, “What is your petition?” Then Devasmitá said—There are residing here in your midst four slaves of mine who have escaped, let the king make them over to me. Then the king said to her, “All the citizens are present here, so look at every one in order to recognise him, and take those slaves of yours.” Then she seized upon the four young merchants, whom she had before treated in such a humiliating way in her house, and who had wrappers bound round their heads. Then the merchants, who were there, flew in a passion, and said to her, “These are the sons of distinguished merchants, how then can they be your slaves?” Then she answered them, “If you do not believe what I say, examine their foreheads which I marked with a dog’s foot.” They consented, and removing the head-wrappers of these four, they all beheld the dog’s foot on their foreheads. Then all the merchants were abashed, and the king, being astonished, himself asked Devasmitá what all this meant. She told the whole story, and all the people burst out laughing, and the king said to the lady,—“They are your slaves by the best of titles.” Then the other merchants paid a large sum of money to that chaste wife, to redeem those four from slavery, and a fine to the king’s treasury. Devasmitá received that money, and recovered her husband, and being honoured by all good men, returned then to her own city Támraliptá, and she was never afterwards separated from her beloved.

“Thus, O queen, women of good family ever worship their husbands with chaste and resolute behaviour,12 and never think of any other man, for [93]to virtuous wives the husband is the highest deity.” When Vásavadattá on the journey heard this noble story from the mouth of Vasantaka, she got over the feeling of shame at having recently left her father’s house, and her mind, which was previously attached by strong affection to her husband, became so fixed upon him as to be entirely devoted to his service.

With regard to the incident of the bitch and the pepper in the story of Devasmitá see the note in the 1st volume of Wilson’s Essays on Sanskrit Literature. He says: “This incident with a very different and much less moral dénouement is one of the stories in the Disciplina Clericalis, a collection of stories professedly derived from the Arabian fabulists and compiled by Petrus Alfonsus a converted Jew, who flourished about 1106 and was godson to Alfonso I, king of Arragon. In the Analysis prepared by Mr. Douce, this story is the 12th, and is entitled “Stratagem of an old woman in favour of a young gallant.” She persuades his mistress who had rejected his addresses that her little dog was formerly a woman, and so transformed in consequence of her cruelty to her lover. (Ellis’s Metrical Romances, I, 130.) This story was introduced into Europe, therefore, much about the time at which it was enrolled among the contents of the Vṛihat Kathá in Cashmir. The metempsychosis is so much more obvious an explanation of the change of forms, that it renders it probable the story was originally Hindu. It was soon copied in Europe, and occurs in Le Grand as La vieille qui séduisit la jeune fille. III. 148 [ed. III. Vol. IV. 50]. The parallel is very close and the old woman gives “une chienne à manger des choses fortement saupoudrèes de senève qui lai picotait le palais et les narines et l’animal larmoyait beaucoup.” She then shows her to the young woman and tells her the bitch was her daughter. “Son malheur fut d’avoir le cœur dur; un jeune homme l’aimait, elle le rebuta. Le malheureux après avoir tout tenté pour l’ attendrir, désespéré de sa dureté en prit tant de chagrin qu’il tomba malade et mourut. Dieu l’a bien vengè; voyez en quel état pour la punir il a reduit ma pauvre fille, et comment elle pleure sa faute.” The lesson was not thrown away. The story occurs also in the Gesta Romanorum as “The Old Woman and her Dog” [in Bohn’s edition it is Tale XXVIII], and it also finds a place where we should little have expected to find it, in the Promptuarium of John Herolt of Basil, an ample repository of examples for composing sermons: the compiler a Dominican friar, professing to imitate his patron saint, who always abundabat exemplis in his discourses.” [In Bohn’s edition we are told that it appears in an English garb amongst a translation of Æsop’s Fables published in 1658.] Dr. Rost refers us to Th. Wright, Latin Stories, London, 1842, p. 218. Loiseleur Deslongchamps Essai sur les Fables Indiennes, Paris, 1838, p. 106 ff. F. H. Von der Hagen, Gesammtabenteuer, 1850 I, cxii. ff and Grässe, I. 1, 374 ff. In Gonzenbach’a Sicilianische Märchen, No. 55, Vol. I, p. 359, Epomata plays some young men much the same trick as Devasmitá, and they try in much the same way to conceal their disgrace. The story is the second in my copy of the Śuka Saptati. [94]

Once on a time there was a certain Bráhman named Rudraśarman, and he, when he became a householder, had two wives, and one of his wives gave birth to a son and died; and then the Bráhman entrusted that son to the care of his step-mother; and when he grew to a tolerable stature, she gave him coarse food; the consequence was, the boy became pale, and got a swollen stomach. Then Rudraśarman said to that second wife, “How comes it that you have neglected this child of mine that has lost its mother?” She said to her husband, “Though I take affectionate care of him, he is nevertheless the strange object you see; what am I to do with him?” Whereupon the Bráhman thought, “No doubt it is the child’s nature to be like this.” For who sees through the deceitfulness of the speeches of women uttered with affected simplicity? Then that child began to go by the name of Bálavinashṭaka7 in his father’s house, because they said this child (bála) is deformed (vinashṭa.) Then Bálavinashṭaka thought to himself—“This step-mother of mine is always ill-treating me, therefore I had better be revenged on her in some way”—for though the boy was only a little more than five years old, he was clever enough. Then he said secretly to his father when he returned from the king’s court, with half suppressed voice—“Papa, I have two Papas.” So the boy said every day, and his father suspecting that his wife had a paramour, would not even touch her. She for her part thought—“Why is my husband angry without my being guilty; I wonder whether Bálavinashṭaka has been at any tricks?” So she washed Bálavinashṭaka with careful kindness, and gave him dainty food, and taking him on her lap, asked him the following question: “My son why have you incensed your father Rudraśarman against me?” When he heard that, the boy said to his step-mother, “I will do more harm to you than that, if you do not immediately cease ill-treating me. You take good care of your own children; why do you perpetually torment me?” When she heard that, she bowed before him, and said with a solemn oath, “I will not do so any more; so reconcile my husband to me.” Then the child said to her—“Well, when my father comes home, let one of your maids shew him a mirror, and leave the rest to me.” She said, “Very well,” and by her orders a maid shewed a mirror to her husband as soon as he returned home. Thereupon the child pointing out the reflection of his father in the mirror, said, “There is my second father.” When he heard that, Rudraśarman dismissed his suspicions and was immediately reconciled to his wife, whom he had blamed without cause.

“Thus even a child may do mischief if it is annoyed, and therefore we must carefully conciliate all this retinue.” Saying this, Yaugandharáyaṇa with the help of Rumaṇvat, carefully honoured all the people on this the [97]king of Vatsa’s great day of rejoicing.8 And they gratified all the kings so successfully that each one of them thought, “These two men are devoted to me alone.” And the king honoured those two ministers and Vasantaka with garments, unguents, and ornaments bestowed with his own hand, and he also gave them grants of villages. Then the king of Vatsa, having celebrated the great festival of his marriage, considered all his wishes gratified, now that he was linked to Vásavadattá. Their mutual love, having blossomed after a long time of expectation, was so great, owing to the strength of their passion, that their hearts continually resembled those of the sorrowing Chakravákas, when the night, during which they are separated, comes to an end. And as the familiarity of the couple increased, their love seemed to be ever renewed. Then Gopálaka, being ordered by his father to return to get married himself, went away, after having been entreated by the king of Vatsa to return quickly.

In course of time the king of Vatsa became faithless, and secretly loved an attendant of the harem named Virachitá, with whom he had previously had an intrigue. One day he made a mistake and addressed the queen by her name, thereupon he had to conciliate her by clinging to her feet, and bathed in her tears he was anointed9 a fortunate king. Moreover he married a princess of the name of Bandhumatí, whom Gopálaka had captured by the might of his arm, and sent as a present to the queen; and whom she concealed, changing her name to Manjuliká; who seemed like another Lakshmí issuing from the sea of beauty. Her the king saw, when he was in the company of Vasantaka, and secretly married her by the Gándharva ceremony in a summer-house. And that proceeding of his was beheld by Vásavadattá, who was in concealment, and she was angry, and had Vasantaka put in fetters. Then the king had recourse to the good offices of a female ascetic, a friend of the queen’s, who had come with her from her father’s court, of the name of Sánkrityánaní. She appeased the queen’s anger, and got Bandhumatí presented to the king by the obedient queen, for tender is the heart of virtuous wives. Then the queen released Vasantaka from imprisonment; he came into the presence of the queen and said to her with a laugh, “Bandhumatí did you an injury, but what did I do to you? You are angry with adders10 and you kill water-snakes.” Then the queen, out of curiosity, asked him to explain that metaphor, and he continued as follows:

Once on a time a hermit’s son of the name of Ruru, wandering about at will, saw a maiden of wonderful beauty, the daughter of a heavenly nymph named Menaká by a Vidyádhara, and brought up by a hermit of [98]the name of Sthúlakeśa in his hermitage. That lady, whose name was Prishaḍvará, so captivated the mind of that Ruru when he saw her, that he went and begged the hermit to give her to him in marriage. Sthúlakeśa for his part betrothed the maiden to him, and when the wedding was nigh at hand, suddenly an adder bit her. Then the heart of Ruru was full of despair, but he heard this voice in the heaven—“O Bráhman raise to life with the gift of half thy own life,11 this maiden, whose allotted term is at an end.” When he heard that, Ruru gave her the half of his own life, as he had been directed; by means of that she revived, and Ruru married her. Thenceforward he was incensed with the whole race of serpents, and whenever he saw a serpent he killed it, thinking to himself as he killed each one—“This may have bitten my wife.” One day a water snake said to him with human voice, as he was about to slay it, “You are incensed against adders, Bráhman, but why do you slay water-snakes? An adder bit your wife, and adders are a distinct species from water-snakes; all adders are venomous, water-snakes are not venomous.” When he heard that, he said in answer to the water-snake,—“My friend, who are you?” The water-snake said, “Bráhman, I am a hermit fallen from my high estate by a curse, and this curse was appointed to last till I held converse with you.” When he had said this he disappeared, and after that Ruru did not kill water-snakes. So I said this to you metaphorically, “My queen, you are angry with adders and you kill water-snakes.” When he had uttered this speech, full of pleasing wit, Vasantaka ceased, and Vásavadattá sitting at the side of her husband was pleased with him. Such soft and sweet tales in which Vasantaka displayed various ingenuity, did the loving Udayana, king of Vatsa, continually make use of to conciliate his angry wife, while he sat at her feet. That happy king’s tongue was ever exclusively employed in tasting the flavour of wine, and his ear was ever delighting in the sweet sounds of the lute, and his eye was ever riveted on the face of his beloved.

The practice of walking round an object of reverence with the right hand towards it, which is one of the ceremonies mentioned in our author’s account of Vásavadattá’s marriage, has been exhaustively discussed by Dr. Samuel Fergusson in his paper—“On the Ceremonial turn called Desiul,” published in the Proceedings of the Royal Irish Academy for March 1877. (Vol. I. Ser. II. No. 12.) He shews it to have existed among the ancient Romans as well as the Celts. One of the most striking of his quotations is from the Curculio of Plautus (I. 1. 69.) Phædromus says—Quo me vortam nescio. Palinurus jestingly replies—Si deos salutas dextrovorsum censeo. Cp. also the following passage of Valerius Flaceus (Argon VIII. 243). [99]

The above passage forms a striking comment upon our text. Cp. also Plutarch in this life of Camillus Ταῦτα εἰπὼν, καθὰπερ ἐστὶ Ρωμαίοις ἔθος, ἐπευξαμένοις καὶ προσκυνὴσασιν, ἐπὶ δεξιὰ ἐξελίττειν, ἐσφάλη περιστρεφόμενος. It is possible that the following passage in Lucretius alludes to the same practice—

Dr. Fergusson is of opinion that this movement was a symbol of the cosmical rotation, an imitation of the apparent course of the sun in the heavens. Cp. Hyginus Fable CCV. Arge venatrix, cum cervum sequeretur, cervo dixisse fertur: Tu licet Solis cursum sequaris, tamen te consequar. Sol, iratus, in cervam eam convertit. He quotes, to prove that the practice existed among the ancient Celts, Athenæus IV, p. 142, who adduces from Posidonius the following statement “Τούς θεοὺς προσκυνοῦσιν ἐπὶ δεξιὰ στρεφόμενοι.” The above quotations are but a few scraps from the full feast of Dr. Fergusson’s paper. See also the remarks of the Rev. S. Beal in the Indian Antiquary for March 1880, p. 67.

See also Henderson’s Folk-lore of the Northern Counties, p. 45. “The vicar of Stranton was standing at the churchyard gate, awaiting the arrival of a funeral party, when to his astonishment the whole group, who had arrived within a few yards of him, suddenly wheeled and made the circuit of the churchyard wall, thus traversing its west, north, and east boundaries, and making the distance some five or six times greater than was necessary. The vicar, astonished at this proceeding, asked the sexton the reason of so extraordinary a movement. The reply was as follows: ‘Why, ye wad no hae them carry the dead again the sun; the dead maun aye go with the sun.’ This custom is no doubt an ancient British or Celtic custom, and corresponds to the Highland usage of making the deazil or walking three times round a person according to the course of the sun. Old Highlanders will still make the deazil around those to whom they wish well. To go round the person in the opposite direction, or “withershins,” is an evil incantation and brings ill-fortune. Hunt in his Romances and Drolls of the West of England, p. 418, says, “If an invalid goes out for the first time, and makes a circuit, the circuit must be with the sun, if against the sun, there will be a relapse. Liebrecht, Zur Volkskunde, p. 322, quotes from the Statistical Account of Scotland, Vol. V. p. 88 the following statement of a Scottish minister, with reference to a marriage ceremony: “After leaving the church, the whole company walk round it, keeping the church walls always on the right hand.”

Thiselton Dyer, in his English Folk-lore, p. 171, mentions a similar custom as existing in the West of England. In Devonshire blackhead or pinsoles are cured by creeping on one’s hands and knees under or through a bramble three times with the sun; that is from east to west. See also Ralston’s Songs of the Russian people, p. 299.

See also the extract from Sinclair’s Statistical Account of Scotland in Brand’s Popular Antiquities, Vol. 1, p. 225; “When a Highlander goes to bathe or to drink water out of a consecrated fountain, he must always approach by going round the place from East to West on the South side, in imitation of the apparent diurnal motion of the sun. This is called in Gaelic going round the right, or the lucky way. The opposite course is the wrong, or the unlucky way. And if a person’s meat or drink were to affect the wind-pipe, or come against his breath, they would instantly cry out, “Desheal,” which is an ejaculation praying it may go by the right way.” Cp. the note in Munro’s Lucretius on V, 1199, and Burton’s Narratives from Criminal Trials in Scotland, Vol. I, p. 278. [101]

Once on a time there was a king named Mahásena, and he was attacked by another king far superior to him in power. Then the king’s ministers met together, and in order to prevent the ruin of his interests, Mahásena was persuaded by them to pay tribute to that enemy. And after he had paid tribute, that haughty king was exceedingly afflicted, thinking [102]to himself, “Why have I made submission to my enemy?” And his sorrow on that account caused an abscess to form in his vitals, and he was so pulled down by the abscess that at last he was at the point of death. Then a certain wise physician considering that that case could not be cured by medicine, said falsely to that king; “O king, your wife is dead.” When he heard that, the king suddenly fell on the ground, and owing to the excessive violence of his grief, the abscess burst of itself. And so the king recovered from his disease, and long enjoyed in the society of that queen the pleasures he desired, and conquered his enemies in his turn.3

“So, as that physician did his king a good turn by his wisdom, let us also do our king a good turn, let us gain for him the empire of the earth. And in this undertaking our only adversary is Pradyota, the king of Magadha; for he is a foe in the rear that is always attacking us behind. So we must ask for our sovereign that pearl of princesses, his daughter, named Padmávatí. And by our cleverness we will conceal Vásavadattá somewhere, and setting fire to her house, we will give out everywhere that the queen is burnt. For in no other case will the king of Magadha give his daughter to our sovereign, for when I requested him to do so on a former occasion, he answered—‘I will not give my daughter, whom I love more than myself, to the king of Vatsa, for he is passionately attached to his wife Vásavadattá.’ Moreover, as long as the queen is alive, the king of Vatsa will not marry any one else; but if a report is once spread that the queen is burnt, all will succeed. And when Padmávatí is secured, the king of Magadha will be our marriage connection, and will not attack us in the rear, but will become our ally. Then we will march to conquer the eastern quarter, and the others in due succession, so we shall obtain for the king of Vatsa all this earth. And if we only exert ourselves, this king will obtain the dominion of the earth, for long ago a divine voice predicted this.” When Rumaṇvat heard this speech from the great minister Yaugandharáyaṇa, he feared that the plan would cover them with ridicule, and so he said to him—“Deception practised for the sake of Padmávatí might some day be to the ruin of us both;” in proof of this, listen to the following tale:

On the bank of the Ganges there is a city named Mákandiká; in that city long ago there was a certain ascetic who observed a vow of silence, and he lived on alms, and surrounded by numerous other holy beggars, dwelt in a monastery within the precincts of a god’s temple where he had [103]taken up his abode. Once, when he entered a certain merchant’s house to beg, he saw a beautiful maiden coming out with alms in her hand, and the rascal seeing that she was wonderfully beautiful was smitten with love and exclaimed “Ah! Ah! Alas!” And that merchant overheard him. Then taking the alms he had received, he departed to his own house; and then the merchant went there and said to him in his astonishment,—“Why did you to-day suddenly break your vow of silence and say what you did?” When he heard that, the ascetic said to the merchant—“This daughter of yours has inauspicious marks; when she marries, you will undoubtedly perish, wife, sons, and all. So, when I saw her, I was afflicted, for you are my devoted adherent; and thus it was on your account that I broke silence and said what I did. So place this daughter of yours by night in a basket, on the top of which there must be a light, and set her adrift on the Ganges.” The merchant said, “So I will,” and went away, and at night he did all he had been directed to do out of pure fear. The timid are ever unreflecting. The hermit for his part said at that time to his own pupils, “Go to the Ganges, and when you see a basket floating along with a light on the top of it, bring it here secretly, but you must not open it, even if you hear a noise inside.” They said, “We will do so,” and off they went; but before they reached the Ganges, strange to say, a certain prince went into the river to bathe. He seeing that basket, which the merchant had thrown in, by the help of the light on it, got his servants to fetch it for him, and immediately opened it out of curiosity. And in it he saw that heart-enchanting girl, and he married her on the spot by the Gándharva ceremony of marriage. And he set the basket adrift on the Ganges, exactly as it was before, putting a lamp on the top of it, and placing a fierce monkey inside it. The prince having departed with that pearl of maidens, the pupils of the hermit came there in the course of their search, and saw that basket, and took it up and carried it to the hermit. Then he being delighted, said to them, “I will take this upstairs and perform incantations with it alone, but you must lie in silence this night.” When he had said this, the ascetic took the basket to the top of the monastery, and opened it, eager to behold the merchant’s daughter. And then a monkey of terrible appearance sprang out of it,4 and rushed upon the ascetic, like his own immoral conduct incarnate in bodily form. The monkey in its fury immediately tore off with its teeth the nose of the wicked ascetic, and his ears with its claws, as if it had been a skilful executioner; and in that state the ascetic ran downstairs, and when his pupils beheld him, they could with difficulty suppress their laughter. And early next morning everybody heard the story, and laughed heartily, but the merchant was delighted, and his daughter also, as she had [104]obtained a good husband. And even as the ascetic made himself ridiculous, so too may we possibly become a laughing-stock, if we employ deceit, and fail after all. For the separation of the king from Vásavadattá involves many disadvantages. When Rumaṇvat had said this to Yaugandharáyaṇa, the latter answered; “In no other way can we conduct our enterprise successfully, and if we do not undertake the enterprise, it is certain that with this self-indulgent king we shall lose even what territory we have got; and the reputation which we have acquired for statesmanship will be tarnished, and we shall cease to be spoken of as men who shew loyalty to their sovereign. For when a king is one who depends on himself for success, his ministers are considered merely the instruments of his wisdom; and in the case of such monarchs you would not have much to do with their success or failures. But when a king depends on his ministers for success, it is their wisdom that achieves his ends, and if they are wanting in enterprise, he must bid a long farewell to all hope of greatness.5 But if you fear the queen’s father Chaṇḍamahásena, I must tell you that he and his son and the queen also will do whatever I bid them.” When Yaugandharáyaṇa, most resolute among the resolute, had said this, Rumaṇvat, whose heart dreaded some fatal blunder, again said to him; “Even a discerning prince is afflicted by the pain of being separated from a beloved woman, much more will this king of Vatsa be. In proof of what I say, listen to the following tale:”

Once on a time there was a king named Devasena, best of wise men, and the city of Śrávastí was his capital. And in that city there was a wealthy merchant, and to him there was born a daughter of unparalleled beauty. And that daughter became known by the name of Unmádiní, because every one, who beheld her beauty, became mad. Her father the merchant thought, “I must not give this daughter of mine to any one without telling the king, or he may be angry.” So he went and said to the king Devasena, “King, I have a daughter who is a very pearl, take her if she finds favour in your eyes.” When he heard that, the king sent some Bráhmans, his confidential ministers, saying to them, “Go and see if that maiden possesses the auspicious marks or not.” The ministers said, “We will do so,” and went. But when they beheld that merchant’s daughter, Unmádiní, love was suddenly produced in their souls, and they became utterly bewildered. When they recovered their senses, the Bráhmans said to one another: “If the king marries this maiden, he will think only of her, and will neglect the affairs of the State, and everything will go to rack and [105]ruin; so what is the good of her?” Accordingly they went and told the king, what was not true, that the maiden had inauspicious marks. Then the merchant gave that Unmádiní, whom the king had refused, and who in her heart felt a proud resentment at it, to the king’s commander-in-chief. When she was in the house of her husband, she ascended one day to the roof, and exhibited herself to the king, who she knew would pass that way. And the moment the king beheld her, resembling a world-bewildering drug employed by the god of love, distraction seemed to be produced within him. When he returned to his palace, and discovered that it was the same lady he had previously rejected, he was full of regret, and fell violently ill with fever; the commander-in-chief, the husband of the lady, came to him and earnestly entreated him to take her, saying, “She is a slave, she is not the lawful wife of another, or if it seem fit, I will repudiate her in the temple, then my lord can take her for his own.” But the king said to him, “I will not take unto myself another man’s wife, and if you repudiate her, your righteousness will be at end, and you will deserve punishment at my hands.” When they heard that, the other ministers remained silent, and the king was gradually consumed by love’s burning fever, and so died. So that king perished, though of firm soul, being deprived of Unmádiní; but what will become of the lord of Vatsa without Vásavadattá? When Yaugandharáyaṇa heard this from Rumaṇvat, he answered; “Affliction is bravely endured by kings who have their eyes firmly fixed on their duty. Did not Ráma when commissioned by the gods, who were obliged to resort to that contrivance, to kill Rávaṇa, endure the pain of separation from queen Sítá? When he heard this, Rumaṇvat said in answer—“Such as Ráma are gods, their souls can endure all things. But the thing is intolerable to men; in proof whereof listen to the following tale.

There is on this earth a great city rich in jewels, named Mathurá. In it there lived a certain young merchant, called Illaka. And he had a dear wife whose mind was devoted to him alone. Once on a time, while he was dwelling with her, the young merchant determined to go to another country on account of the exigencies of his affairs. And that wife of his wished to go with him. For when women are passionately attached to any one, they cannot endure to be separated from him. And then that young merchant set out, having offered the usual preliminary prayer for success in his undertaking, and did not take with him that wife of his, though she had dressed herself for the journey. She looking after him, when he had started, with tears in her eyes, stood supporting herself against the panel of the door of the courtyard. Then, he being out of sight, she was no longer able to endure her grief; but she was too timid to follow him. So her breath left her body. [106]And as soon as the young merchant came to know of that, he returned and to his horror found that dear wife of his a corpse, with pale though lovely complexion, set off by her waving locks, like the spirit of beauty that tenants the moon fallen down to the earth in the day during her sleep.7 So he took her in his arms and wept over her, and immediately the vital spirits left his body, which was on fire with the flame of grief, as if they were afraid to remain. So that married couple perished by mutual separation, and therefore we must take care that the king is not separated from the queen.” When he had said this, Rumaṇvat ceased, with his mind full of apprehension, but the wise Yaugandharáyaṇa, that ocean of calm resolution answered him; “I have arranged the whole plan, and the affairs of kings often require such steps to be taken, in proof of it, hear the following tale:”

There lived long ago in Ujjayiní a king named Puṇyasena, and once on a time a powerful sovereign came and attacked him. Then his resolute ministers, seeing that that king was hard to conquer, spread everywhere a false report that their own sovereign Puṇyasena was dead; and they placed him in concealment, and burnt some other man’s corpse with all the ceremonies appropriate to a king, and they proposed to the hostile king through an ambassador that, as they had now no king, he should come and be their king. The hostile monarch was pleased and consented, and then the ministers assembled accompanied by soldiers, and proceeded to storm his camp. And the enemy’s army being destroyed, Puṇyasena’s ministers brought him out of concealment, and having recovered their power put that hostile king to death.

“Such necessities will arise in monarch’s affairs, therefore let us resolutely accomplish this business of the king’s by spreading a report of the queen’s having been burnt.” When he heard this from Yaugandharáyaṇa, who had made up his mind, Rumaṇvat said; “If this is resolved upon, let us send for Gopálaka the queen’s respected brother, and let us take all our measures duly, after consultation with him.” Then Yaugandharáyaṇa said, “So be it,” and Rumaṇvat allowed himself to be guided, in determining what was to be done, by the confidence which he placed in his colleague. The next day, these dexterous ministers sent off a messenger of their own to bring Gopálaka, on the pretext that his relations longed to see him. And as he had only departed before on account of urgent business, Gopálaka came at the request of the messenger, seeming like an incarnate festival. And the very day he came, Yaugandharáyaṇa took him by night to his own house together with Rumaṇvat, and there he told him of that daring scheme which he wished to undertake, all of which he had before deliberated about together with that Rumaṇvat; and Gopálaka desiring the good [107]of the king of Vatsa consented to the scheme though he knew it would bring sorrow to his sister, for the mind of good men is ever fixed upon duty. Then Rumaṇvat again said,—“All this is well planned, but when the king of Vatsa hears that his wife is burnt, he will be inclined to yield up his breath, and how is he to be prevented from doing so? This is a matter which ought to be considered. For though all the usual politic expedients may advantageously be employed, the principal element of sound state-craft is the averting of misfortune.” Then Yaugandharáyaṇa who had reflected on everything that was to be done, said, “There need be no anxiety about this, for the queen is a princess, the younger sister of Gopálaka, and dearer to him than his life, and when the king of Vatsa sees how little afflicted Gopálaka is, he will think to himself, ‘Perhaps the queen may be alive after all,’ and so will be able to control his feelings. Moreover he is of heroic disposition, and the marriage of Padmávatí will be quickly got through, and then we can soon bring the queen out of concealment.” Then Yaugandharáyaṇa, and Gopálaka, and Rumaṇvat having made up their minds to this, deliberated as follows: “Let us adopt the artifice of going to Lávánaka with the king and queen, for that district is a border-district near the kingdom of Magadha. And because it contains admirable hunting-grounds, it will tempt the king to absent himself from the palace, so we can set the women’s apartments there on fire and carry out the plan8 on which we have determined. And by an artifice we will take the queen and leave her in the palace of Padmávatí, in order that Padmávatí herself may be a witness to the queen’s virtuous behaviour in a state of concealment.” Having thus deliberated together during the night, they all, with Yaugandharáyaṇa at their head, entered the king’s palace on the next day. Then Rumaṇvat made the following representation to the king, “O king, it is a long time since we have gone to Lávánaka, and it is a very delightful place, moreover you will find capital hunting-grounds there, and grass for the horses can easily be obtained. And the king of Magadha, being so near, afflicts all that district. So let us go there for the sake of defending it, as well as for our own enjoyment.” And the king, when he heard this, having his mind always set on enjoyment, determined to go to Lávánaka together with Vásavadattá. The next day, the journey having been decided on, and the auspicious hour having been fixed by the astrologers, suddenly the hermit Nárada came to visit the monarch.

He illuminated the region with his splendour, as he descended from the midst of heaven, and gave a feast to the eyes of all spectators, seeming as if he were the moon come down out of affection towards his own descendants.9 After accepting the usual hospitable attentions, the hermit graciously gave [108]to the king, who bowed humbly before him, a garland from the Párijáta10 tree. And he congratulated the queen, by whom he was politely received, promising her that she should have a son, who should be a portion of Cupid11 and king of all the Vidyádharas. And then he said to the king of Vatsa, while Yaugandharáyaṇa was standing by, “O king, the sight of your wife Vásavadattá has strangely brought something to my recollection. In old time you had for ancestors Yudhishṭhira and his brothers. And those five had one wife between them, Draupadí by name. And she, like Vásavadattá, was matchless in beauty. Then, fearing that her beauty would do mischief, I said to them, you must avoid jealousy, for that is the seed of calamities; in proof of it, listen to the following tale, which I will relate to you.12

There were two brothers, Asuras by race, Sunda and Upasunda, hard to overcome, inasmuch as they surpassed the three worlds in valour. And Brahmá, wishing to destroy them, gave an order to Viśvakarman,13 and had constructed a heavenly woman named Tilottamá, in order to behold whose beauty even Śiva truly became four-faced, so as to look four ways at once, while she was devoutly circumambulating him. She, by the order of Brahmá, went to Sunda and Upasunda, while they were in the garden of Kailása, in order to seduce them. And both those two Asuras distracted with love, seized the fair one at the same time by both her arms, the moment they saw her near them. And as they were dragging her off in mutual opposition, they soon came to blows, and both of them were destroyed. To whom is not the attractive object called woman the cause of misfortune? And you, though many, have one love, Draupadí, therefore you must without fail avoid quarrelling about her. And by my advice always observe this rule with respect to her. When she is with the eldest, she must be considered a mother by the younger, and when she is with the youngest, she must be considered a daughter-in-law by the eldest. Your ancestors, O king, accepted that speech of mine with unanimous consent, having their minds fixed on salutary counsels. And they were my friends, and it is through love for them that I have come to visit you here, king of Vatsa, therefore I give you this advice. Do you follow the counsel of your ministers, as they followed mine, and in a short time you will gain great success. For some time you will suffer grief, but you must not be too much distressed about it, for it will end in happiness.” After the hermit Nárada, so clever in indirectly intimating future prosperity, had said this duly to the king of Vatsa, he immediately disappeared. And then Yaugandharáyaṇa and all [109]the other ministers, auguring from the speech of that great hermit that the scheme they had in view was about to succeed, became exceedingly zealous about carrying it into effect.

There was once a king named Kuntibhoja; and a hermit of the name of Durvásas, who was exceedingly fond of deluding people, came and stayed in his palace. He commissioned his own daughter Kuntí to attend [111]upon the hermit, and she diligently waited upon him. And one day he, wishing to prove her, said to her, “Cook boiled rice with milk and sugar quickly, while I bathe, and then I will come and eat it.” The sage said this, and bathed quickly, and then he came to eat it, and Kuntí brought him the vessel full of that food; and then the hermit, knowing that it was almost red-hot with the heated rice, and seeing that she could not hold it in her hands,2 cast a look at the back of Kuntí and she perceiving what was passing in the hermit’s mind, placed the vessel on her back; then he ate to his heart’s content while Kuntí’s back was being burnt, and because, though she was terribly burnt, she stood without being at all discomposed, the hermit was much pleased with her conduct, and after he had eaten granted her a boon.

“So the hermit remained there, and in the same way this Ávantiká, who is now staying in your palace, is some distinguished person, therefore endeavour to conciliate her.” When she heard this from the mouth of her mother, Padmávatí showed the utmost consideration for Vásavadattá, who was living disguised in her palace. And Vásavadattá for her part, being separated from her lord, remained there pale with bereavement, like a lotus in the night.3 But the various boyish grimaces, which Vasantaka exhibited,4 again and again called a smile into her face.

In the meanwhile the king of Vatsa, who had wandered away into very distant hunting-grounds, returned late in the evening to Lávánaka. And there he saw the women’s apartments reduced to ashes by fire, and heard from his ministers that the queen was burnt with Vasantaka. And when he heard it, he fell on the ground, and he was robbed of his senses by unconsciousness, that seemed to desire to remove the painful sense of grief. But in a moment he came to himself and was burnt with sorrow in his heart, as if penetrated with the fire that strove to consume5 the image of the queen imprinted there. Then overpowered with sorrow he lamented, and thought of nothing but suicide; but a moment after he began to reflect, calling to mind the following prediction—“From this queen shall be born a son who shall reign over all the Vidyádharas. This is what the hermit Nárada told me, and it cannot be false. Moreover that same hermit warned me that I should have sorrow for some time. And the affliction of Gopálaka seems to be but slight. Besides I cannot detect any excessive grief in Yaugandharáyaṇa and the other ministers, therefore I suspect the queen may possibly be alive. But the ministers may in this matter have [112]employed a certain amount of politic artifice, therefore I may some day be re-united with the queen. So I see an end to this affliction.” Thus reflecting and being exhorted by his ministers, the king established in his heart self-control. And Gopálaka sent off a private messenger immediately, without any one’s knowing of it, to his sister, to comfort her, with an exact report of the state of affairs. Such being the situation in Lávánaka, the spies of the king of Magadha who were there, went off to him and told him all. The king who was ever ready to seize the opportune moment, when he heard this, was once more anxious to give to the king of Vatsa his daughter Padmávatí, who had before been asked in marriage by his ministers. Then he communicated his wishes with respect to this matter to the king of Vatsa, and also to Yaugandharáyaṇa. And by the advice of Yaugandharáyaṇa, the king of Vatsa accepted that proposal, thinking to himself that perhaps this was the very reason why the queen had been concealed. Then Yaugandharáyaṇa quickly ascertained an auspicious moment, and sent to the sovereign of Magadha an ambassador with an answer to his proposal which ran as follows: “Thy desire is approved by us, so on the seventh day from this, the king of Vatsa will arrive at thy court to marry Padmávatí, in order that he may quickly forget Vásavadattá.” This was the message which the great minister sent to that king. And that ambassador conveyed it to the king of Magadha, who received him joyfully. Then the lord of Magadha made such preparations for the joyful occasion of the marriage, as were in accordance with his love for his daughter, his own desire, and his wealth; and Padmávatí was delighted at hearing that she had obtained the bridegroom she desired, but, when Vásavadattá heard that news, she was depressed in spirit. That intelligence, when it reached her ear, changed the colour of her face, and assisted the transformation effected by her disguise. But Vasantaka said, “In this way an enemy will be turned into a friend, and your husband will not be alienated from you.” This speech of Vasantaka consoled her like a confidante, and enabled her to bear up. Then the discreet lady again prepared for Padmávatí unfading garlands and forehead-streaks, both of heavenly beauty, as her marriage was now nigh at hand; and when the seventh day from that arrived, the monarch of Vatsa actually came there with his troops, accompanied by his ministers, to marry her. How could he in his state of bereavement have ever thought of undertaking such a thing, if he had not hoped in that way to recover the queen? And the king of Magadha immediately came with great delight to meet him, (who was a feast to the eyes of the king’s subjects,) as the sea advances to meet the rising moon. Then the monarch of Vatsa entered the city of the king of Magadha, and at the same time great joy entered the minds of the citizens on every side. There the women beheld him fascinating6 the mind, though his frame was attenuated from bereavement, [113]looking like the god of love, deprived of his wife Rati. Then the king of Vatsa entered the palace of the lord of Magadha, and proceeded to the chamber prepared for the marriage ceremony, which was full of women whose husbands were still alive. In that chamber he beheld Padmávatí adorned for the wedding, surpassing with the full moon of her face the circle of the full moon. And seeing that she had garlands and forehead-streaks such as he himself only could make, the king could not help wondering where she got them. Then he ascended the raised platform of the altar, and his taking her hand there was a commencement of his taking the tribute7 of the whole earth. The smoke of the altar dimmed his eyes with tears, as supposing that he could not bear to witness the ceremony, since he loved Vásavadattá so much. Then the face of Padmávatí, reddened with circumambulating the fire, appeared as if full of anger on account of her perceiving what was passing in her husband’s mind. When the ceremony of marriage was completed, the king of Vatsa let the hand of Padmávatí quit his, but he never even for a moment allowed the image of Vásavadattá to be absent from his heart. Then the king of Magadha gave him jewels in such abundance, that the earth seemed to be deprived of her gems, they all having been extracted. And Yaugandharáyaṇa, calling the fire to witness on that occasion, made the king of Magadha undertake never to injure his master. So that festive scene proceeded, with the distribution of garments and ornaments, with the songs of excellent minstrels, and the dancing of dancing-girls. In the meanwhile Vásavadattá remained unobserved, hoping for the glory of her husband, appearing8 to be asleep, like the beauty of the moon in the day. Then the king of Vatsa went to the women’s apartments, and the skilful Yaugandharáyaṇa, being afraid that he would see the queen, and that so the whole secret would be divulged, said to the sovereign of Magadha, “Prince, this very day the king of Vatsa will set forth from thy house.” The king of Magadha consented to it, and then the minister made the very same announcement to the king of Vatsa, and he also approved of it.

Then the king of Vatsa set out from that place, after his attendants had eaten and drunk, together with his ministers, escorting his bride Padmávatí. And Vásavadattá, ascending a comfortable carriage sent by Padmávatí, with its great horses also put at her disposal by her, went secretly in the rear of the army, making the transformed Vasantaka precede her. At last the king of Vatsa reached Lávánaka, and entered his own house, together with his bride, but thought all the time only of the queen Vásavadattá. The queen also arrived and entered the house of Gopálaka at night, [114]making the chamberlains wait round it. There she saw her brother Gopálaka who shewed her great attention, and she embraced his neck weeping, while his eyes filled with tears; and at that moment arrived Yaugandharáyaṇa, true to his previous agreement, together with Rumaṇvat, and the queen shewed him all due courtesy. And while he was engaged in dispelling the queen’s grief caused by the great effort she had made, and her separation from her husband, those chamberlains repaired to Padmávatí, and said, “Queen, Ávantiká has arrived, but she has in a strange way dismissed us, and gone to the house of prince Gopálaka.” When Padmávatí heard that representation from her chamberlains, she was alarmed and in the presence of the king of Vatsa answered them, “Go and say to Ávantiká, ‘The queen says—You are a deposit in my hands, so what business have you where you are? Come where I am.’” When they heard that, they departed and the king asked Padmávatí in private who made for her the unfading garlands and forehead-streaks. Then she said, “It is all the product of the great artistic skill of the lady named Ávantiká who was deposited in my house by a certain Bráhman.” No sooner did the king hear that, then he went off to the house of Gopálaka, thinking that surely Vásavadattá would be there. And he entered the house, at the door of which eunuchs were standing,9 and within which were the queen, Gopálaka, the two ministers, and Vasantaka. There he saw Vásavadattá returned from banishment, like the orb of the moon freed from its eclipse. Then he fell on the earth delirious with the poison of grief, and trembling was produced in the heart of Vásavadattá. Then she too fell on the earth with limbs pale from separation, and lamented aloud, blaming her own conduct. And that couple, afflicted with grief, lamented so that even the face of Yaugandharáyaṇa was washed with tears. And then Padmávatí too heard that wailing, which seemed so little suited to the occasion, and came in a state of bewilderment to the place whence it proceeded. And gradually finding out the truth with respect to the king and Vásavadattá, she was reduced to the same state, for good women are affectionate and tender-hearted. And Vásavadattá frequently exclaimed with tears, “What profit is there in my life that causes only sorrow to my husband?” Then the calm Yaugandharáyaṇa said to the king of Vatsa: “King, I have done all this in order to make you universal emperor, by marrying you to the daughter of the sovereign of Magadha, and the queen is not in the slightest degree to blame; moreover this, her rival wife, is witness to her good behaviour during her absence from you.” Thereupon Padmávatí, whose mind was free from jealousy, said, “I am ready to enter the fire on the spot to prove her innocence.” And the king said, “I am in fault, as it was for my sake that the queen endured this great affliction.” And Vásavadattá having firmly resolved, [115]said, “I must enter the fire to clear from suspicion the mind of the king.” Then the wise Yaugandharáyaṇa, best of right-acting men, rinsed his mouth, with his face towards the east, and spoke a blameless speech; “If I have been a benefactor to this king, and if the queen is free from stain, speak, ye guardians of the world; if it is not so, I will part from my body.” Thus he spoke and ceased, and this heavenly utterance was heard: “Happy art thou, O king, that hast for minister Yaugandharáyaṇa, and for wife Vásavadattá, who in a former birth was a goddess; not the slightest blame attaches to her.” Having uttered this, the Voice ceased. All who were present, when they heard that sound, which resounded though all the regions, delightful as the deep thunder-roar at the first coming of the rain-clouds, having endured affliction for a long time, lifted up their hands and plainly imitated peafowl in their joy. Moreover the king of Vatsa and Gopálaka praised that proceeding of Yaugandharáyaṇa’s, and the former already considered that the whole earth was subject to him. Then that king possessing those two wives, whose affection was every day increased by living with him, like joy and tranquillity come to visit him in bodily form, was in a state of supreme felicity.

Once on a time there was a king of the name of Purúravas, who was a devoted worshipper of Vishṇu; he traversed heaven as well as earth without opposition, and one day, as he was sauntering in Nandana, the garden of the gods, a certain Apsaras of the name of Urvaśí, who was a second stupefying weapon2 in the hands of Love, cast an eye upon him. The moment she beheld him, the sight so completely robbed her of her senses, that she alarmed the timid minds of Rambhá and her other friends. The king too, when he saw that torrent of the nectar of beauty, was quite faint with thirst, because he could not obtain possession of her. Then [116]Vishṇu, who knoweth all, dwelling in the sea of milk, gave the following command to Nárada, an excellent hermit, who came to visit him—“O Divine sage,3 the king Purúravas, at present abiding in the garden of Nandana, having had his mind captivated by Urvaśí, remains incapable of bearing the pain of separation from his love. Therefore go, O hermit, and informing Indra as from me, cause that Urvaśí to be quickly given to the king.” Having received this order from Vishṇu, Nárada undertook to execute it, and going to Purúravas who was in the state described, roused him from his lethargy and said to him;—“Rise up, O king, for thy sake I am sent here by Vishṇu, for that god does not neglect the sufferings of those who are unfeignedly devoted to him.” With these words, the hermit Nárada cheered up Purúravas, and then went with him into the presence of the king of the gods.

Then he communicated the order of Vishṇu to Indra, who received it with reverent mind, and so the hermit caused Urvaśí to be given to Purúravas. That gift of Urvaśí deprived the inhabitants of heaven of life, but it was to Urvaśí herself an elixir to restore her to life. Then Purúravas returned with her to the earth, exhibiting to the eyes of mortals the wonderful spectacle of a heavenly bride. Thenceforth those two, Urvaśí and that king, remained, so to speak, fastened together by the leash of gazing on one another, so that they were unable to separate. One day Purúravas went to heaven, invited by Indra to assist him, as a war had arisen between him and the Dánavas. In that war the king of the Asuras, named Máyádhara, was slain, and accordingly Indra held a great feast, at which all the nymphs of heaven displayed their skill. And on that occasion Purúravas, when he saw the nymph Rambhá performing a dramatic dance called chalita,4 with the teacher Tumburu standing by her, laughed. Then Rambhá said to him sarcastically—“I suppose, mortal, you know this heavenly dance, do you not?” Purúravas answered, “From associating with Urvaśí, I knew dances which even your teacher Tumburu does not know.” When Tumburu heard that, he laid this curse on him in his wrath, “Mayest thou be separated from Urvaśí until thou propitiate Kṛishṇa.” When he heard that curse, Purúravas went and told Urvaśí what had happened to him, which was terrible as “a thunderbolt from the blue.” Immediately some Gandharvas swooped down, without the king’s seeing them, and carried off Urvaśí, whither he knew not. Then Purúravas, knowing that the calamity was due to that curse, went and performed penance to appease Vishṇu in the hermitage of Badariká.

But Urvaśí, remaining in the country of the Gandharvas, afflicted at her separation, was as void of sense as if she had been dead, asleep, or a [117]mere picture. She kept herself alive with hoping for the end of the curse, but it is wonderful that she did not lose her hold on life, while she remained like the female chakraváka during the night, the appointed time of her separation from the male bird. And Purúravas propitiated Vishṇu by that penance, and, owing to Vishṇu’s having been gratified, the Gandharvas surrendered Urvaśí to him. So that king, re-united to the nymph whom he had recovered at the termination of the curse, enjoyed heavenly pleasures, though living upon earth.

The king stopped speaking, and Vásavadattá felt an emotion of shame at having endured separation, when she heard of the attachment of Urvaśí to her husband.

Then Yaugandharáyaṇa, seeing that the queen was abashed at having been indirectly reproved by her husband, said, in order to make him feel in his turn,—“King, listen to this tale, if you have not already heard it.

There is on this earth a city of the name of Timirá, the dwelling of the goddess of Prosperity; in it there was a famous king named Vihitasena; he had a wife named Tejovatí, a very goddess upon earth. That king was ever hanging on her neck, devoted to her embraces, and could not even bear that his body should be for a short time scratched with the coat of mail. And once there came upon the king a lingering fever with diminishing intensity; and the physicians forbade him to continue in the queen’s society. But when he was excluded from the society of the queen, there was engendered in his heart a disease not to be reached by medicine or treatment. The physicians told the ministers in private that the disease might relieve itself by fear or the stroke of some affliction. The ministers reflected—“How can we produce fear in that brave king, who did not tremble when an enormous snake once fell on his back, who was not confused when a hostile army penetrated into his harem? It is useless thinking of devices to produce fear; what are we ministers, to do with the king?” Thus the ministers reflected, and after deliberating with the queen, concealed her, and said to the king, “The queen is dead.” While the king was tortured with that exceeding grief, in his agitation that disease in his heart relieved itself.5 When the king had got over the pain of the illness, the ministers restored to him that great queen, who seemed like a second gift of ease, and the king valued her highly as the saviour of his life, and was too wise to bear anger against her afterwards for concealing herself.

For it is care for a husband’s interests that entitles a king’s wife to the name of queen; by mere compliance with a husband’s whims the name [118]of queen is not obtained. And discharging the duty of minister means undivided attention to the burden of the king’s affairs, but the compliance with a king’s passing fancies is the characteristic of a mere courtier. Accordingly we made this effort in order to come to terms with your enemy, the king of Magadha, and with a view to your conquering the whole earth. So it is not the case that the queen, who, through love for you, endured intolerable separation, has done you a wrong; on the contrary she has conferred on you a great benefit.” When the king of Vatsa heard this true speech of his prime-minister’s, he thought that he himself was in the wrong, and was quite satisfied.

And he said; “I know this well enough, that the queen, like Policy incarnate in bodily form, acting under your inspiration, has bestowed upon me the dominion of the earth. But that unbecoming speech, which I uttered, was due to excessive affection; how can people whose minds are blinded with love bring themselves to deliberate calmly?6” With such conversation that king of Vatsa brought the day and the queen’s eclipse of shame to an end. On the next day a messenger sent by the king of Magadha, who had discovered the real state of the case, came to the sovereign of Vatsa, and said to him as from his master; “We have been deceived by thy ministers, therefore take such steps as that the world may not henceforth be to us a place of misery.” When he heard that, the king shewed all honour to the messenger, and sent him to Padmávatí to take his answer from her. She, for her part, being altogether devoted to Vásavadattá, had an interview with the ambassador in her presence. For humility is an unfailing characteristic of good women. The ambassador delivered her father’s message—“My daughter, you have been married by an artifice, and your husband is attached to another, thus it has come to pass that I reap in misery the fruit of being the father of a daughter.” But Padmávatí thus answered him, Say to my father from me here—“What need of grief? For my husband is very indulgent to me, and the queen Vásavadattá is my affectionate sister, so my father must not be angry with my husband, unless he wishes to break his own plighted faith and my heart at the same time.” When this becoming answer had been given by Padmávatí, the queen Vásavadattá hospitably entertained the ambassador and then sent him away. When the ambassador had departed, Padmávatí remained somewhat depressed with regret, calling to mind her father’s house. Then Vásavadattá ordered Vasantaka to amuse her, and he came near, and with that object proceeded to tell the following tale:

There is a city, the ornament of the earth, called Páṭaliputra, and in it there was a great merchant named Dharmagupta. He had a wife named [119]Chandraprabhá, and she once on a time became pregnant, and brought forth a daughter beautiful in all her limbs. That girl, the moment she was born, illuminated the chamber with her beauty, spoke distinctly,7 and got up and sat down. Then Dharmagupta, seeing that the women in the lying-in-chamber were astonished and terrified, went there himself in a state of alarm. And immediately he asked that girl in secret, bowing before her humbly,—“Adorable one, who art thou, that art thus become incarnate in my family?” She answered him, “Thou must not give me in marriage to any one; as long as I remain in thy house, father, I am a blessing to thee; what profit is there in enquiring further?” When she said this to him, Dharmagupta was frightened, and he concealed her in his house giving out abroad that she was dead. Then that girl, whose name was Somaprabhá gradually grew up with human body, but celestial splendour of beauty. And one day a young merchant, of the name of Guhachandra, beheld her, as she was standing upon the top of her palace, looking on with delight at the celebration of the spring-festival; she clung like a creeper of love round his heart, so that he was, as it were, faint, and with difficulty got home to his house. There he was tortured with the pain of love, and when his parents persistently importuned him to tell them the cause of his distress, he informed them by the mouth of a friend. Then his father, whose name was Guhasena, out of love for his son, went to the house of Dharmagupta, to ask him to give his daughter in marriage to Guhachandra. Then Dharmagupta put off Guhasena when he made the request, desiring to obtain a daughter-in-law, and said to him, “The fact is, my daughter is out of her mind.” Considering that he meant by that to refuse to give his daughter, Guhasena returned home, and there he beheld his son prostrated by the fever of love, and thus reflected, “I will persuade the king to move in this matter, for I have before this conferred an obligation on him, and he will cause that maiden to be given to my son, who is at the point of death.” Having thus determined, the merchant went and presented to the king a splendid jewel, and made known to him his desire. The king, for his part, being well-disposed towards him, commissioned the head of the police to assist him, with whom he went to the house of Dharmagupta; and surrounded it on all sides with policemen,8 so that Dharmagupta’s throat was choked with tears, as he expected utter ruin. Then Somaprabhá said to Dharmagupta—“Give me in marriage, my father, let not calamity befall you on my account, but I must never be treated as a wife by my husband, [120]and this agreement you must make in express terms with my future father-in-law.” When his daughter had said this to him. Dharmagupta agreed to give her in marriage, after stipulating that she should not be treated as a wife; and Guhasena with inward laughter agreed to the condition, thinking to himself, “Only let my son be once married.” Then Guhachandra, the son of Guhasena, went to his own house, taking with him his bride Somaprabhá. And in the evening his father said to him, “My son, treat her as a wife, for who abstains from the society of his own wife?” When she heard that, the bride Somaprabhá looked angrily at her father-in-law, and whirled round her threatening fore-finger, as it were the decree of death. When he saw that finger of his daughter-in-law, the breath of that merchant immediately left him, and fear came upon all besides. But Guhachandra, when his father was dead, thought to himself, “The goddess of death has entered into my house as a wife.” And thenceforth he avoided the society of that wife, though she remained in his house, and so observed a vow difficult as that of standing on the edge of a sword. And being inly consumed by that grief, losing his taste for all enjoyment, he made a vow and feasted Bráhmans every day. And that wife of his, of heavenly beauty, observing strict silence, used always to give a fee to those Bráhmans after they had eaten. One day an aged Bráhman, who had come to be fed, beheld her exciting the wonder of the world by her dower of beauty; then the Bráhman full of curiosity secretly asked Guhachandra; “Tell me who this young wife of yours is.” Then Guhachandra, being importuned by that Bráhman, told him with afflicted mind her whole story. When he heard it, the excellent Bráhman, full of compassion, gave him a charm for appeasing the fire, in order that he might obtain his desire. Accordingly, while Guhachandra was in secret muttering that charm, there appeared to him a Bráhman from the midst of the fire. And that god of fire in the shape of a Bráhman, said to him, as he lay prostrate at his feet, “To-day I will eat in thy house, and I will remain there during the night. And after I have shewn thee the truth with respect to thy wife, I will accomplish thy desire.” When he had said this to Guhachandra, the Bráhman entered his house. There he ate like the other Bráhmans, and lay down at night near Guhachandra for one watch of the night only, such was his unwearying zeal. And at this period of the night, Somaprabhá, the wife of Guhachandra, went out from the house of her husband, all the inmates of which were asleep. At that moment that Bráhman woke up Guhachandra, and said to him, “Come, see what thy wife is doing.”

And by magic power he gave Guhachandra and himself the shape of bees,9 and going out he shewed him that wife of his, who had issued from [121]the house. And that fair one went a long distance outside the city, and the Bráhman with Guhachandra followed her. Thereupon Guhachandra saw before him a Nyagrodha10 tree of wide extent, beautiful with its shady stem, and under it he heard a heavenly sound of singing, sweet with strains floating on the air, accompanied with the music of the lyre and the flute. And on the trunk of the tree he saw a heavenly maiden11, like his wife in appearance, seated on a splendid throne, eclipsing by her beauty the moon-beam, fanned with white chowries, like the goddess presiding over the treasure of all the moon’s beauty. And then Guhachandra saw his wife ascend that very tree and sit down beside that lady, occupying half of her throne. While he was contemplating those two heavenly maidens of equal beauty sitting together, it seemed to him as if that night were lighted by three moons.12

Then he, full of curiosity, thought for a moment, “Can this be sleep or delusion? But away with both these suppositions! This is the expanding of the blossom from the bud of association with the wise, which springs on the tree of right conduct, and this blossom gives promise of the appropriate fruit.” While he was thus reflecting at his leisure, those two celestial maidens, after eating food suited for such as they were, drank heavenly wine. Then the wife of Guhachandra said to the second heavenly maiden, “To-day some glorious Bráhman has arrived in our house, for which reason, my sister, my heart is alarmed and I must go.” In these words she took leave of that other heavenly maiden and descended from the tree. When Guhachandra and the Bráhman saw that, they returned in front of her, still preserving the form of bees, and arrived in the house by night before she did, and afterwards arrived that heavenly maiden, the wife of Guhachandra, and she entered the house without being observed. Then that Bráhman of his own accord said to Guhachandra; “You have had ocular proof that your wife is divine and not human, and you have to-day seen her sister who is also divine; and how do you suppose that a heavenly nymph can desire the society of a man? So I will give you a charm to be written up over her door, and I will also teach you an artifice to be employed outside the house, which must increase the force of the charm. A fire burns even without being fanned, but much more when a strong current of air is brought to bear on it; in the same way a charm will produce the desired effect unaided, but much more readily when assisted by an artifice.” When he had said this, [122]the excellent Bráhman gave a charm to Guhachandra, and instructed him in the artifice, and then vanished in the dawn. Guhachandra for his part wrote it up over the door of his wife’s apartment, and in the evening had recourse to the following stratagem calculated to excite her affection. He dressed himself splendidly and went and conversed with a certain hetæra before her eyes. When she saw this, the heavenly maiden being jealous, called to him with voice set free by the charm, and asked him who that woman was. He answered her falsely; “She is a hetæra who has taken a fancy to me, and I shall go and pay her a visit to-day.” Then she looked at him askance with wrinkled brows, and lifting up her veil with her left hand, said to him, “Ah! I see: this is why you are dressed so grandly, do not go to her, what have you to do with her? Visit me, for I am your wife.” When he had been thus implored by her, agitated with excitement, as if she were possessed, though that evil demon which held her had been expelled by the charm, he was in a state of ecstatic joy, and he immediately entered into her chamber with her, and enjoyed, though a mortal, celestial happiness not conceived of in imagination. Having thus obtained her as a loving wife, conciliated by the magic power of the charm, who abandoned for him her celestial rank, Guhachandra lived happily ever after.

“Thus heavenly nymphs, who have been cast down by some curse, live as wives in the houses of righteous men, as a reward for their good deeds, such as acts of devotion and charity. For the honouring of gods and Bráhmans is considered the wishing-cow13 of the good. For what is not obtained by that? All the other politic expedients, known as conciliation and so on, are mere adjuncts.14 But evil actions are the chief cause of even heavenly beings, born in a very lofty station, falling from their high estate; as a hurricane is the cause of the falling of blossoms.” When he had said this to the princess, Vasantaka continued; “Hear moreover what happened to Ahalyá.”

Once upon a time there was a great hermit named Gautama, who knew the past, the present, and the future. And he had a wife named Ahalyá, who in beauty surpassed the nymphs of heaven. One day Indra, in love with her beauty, tempted her in secret, for the mind of rulers, blinded with power, runs towards unlawful objects.

And she in her folly encouraged that husband of Śachí, being the slave of her passions; but the hermit Gautama found out the intrigue by his superhuman power, and arrived upon the scene. And Indra immediately [123]assumed, out of fear, the form of a cat. Then Gautama said to Ahalyá; “Who is here?” She answered her husband ambiguously in the Prákrit dialect,—“Here forsooth is a cat,” so managing to preserve verbal truth.15 Then Gautama said, laughing, “It is quite true that your lover is here,—and he inflicted on her a curse, but ordained that it should terminate because she had shewed some regard for truth.” The curse ran as follows; “Woman of bad character, take for a long time the nature of a stone, until thou behold Ráma wandering in the forest.” And Gautama at the same time inflicted on the god Indra the following curse; “A thousand pictures of that which thou hast desired shall be upon thy body, but when thou shalt behold Tilottamá, a heavenly nymph, whom Viśvakarman shall make, they shall turn into a thousand eyes.” When he had pronounced this curse, the hermit returned to his austerities according to his desire, but Ahalyá for her part assumed the awful condition of a stone. And Indra immediately had his body covered with repulsive marks; for to whom is not immorality a cause of humiliation?

“So true is it that every man’s evil actions always bear fruit in himself, for whatever seed a man sows, of that he reaps the fruit. Therefore persons of noble character never desire that, which is disagreeable to their neighbours, for this is the invariable observance of the good, prescribed by divine law. And you two were sister goddesses in a former birth, but you have been degraded in consequence of a curse, and accordingly your hearts are free from strife and bent on doing one another good turns.” When they heard this from Vasantaka, Vásavadattá and Padmávatí dismissed from their hearts even the smallest remnants of mutual jealousy. But the queen Vásavadattá made her husband equally the property of both, and acted as kindly to Padmávatí as if she were herself, desiring her welfare.

When the king of Magadha heard of that so great generosity of hers from the messengers sent by Padmávatí, he was much pleased. So on the next day the minister Yaugandharáyaṇa came up to the king of Vatsa in the presence of the queen, the others also standing by, and said, “Why do we not go now to Kauśámbí, my prince, in order to begin our enterprise, for we know that there is nothing to be feared from the king of Magadha, even though he has been deceived? For he has been completely gained over by means of the negotiation termed ‘Giving of a daughter’: and how could he make war and so abandon his daughter whom he loves more than life? He must keep his word; moreover he has not been deceived by you; I did it all myself; and it does not displease him; indeed I have learned from my spies that he will not act in a hostile way, and it was for this very purpose that we remained here for these days.” While Yaugandharáyaṇa, who had accomplished the task he had in hand, was speaking [124]thus, a messenger belonging to the king of Magadha arrived there, and entered into the palace immediately, being announced by the warder, and after he had done obeisance, he sat down and said to the king of Vatsa; “The king of Magadha is delighted with the intelligence sent by the queen Padmávatí, and he now sends this message to your Highness—‘What need is there of many words? I have heard all, and I am pleased with thee. Therefore do the thing for the sake of which this beginning has been made; we submit ourselves.’” The king of Vatsa joyfully received this clear speech of the messenger’s, resembling the blossom of the tree of policy planted by Yaugandharáyaṇa. Then he brought Padmávatí with the queen, and, after he had bestowed a present upon the messenger, he dismissed him with honour. Then a messenger from Chaṇḍamahásena also arrived, and, after entering, he bowed before the king, according to custom, and said to him, “O king, his majesty Chaṇḍamahásena, who understands the secrets of policy, has learnt the state of thy affairs and delighted sends this message—‘Your majesty’s excellence is plainly declared by this one fact, that you have Yaugandharáyaṇa for your minister, what need of further speeches? Blessed too is Vásavadattá, who, through devotion to you, has done a deed which makes us exalt our head for ever among the good, moreover Padmávatí is not separated from Vásavadattá in my regard, for they two have one heart; therefore quickly exert yourself.’”

When the king of Vatsa heard this speech of his father-in-law’s messenger, joy suddenly arose in his heart, and his exceeding warmth of affection for the queen was increased, and also the great respect which he felt for his excellent minister. Then the king, together with the queens, entertained the messenger according to the laws of due hospitality, in joyful excitement of mind, and sent him away pleased; and as he was bent on commencing his enterprise, he determined, after deliberating with his ministers, on returning to Kauśámbí.

In the city of Ujjayiní, which is celebrated throughout the earth, there was in former days a king named Ádityasena. He was a treasure-house of valour, and on account of his sole supremacy, his war chariot, like that of the sun,13 was not impeded anywhere. When his lofty umbrella, gleaming white like snow, illuminated the firmament, other kings free from heat depressed theirs. He was the receptacle of the jewels produced over the surface of the whole earth, as the sea is the receptacle of waters. Once on a time, he was encamped with his army on the banks of the Ganges, where he had come for some reason or other. There a certain rich merchant of the country, named Gunavartman, came to the king bringing a gem of maidens as a present, and sent this message by the mouth of the warder. This maiden, though the gem of the three worlds, has been born in my house, and I cannot give her to any one else, only your Highness is fit to be the husband of such a girl. Then Gunavartman [129]entered and shewed his daughter to the king. The king, when he beheld that maiden, Tejasvatí by name, illuminating with her brightness the quarters of the heavens, like the flame of the rays from the jewels in the temple of the god of Love, was all enveloped with the radiance of her beauty and fell in love with her, and, as if heated with the fire of passion, began to dissolve in drops of sweat. So he at once accepted her, who was fit for the rank of head queen, and being highly delighted made Gunavartman equal to himself in honour. Then, having married his dear Tejasvatí, the king thought all his objects in life accomplished, and went with her to Ujjayiní. There the king fixed his gaze so exclusively on her face, that he could not see the affairs of his kingdom, though they were of great importance. And his ear being, so to speak, riveted on her musical discourse could not be attracted by the cries of his distressed subjects. The king entered into his harem for a long time and never left it, but the fever of fear left the hearts of his enemies. And after some time there was born to the king, by the queen Tejasvatí, a girl welcomed by all, and there arose in his heart the desire of conquest, which was equally welcome to his subjects. That girl of exceeding beauty, who made the three worlds seem worthless as stubble, excited in him joy, and desire of conquest excited his valour. Then that king Ádityasena set out one day from Ujjayiní to attack a certain contumacious chieftain; and he made that queen Tejasvatí go with him mounted on an elephant, as if she were the protecting goddess of the host. And he mounted an admirable horse, that in spirit and fury resembled a torrent,14 tall like a moving mountain, with a curl on its breast, and a girth. It seemed to imitate with its feet raised as high as its mouth, the going of Garuḍa which it had seen in the heaven, rivalling its own swiftness, and it lifted up its head and seemed with fearless eye to measure the earth, as if thinking, “what shall be the limit of my speed?” And after the king had gone a little way, he came to a level piece of ground, and put his horse to its utmost speed to shew it off to Tejasvatí. That horse, on being struck with his heel, went off rapidly, like an arrow impelled from a catapult, in some unknown direction, so that it became invisible to the eyes of men. The soldiers, when they saw that take place, were bewildered, and horsemen galloped in a thousand directions after the king, who was run away with by his horse, but could not overtake him. Thereupon the ministers with the soldiers, fearing some calamity, in their anxiety took with them the weeping queen and returned to Ujjayiní; there they remained with gates closed and ramparts guarded, seeking for news of the king, having cheered up the citizens.

In the meanwhile the king was carried by the horse in an instant to the impassable forest of the Vindhya hills, haunted by terrible lions. Then [130]the horse happened to stand still, and the king was immediately distracted with bewilderment, as the great forest made it impossible for him to know whereabouts he was. Seeing no other way out of his difficulties, the king, who knew what the horse had been in a former birth, got down from his saddle, and prostrating himself before the excellent horse, said to him15: “Thou art a god; a creature like thee should not commit treason against his lord; so I look upon thee as my protector, take me by a pleasant path.” When the horse heard that, he was full of regret, remembering his former birth; and mentally acceded to the king’s request, for excellent horses are divine beings. Then the king mounted again, and the horse set out by a road bordered with clear cool lakes, that took away the fatigue of the journey; and by evening the splendid horse had taken the king another hundred yojanas and brought him near Ujjayiní. As the sun beholding his horses, though seven in number, excelled by this courser’s speed, had sunk, as it were through shame, into the ravines of the western mountain, and as the darkness was diffused abroad, the wise horse seeing that the gates of Ujjayiní were closed, and that the burning-place outside the gates was terrible at that time, carried the king for shelter to a concealed monastery of Bráhmans, that was situated in a lonely place outside the walls. And the king Ádityasena seeing that that monastery was a fit place to spend the night in, as his horse was tired, attempted to enter it. But the Bráhmans, who dwelt there, opposed his entrance, saying that he must be some keeper of a cemetery16 or some thief. And out they poured in quarrelsome mood, with savage gestures, for Bráhmans who live by chanting the Sáma Veda, are the home of timidity, boorishness, and ill-temper. While they were clamouring, a virtuous Bráhman named Vidúshaka, the bravest of the brave, came out from that monastery. He was a young man distinguished for strength of arm, who had propitiated the fire by his austerities, and obtained a splendid sword from that divinity, which he had only to think of, and it came to him. That resolute youth Vidúshaka seeing that king of distinguished bearing, who had arrived by night, thought to himself that he was some god in disguise. And the well-disposed youth pushed away all those other Bráhmans, and bowing humbly before the king, caused him to enter the monastery. And when he had rested, and had the dust of the journey washed off by female slaves, Vidúshaka prepared for him suitable food. And he took the saddle off that excellent horse of his, and relieved its fatigue by giving it grass and other fodder. And after he had made a bed for the wearied king, he said to him,—“My lord, I will guard your person, so sleep in peace”—and while the king slept, that Bráhman kept watch the whole night at the door with the sword of the Fire-god in his hand, that came to him on his thinking of it. [131]

And on the morrow early, Vidúshaka, without receiving any orders, of his own accord saddled the horse for the king, as soon as he awoke. The king for his part took leave of him, and mounting his horse entered the city of Ujjayiní, beheld afar off by the people bewildered with joy. And the moment he entered, his subjects approached him with a confused hum of delight at his return. The king accompanied by his ministers entered the palace, and great anxiety left the breast of the queen Tejasvatí. Immediately grief seemed to be swept away from the city by the rows of silken flags displayed out of joy, which waved in the wind; and the queen made high festival until the end of the day, until such time as the people of the city and the sun were red as vermilion.17 And the next day the king Ádityasena had Vidúshaka summoned from the monastery with all the other Bráhmans. And as soon as he had made known what took place in the night, he gave his benefactor Vidúshaka a thousand villages. And the grateful king also gave that Bráhman an umbrella and an elephant and appointed him his domestic chaplain, so that he was beheld with great interest by the people. So Vidúshaka then became equal to a chieftain, for how can a benefit conferred on great persons fail of bearing fruit? And the noble-minded Vidúshaka shared all those villages, which he had received from the king, with the Bráhmans who lived in the monastery. And he remained in the court of the king in attendance upon him, enjoying together with the other Bráhmans the income of those villages. But as time went on, those other Bráhmans began striving each of them to be chief, and made no account of Vidúshaka, being intoxicated with the pride of wealth. Dwelling in separate parties, seven in one place, with their mutual rivalries they oppressed the villages like malignant planets. Vidúshaka regarded their excesses with scornful indifference, for men of firm mind rightly treat with contempt men of little soul. Once upon a time a Bráhman of the name of Chakradhara, who was naturally stern, seeing them engaged in wrangling, came up to them. Chakradhara, though he was one-eyed, was keen-sighted enough in deciding what was right in other men’s affairs, and though a hunchback, was straightforward enough in speech. He said to them—“While you were living by begging, you obtained this windfall, you rascals, then why do you ruin the villages with your mutual intolerance? It is all the fault of Vidúshaka who has permitted you to act thus; so you may be certain that in a short time you will again have to roam about begging. For a situation, in which there is no head, and every one has to shift for himself by his own wits as chance directs, is better than one of disunion under many heads, in which all affairs go to rack and ruin. So take my advice and appoint one firm man as your head, if you desire unshaken [132]prosperity, which can only be ensured by a capable governor.” On hearing that, every one of them desired the headship for himself; thereupon Chakradhara after reflection again said to those fools; “As you are so addicted to mutual rivalry I propose to you a basis of agreement. In the neighbouring cemetery three robbers have been executed by impalement; whoever is daring enough to cut off the noses of those three by night and to bring them here, he shall be your head, for courage merits command.18” When Chakradhara made this proposal to the Bráhmans, Vidúshaka, who was standing near, said to them; “Do this, what is there to be afraid of?” Then the Bráhmans said to him; “We are not bold enough to do it, let whoever is able, do it, and we will abide by the agreement.” Then Vidúshaka said, “Well, I will do it, I will cut off the noses of those robbers by night and bring them from the cemetery.” Then those fools, thinking the task a difficult one, said to him; “If you do this you shall be our lord, we make this agreement.” When they had pronounced this agreement, and night had set in, Vidúshaka took leave of those Bráhmans and went to the cemetery. So the hero entered the cemetery awful as his own undertaking, with the sword of the Fire-god, that came with a thought, as his only companion. And in the middle of that cemetery where the cries of vultures and jackals were swelled by the screams of witches, and the flames of the funeral pyres were reinforced by the fires in the mouths of the fire-breathing demons, he beheld those impaled men with their faces turned up, as if through fear of having their noses cut off. And when he approached them, those three being tenanted by demons struck him with their fists19; and he for his part slashed them in return with his sword, for fear has not learned to bestir herself in the breast of the resolute. Accordingly the corpses ceased to be convulsed with demons, and then the successful hero cut off their noses and brought them away, binding them up in his garment. And as he was returning, he beheld in that cemetery a religious mendicant sitting on a corpse muttering charms, and through curiosity to have the amusement of seeing what he was doing, he stood concealed behind that mendicant. In a moment the corpse under the mendicant gave forth a hissing sound, and flames issued from its mouth, and from its navel mustard-seeds. And then the mendicant took the mustard-seeds, and rising up struck the corpse with the flat of his hand, and the corpse, which was [133]tenanted by a mighty demon, stood up, and then that mendicant mounted on its shoulder, and began to depart at a rapid rate,20 and Vidúshaka silently followed him unobserved, and after he had gone a short distance Vidúshaka saw an empty temple with an image of Durgá in it. Then the mendicant got down from the shoulder of the demon, and entered the inner shrine of the temple, while the demon fell flat on the earth. But Vidúshaka was present also, contriving to watch the mendicant, unperceived by him. The mendicant worshipped the goddess there and offered the following prayer; “If thou art pleased with me, O goddess, grant me the desired boon. If not I will propitiate thee with the sacrifice of myself.” When the mendicant, intoxicated with the success of his powerful spells, said this, a voice coming from the inner shrine thus addressed the mendicant; “Bring here the maiden daughter of king Ádityasena, and offer her as a sacrifice, then thou shalt obtain thy desire.” When the mendicant heard this, he went out, and striking once more with his hand the demon,21 who hissed at the blow, made him stand upright. And mounting on the shoulder of the demon, from whose mouth issued flames of fire, he flew away through the air to bring the princess. Vidúshaka seeing all this from his place of concealment thought to himself; “What! shall he slay the king’s daughter while I am alive? I will remain here until the scoundrel returns.” Having formed this resolve, Vidúshaka remained there in concealment. But the mendicant entered the female apartments of the palace through the window, and found the king’s daughter asleep, as it was night. And he returned, all clothed in darkness, through the air, bringing with him the princess who illuminated with her beauty the region, as Ráhu carries off a digit of the moon. And bearing along with him that princess who exclaimed in her grief—“Alas! my father! Alas! my mother”—he descended from the sky in that very temple of the goddess. And then, dismissing the demon, he entered with that pearl of maidens into the inner shrine of the goddess, and while he was preparing to slay the princess there, Vidúshaka came in with his sword drawn. He said to the mendicant, “Villain! do you wish to smite a jasmine flower with a thunder-bolt, in that you desire to employ a weapon against this tender form?” And then he seized the trembling mendicant by the hair, and cut off his head. And he consoled the princess distracted with fear, who clung to him closely as she began to recognise him. And then the hero thought; “How can I manage during the night to convey this princess from this place to the harem?” Then a voice from the air addressed him; “Hear this O Vidúshaka! the mendicant, whom thou hast slain, had in his power a great demon and some grains of mustard-seed. Thence arose his desire to be ruler of the earth and marry the daughters of kings, and so the fool has this day been baffled. [134]Therefore thou hero, take those mustard-seeds, in order that for this night only thou mayest be enabled to travel through the air.” Thus the aërial voice addressed the delighted Vidúshaka; for even the gods often take such a hero under their protection. Then he took in his hand those grains of mustard-seed from the corner of the mendicant’s robe, and the princess in his arms. And while he was setting out from that temple of the goddess, another voice sounded in the air; “Thou must return to this very temple of the goddess at the end of a month, thou must not forget this, O hero!” When he heard this, Vidúshaka said “I will do so,”—and by the favour of the goddess he immediately flew up into the air bearing with him the princess. And flying through the air he quickly placed that princess in her private apartments, and said to her after she had recovered her spirits; “To-morrow morning I shall not be able to fly through the air, and so all men will see me going out, so I must depart now.” When he said this to her, the maiden being alarmed, answered him; “When you are gone, this breath of mine will leave my body overcome with fear. Therefore do not depart, great-souled hero; once more save my life, for the good make it their business from their birth to carry out every task they have undertaken.” When the brave Vidúshaka heard that, he reflected, “If I go, and leave this maiden, she may possibly die of fear; and then what kind of loyalty to my sovereign shall I have exhibited? Thinking thus he remained all night in those female apartments, and he gradually dropped off to sleep wearied with toil and watching. But the princess in her terror passed that night without sleeping: and even when the morning came she did not wake up the sleeping Vidúshaka, as her mind was made tender by love22, and she said to herself; “Let him rest a little longer.” Then the servants of the harem came in and saw him, and in a state of consternation they went and told the king. The king for his part sent the warder to discover the truth, and he entering beheld Vidúshaka there. And he heard the whole story from the mouth of the princess, and went and repeated it all to the king. And the king knowing the excellent character of Vidúshaka, was immediately bewildered, wondering what it could mean. And he had Vidúshaka brought from his daughter’s apartment, escorted all the way by her soul, which followed him out of affection. And when he arrived, the king asked him what had taken place, and Vidúshaka told him the whole story from the beginning, and shewed him the noses of the robbers fastened up in the end of his garment, and the mustard-seeds which had been in the possession of the mendicant, different from those found on earth. The high-minded monarch suspected that Vidúshaka’s story was true from these circumstances, so he had all the Bráhmans of the monastery brought before him, together with Chakradhara, and asked about the original cause of the whole matter. And he went in person to the cemetery and saw those men [135]with their noses cut off, and that base mendicant with his neck severed, and then he reposed complete confidence in, and was much pleased with, the skilful and successful Vidúshaka, who had saved his daughter’s life. And he gave him his own daughter on the spot; what do generous men withhold when pleased with their benefactors? Surely the goddess of Prosperity,23 out of love for the lotus, dwelt in the hand of the princess, since Vidúshaka obtained great good fortune after he had received it in the marriage ceremony. Then Vidúshaka enjoying a distinguished reputation, and engaged in attending upon the sovereign, lived with that beloved wife in the palace of king Ádityasena. Then as days went on, once upon a time the princess impelled by some supernatural power said at night to Vidúshaka; “My lord, you remember that when you were in the temple of the goddess a divine voice said to you, ‘Come here at the end of a month.’ To-day is the last day of the month, and you have forgotten it.” When his beloved said this to him, Vidúshaka was delighted, and recalled it to mind, and said to his wife—“Well remembered on thy part, fair one! But I had forgotten it.” And then he embraced her by way of reward. And then, while she was asleep, he left the women’s apartments by night, and in high spirits he went armed with his sword to the temple of the goddess; then he exclaimed outside, “I Vidúshaka am arrived:” and he heard this speech uttered by some one inside—“Come in, Vidúshaka.” Thereupon he entered and beheld a heavenly palace, and inside it a lady of heavenly beauty with a heavenly retinue, dispelling with her brightness the darkness, like a night set on fire, looking as if she were the medicine to restore to life the god of love consumed with the fire of the wrath of Śiva. He wondering what it could all mean, was joyfully received by her in person with a welcome full of affection and great respect. And when he had sat down and had gained confidence from seeing her affection, he became eager to understand the real nature of the adventure, and she said to him; “I am a maiden of the Vidyádhara race, of high descent, and my name is Bhadrá, and as I was roaming about at my will I saw you here on that occasion. And as my mind was attracted by your virtues, I uttered at that time that voice which seemed to come from some one invisible, in order that you might return. And to-day I bewildered the princess by employing my magic skill, so that under my impulse she revived your remembrance of this matter, and for your sake I am here, and so, handsome hero, I surrender myself to you; marry me.” The noble Vidúshaka, when the Vidyádharí Bhadrá addressed [136]him in this style, agreed that moment, and married her by the Gándharva ceremony. Then he remained in that very place, having obtained celestial joys, the fruits of his own valour, living with that beloved wife.

Meanwhile the princess woke up when the night came to an end, and not seeing her husband, was immediately plunged in despair. So she got up and went with tottering steps to her mother, all trembling, with her eyes flooded with gushing tears. And she told her mother that her husband had gone away somewhere in the night, and was full of self-reproach, fearing that she had been guilty of some fault. Then her mother was distracted owing to her love for her daughter, and so in course of time the king heard of it, and came there, and fell into a state of the utmost anxiety. When his daughter said to him—“I know my husband has gone to the temple of the goddess outside the cemetery”—the king went there in person. But he was not able to find Vidúshaka there in spite of all his searching, for he was concealed by virtue of the magic science of the Vidyádharí. Then the king returned, and his daughter in despair determined to leave the body, but while she was thus minded, some wise man came to her and said this to her; “Do not fear any misfortune, for that husband of thine is living in the enjoyment of heavenly felicity, and will return to thee shortly.” When she heard that, the princess retained her life, which was kept in her by the hope of her husband’s return, that had taken deep root in her heart.

Then, while Vidúshaka was living there, a certain friend of his beloved, named Yogeśvarí, came to Bhadrá, and said to her in secret—“My friend, the Vidyádharas are angry with you because you live with a man, and they seek to do you an injury, therefore leave this place. There is a city called Kárkoṭaka on the shore of the eastern sea, and beyond that there is a sanctifying stream named Śítodá, and after you cross that, there is a great mountain named Udaya,24 the land of the Siddhas,25 which the Vidyádharas may not invade; go there immediately, and do not be anxious about the beloved mortal whom you leave here, for before you start you can tell all this to him, so that he shall be able afterwards to journey there with speed.” When her friend said this to her, Bhadrá was overcome with fear, and though attached to Vidúshaka, she consented to do as her friend advised. So she told her scheme to Vidúshaka, and providently gave him her ring, and then disappeared at the close of the night. And Vidúshaka immediately found himself in the empty temple of the goddess, in which he had been before, and no Bhadrá and no palace. Remembering the delusion produced by Bhadrá’s magic skill, and beholding the ring, Vidúshaka was overpowered by a paroxysm of despair and wonder. And remembering [137]her speech as if it were a dream, he reflected,—“Before she left, she assigned as a place of meeting the mountain of the sun-rising; so I must quickly go there to find her: but if I am seen by the people in this state, the king will not let me go: so I will employ a stratagem in this matter, in order that I may accomplish my object.” So reflecting, the wise man assumed another appearance, and went out from that temple with tattered clothes, begrimed with dust, exclaiming, “Ah Bhadrá! Ah Bhadrá!” And immediately the people, who lived in that place, beholding him, raised a shout; “Here is Vidúshaka found!” And the king hearing of it came out from his palace in person, and seeing Vidúshaka in such a state, conducting himself like a madman, he laid hold on him and took him back to his palace. When he was there, whatever his servants and connexions, who were full of affection, said to him, he answered only by exclaiming, “Ah Bhadrá! Ah Bhadrá!” And when he was anointed with unguents prescribed by the physicians, he immediately defiled his body with much cinder-dust; and the food which the princess out of love offered to him with her own hands, he instantly threw down and trampled under foot. And in this condition Vidúshaka remained there some days, without taking interest in anything, tearing his own clothes, and playing the madman. And Ádityasena thought to himself; “His condition is past cure, so what is the use of torturing him? He may perhaps die, and then I should be guilty of the death of a Bráhman, whereas if he roams about at his will, he may possibly recover in course of time.” So he let him go. Then the hero Vidúshaka, being allowed to roam where he liked, set out the next day at his leisure to find Bhadrá, taking with him the ring. And as he journeyed on day by day towards the East, he at last reached a city named Pauṇḍravardhana26, which lay in his way as he travelled on; there he entered the house of a certain aged Bráhman woman, saying to her—“Mother, I wish to stop here one night.” And she gave him a lodging and entertained him, and shortly after, she approached him, full of inward sorrow, and said to him—“My son, I hereby give thee all this house, therefore receive it, since I cannot now live any longer.” He, astonished, said to her—“Why do you speak thus?” Then she said—“Listen, I will tell you the whole story,” and so continued as follows—“My son, in this city there is a king named Devasena, and to him there was born one daughter, the ornament of the earth. The affectionate king said—‘I have with difficulty obtained this one daughter’,—so he gave her the name of Duḥkalabdhiká.27

“In course of time when she had grown up, the king gave her in marriage to the king of Kachchhapa, whom he had brought to his own palace. The king of Kachchhapa entered at night the private apartments of his bride, and died the very first time he entered them. Then the king much distressed, again gave his daughter in marriage to another king; he also [138]perished in the same way28: and when through fear of the same fate other kings did not wish to marry her, the king gave this order to his general—‘You must bring a man in turn from every single house in this country, so that one shall be supplied every day, and he must be a Bráhman or a Kshatriya. And after you have brought the man, you must cause him to enter by night into the apartment of my daughter; let us see how many will perish in this way, and how long it will go on. Whoever escapes shall afterwards become her husband; for it is impossible to bar the course of fate, whose dispensations are mysterious.’ The general, having received this order from the king, brings a man every day turn about from every house in this city, and in this way hundreds of men have met their death in the apartment of the princess. Now I, whose merits in a former life must have been deficient, have one son here; his turn has to-day arrived to go to the palace to meet his death; and I being deprived of him must to-morrow enter the fire. Therefore, while I am still alive, I give to you, a worthy object, all my house with my own hand, in order that my lot may not again be unfortunate in my next birth.” When she had said this, the resolute Vidúshaka answered; “If this is the whole matter, do not be despondent, mother, I will go there to-day, let your only son live. And do not feel any commiseration with regard to me, so as to say to yourself—‘Why should I be the cause of this man’s death?’—for owing to the magical power which I possess I run no risk by going there.” When Vidúshaka had said this, that Bráhman woman said to him, “Then you must be some god come here as a reward for my virtue, so cause me, my son, to recover life, and yourself to gain felicity.” When she had expressed her approval of his project in these words, he went in the evening to the apartment of the princess, together with a servant appointed by the general to conduct him. There he beheld the princess flushed with the pride of youth, like a creeper weighed down with the burden of its abundant flowers that had not yet been gathered. Accordingly, when night came, the princess went to her bed, and Vidúshaka remained awake in her apartment, holding in his hand the sword of the Fire-god, which came to him with a thought, saying to himself, “I will find out who it is that slays men here.” And when people were all asleep, he saw a terrible Rákshasa coming from the side of the apartment where the entrance was, having first opened the door; and the Rákshasa standing at the entrance stretched forward into the room an arm, which had been the swift wand of Death to hundreds of men. But Vidúshaka in wrath springing forward, cut off suddenly the arm of the Rákshasa with one stroke of his sword.29 And the Rákshasa immediately fled away through [139]fear of his exceeding valour, with the loss of one arm, never again to return. When the princess awoke, she saw the severed arm lying there, and she was terrified, delighted and astonished at the same time. And in the morning the king Devasena saw the arm of the Rákshasa, which had fallen down after it was cut off, lying at the door of his daughter’s apartments; in this way Vidúshaka, as if to say “Henceforth no other men must enter here”—fastened the door as it were with a long bar.30 Accordingly the delighted king gave to Vidúshaka, who possessed this divine power, his daughter and much wealth; and Vidúshaka dwelt there some days with this fair one, as if with prosperity incarnate in bodily form. But one day he left the princess while asleep, and set out at night in haste to find his Bhadrá. And the princess in the morning was afflicted at not seeing him, but she was comforted by her father with the hope of his return. Vidúshaka journeying on day by day, at last reached the city of Támraliptá not far from the eastern sea. There he joined himself to a certain merchant, named Skandhadása who desired to cross the sea. In his company, embarking on a ship laden with much wealth belonging to the merchant, he set out on the ocean path. Then that ship was stopped suddenly when it had reached the middle of the ocean, as if it were held by something. And when it did not move, though the sea was propitiated with jewels, that merchant Skandhadása being grieved, said this: “Whosoever releases this ship of mine which is detained, to him I will give half of my own wealth and my daughter.” The resolute-souled Vidúshaka, when he heard that, said, “I will descend into the water of the sea and search it, and I will set free in a moment this ship of yours which is stopped: but you must support me by ropes fastened round my body. And the moment the ship is set free, you must draw me up out of the midst of the sea by the supporting ropes.” The merchant welcomed his speech with a promise to do what he asked, and the steersmen bound ropes under his armpits. Supported in that way Vidúshaka descended in the sea; a brave man never desponds when the moment for action has arrived. So taking in his hand the sword of the Fire-god, that came to him with a thought, the hero descended into the midst of the sea under the ship. And there he saw a giant asleep, and he saw that the ship was stopped by his leg. So he immediately cut off his leg with his sword, and at once the ship moved on freed from its impediment.31 When the wicked merchant saw that, he cut the ropes, by which Vidúshaka was supported, through desire to save the wealth he had promised him; and went swiftly to the other shore of the ocean vast as his own avarice, in the ship which had thus been set free. Vidúshaka for his part, being in the midst of the sea with the supporting ropes cut, rose to the [140]surface, and seeing how matters stood he calmly reflected for a moment; “Why did the merchant do this? Surely in this case the proverb is applicable; ‘Ungrateful men blinded by desire of gain cannot see a benefit.’ Well, it is now high time for me to display intrepidity, for if courage fails, even a small calamity cannot be overcome.” Thus he reflected on that occasion, and then he got astride on the leg which he had cut off from the giant sleeping in the water, and by its help he crossed the sea, as if with a boat, paddling with his hands, for even destiny takes the part of men of distinguished valour. Then a voice from heaven addressed that mighty hero, who had come across the ocean, as Hanumán did for the sake of Ráma32; “Bravo, Vidúshaka! Bravo! who except thee is a man of valour? I am pleased with this courage of thine: therefore hear this. Thou hast reached a desolate coast here, but from this thou shalt arrive in seven days at the city of Kárkoṭaka; then thou shalt pluck up fresh spirits, and journeying quickly from that place, thou shalt obtain thy desire. But I am the Fire, the consumer of the oblations to gods and the spirits of deceased ancestors, whom thou didst before propitiate: and owing to my favour thou shalt feel neither hunger nor thirst,—therefore go prosperously and confidently;” having thus spoken, the voice ceased. And Vidúshaka, when he heard that, bowed, adoring the Fire-god, and set forth in high spirits, and on the seventh day he reached the city of Kárkoṭaka. And there he entered a monastery, inhabited by many noble Bráhmans from various lands, who were noted for hospitality. It was a wealthy foundation of the king of that place Áryavarman, and had annexed to it beautiful temples all made of gold. There all of the Bráhmans welcomed him, and one Bráhman took the guest to his chamber, and provided him with a bath, with food and with clothing. And while he was living in the monastery, he heard this proclamation being made by beat of drum in the evening; “Whatever Bráhman or Kshatriya wishes to-morrow morning to marry the king’s daughter, let him spend a night in her chamber.” When he heard that, he suspected the real reason, and being always fond of daring adventures, he desired immediately to go to the apartment of the princess. Thereupon the Bráhmans of the monastery said to him,—“Bráhman, do not be guilty of rashness. The apartment of the princess is not rightly so called, rather is it the open mouth of death,33 for whoever enters it at night does not escape alive, and many daring men have thus met their death there.” In spite of what these Bráhmans told him, Vidúshaka would not take their advice,34 but went to the palace of the king with his servants. There the king Áryavarman, when he saw him, [141]welcomed him in person, and at night he entered the apartment of the king’s daughter, looking like the sun entering the fire. And he beheld that princess who seemed by her appearance to be attached to him, for she looked at him with tearful eye, and a sad look expressive of the grief produced by utter despair. And he remained awake there all night gazing intently, holding in his hand the sword of the Fire-god that came to him with a thought. And suddenly he beheld at the entrance a very terrible Rákshasa, extending his left hand because his right had been cut off. And when he saw him, he said to himself; “Here is that very Rákshasa, whose arm I cut off in the city of Pauṇḍravardhana. So I will not strike at his arm again, lest he should escape me and depart as before, and for this reason it is better for me to kill him.” Thus reflecting, Vidúshaka ran forward and seized his hair, and was preparing to cut off his head, when suddenly the Rákshasa in extreme terror said to him; “Do not slay me, you are brave, therefore shew mercy.” Vidúshaka let him go and said, “Who are you, and what are you about here?” Then the Rákshasa, being thus questioned by the hero, continued—“My name is Yamadanshṭra, and I had two daughters, this is one, and she who lives in Pauṇḍravardhana is another. And Śiva favoured me by laying on me this command; ‘Thou must save the two princesses from marrying any one who is not a hero.’ While thus engaged I first had an arm cut off at Pauṇḍravardhana, and now I have been conquered by you here, so this duty of mine is accomplished.” When Vidúshaka heard this, he laughed, and said to him in reply; “It was I that cut off your arm there in Pauṇḍravardhana.” The Rákshasa answered “Then you must be a portion of some divinity, not a mere man, I think it was for your sake that Śiva did me the honour of laying that command upon me. So henceforth I consider you my friend, and when you call me to mind I will appear to you to ensure your success even in difficulties.” In these words the Rákshasa Yamadanshṭra out of friendship chose him as a sworn brother, and when Vidúshaka accepted his proposal, disappeared. Vidúshaka, for his part, was commended for his valour by the princess, and spent the night there in high spirits; and in the morning the king hearing of the incident and highly pleased, gave him his daughter as the conspicuous banner of his valour together with much wealth. Vidúshaka lived there some nights with her, as if with the goddess of prosperity, bound so firmly by his virtue35 that she could not move a step. But one night he went off of his own accord from that place, longing for his beloved Bhadrá, for who that has tasted heavenly joys, can take pleasure in any other? And after he had left the town, he called to mind that Rákshasa, and said to him, who appeared the moment he called him to mind, and made him a bow,—“My friend, I must go to the land of the Siddhas on the Eastern mountain [142]for the sake of the Vidyádharí named Bhadrá, so do you take me there.” The Rákshasa said—“Very good”—so he ascended his shoulder, and travelled in that night over sixty yojanas of difficult country; and in the morning he crossed the Śítodá, a river that cannot be crossed by mortals, and without effort reached the border of the land of the Siddhas.36 The Rákshasa said to him; “Here is the blessed mountain, called the mountain of the rising sun, in front of you, but I cannot set foot upon it as it is the home of the Siddhas.” Then the Rákshasa being dismissed by him departed, and there Vidúshaka beheld a delightful lake, and he sat down on the bank of that lake beautiful with the faces of full-blown lotuses, which, as it were, uttered a welcome to him with the hum of roaming bees. And there he saw unmistakeable footsteps as of women, seeming to say to him, this is the path to the house of your beloved. While he was thinking to himself—“Mortals cannot set foot on this mountain, therefore I had better stop here a moment, and see whose footsteps these are”—there came to the lake to draw water many beautiful women with golden pitchers in their hands. So he asked the women, after they had filled their pitchers with water, in a courteous manner; “For whom are you taking this water?” And those women said to him—“Excellent Sir, a Vidyádharí of the name of Bhadrá is dwelling on this mountain, this water is for her to bathe in.” Wonderful to say! Providence seeming to be pleased with resolute men, who attempt mighty enterprises, makes all things subserve their ends. For one of these women suddenly said to Vidúshaka; “Noble sir, please lift this pitcher on to my shoulder.” He consented and when he lifted the pitcher on to her shoulder, the discreet man put into it the jewelled ring he had before received from Bhadrá,37 and then he sat down again on the bank of that lake, while those women went with the water to the house of Bhadrá. And while they were pouring over Bhadrá the water of ablution, her ring fell into her lap. When Bhadrá saw it, she recognized it and asked those friends of hers whether they had seen any stranger about. And they gave her this answer; “We saw a young mortal on the banks of the lake, and he lifted this pitcher for us.” Then Bhadrá said “Go and make him bathe and adorn himself, and quickly bring him here, for he is my husband who has arrived in this country.” When Bhadrá had said this, her companions went and told Vidúshaka the state of the case, and after he had bathed brought him into her presence. And when he arrived, he saw after long separation Bhadrá who was eagerly expecting him, like the ripe blooming [143]fruit of the tree of his own valour in visible form: she for her part rose up when she saw him, and offering him the argha,38 so to speak, by sprinkling him with her tears of joy, she fastened her twining arms round his neck like a garland. When they embraced one another, the long accumulated affection39 seemed to ooze from their limbs in the form of sweat, owing to excessive pressure. Then they sat down, and never satisfied with gazing at one another, they both, as it were, endured the agony of longing multiplied a hundred-fold. Bhadrá then said to Vidúshaka; “How did you come to this land?” And he thereupon gave her this answer; “Supported by affection for thee, I came here enduring many risks to my life, what else can I say, fair one?” When she heard that, seeing that his love was excessive, as it caused him to disregard his own life, Bhadrá said to him who through affection had endured the utmost, “My husband, I care not for my friends, nor my magic powers; you are my life, and I am your slave, my lord, bought by you with your virtues.” Then Vidúshaka said, “Then come with me to live in Ujjayiní, my beloved, leaving all this heavenly joy.” Bhadrá immediately accepted his proposal, and gave up all her magic gifts, (which departed from her the moment she formed that resolution,) with no more regret than if they had been straw. Then Vidúshaka rested with her there during that night, being waited on by her friend Yogeśvarí, and in the morning the successful hero descended with her from the mountain of the sun-rise, and again called to mind the Rákshasa Yamadanshṭra; the Rákshasa came the moment he was thought of, and Vidúshaka told him the direction of the journey he had to take, and then ascended his shoulder, having previously placed Bhadrá there. She too endured patiently to be placed on the shoulder of a very loathsome Rákshasa; what will not women do when mastered by affection? So Vidúshaka, mounted on the Rákshasa, set out with his beloved, and again reached the city of Kárkoṭaka; and there men beheld him with fear inspired by the sight of the Rákshasa; and when he saw king Áryavarman, he demanded from him his daughter; and after receiving that princess surrendered by her father, whom he had won with his arm, he set forth from that city in the same style, mounted on the Rákshasa. And after he had gone some distance, he found that wicked merchant on the shore of the sea, who long ago cut the ropes when he had been thrown into the sea. And he took, together with his wealth, his daughter, whom he had before won as a reward for setting free the ship in the sea. And he considered the depriving that villain of his wealth as equivalent to putting him to death, for grovelling souls often value their hoards more than their life. Then mounted on the [144]Rákshasa as on a chariot, taking with him that daughter of the merchant, he flew up into the heaven with the princess and Bhadrá, and journeying through the air, he crossed the ocean, which like his valour was full of boisterous impetuosity, exhibiting it to his fair ones.40 And he again reached the city of Pauṇḍravardhana, beheld with astonishment by all as he rode on a Rákshasa. There he greeted his wife, the daughter of Devasena, who had long desired his arrival, whom he had won by the defeat of the Rákshasa; and though her father tried to detain him, yet longing for his native land, he took her also with him, and set out for Ujjayiní. And owing to the speed of the Rákshasa, he soon reached that city, which appeared like his satisfaction at beholding his home, exhibited in visible form. There Vidúshaka was seen by the people, perched on the top of that huge Rákshasa, whose vast frame was illuminated by the beauty of his wives seated on his shoulder, as the moon41 rising over the eastern mountain with gleaming herbs on its summit. The people being astonished and terrified, his father-in-law the king Ádityasena came to hear of it, and went out from the city. But Vidúshaka, when he saw him, quickly descended from the Rákshasa, and after prostrating himself approached the king; the king too welcomed him. Then Vidúshaka caused all his wives to come down from the shoulder of the Rákshasa, and released him to wander where he would. And after that Rákshasa had departed, Vidúshaka accompanied by his wives entered the king’s palace together with the king his father-in-law. There he delighted by his arrival that first wife of his, the daughter of that king, who suffered a long regret for his absence. And when the king said to him; “How did you obtain these wives, and who is that Rákshasa?” he told him the whole story. Then that king pleased with his son-in-law’s valour, and knowing what it was expedient to do, gave him half his kingdom; and immediately Vidúshaka, though a Bráhman, became a monarch, with a lofty white umbrella and chowries waving on both sides of him. And then the city of Ujjayiní was joyful, full of the sound of festive drums and music, uttering shouts of delight. Thus he obtained the mighty rank of a king, and gradually conquered the whole earth, so that his foot was worshipped by all kings, and with Bhadrá for his consort he long lived in happiness with those wives of his, who were content, having abandoned jealousy. Thus resolute men when fortune favours them, find their own valour a great and successful stupefying charm that forcibly draws towards them prosperity. [145]

When they heard from the mouth of the king of Vatsa this varied tale42 full of marvellous incident, all his ministers sitting by his side and his two wives experienced excessive delight.

Long ago there was in the city of Páṭaliputra a certain merchant’s son, sprung from a rich family, and his name was Devadása. And he married a wife from the city of Pauṇḍravardhana, the daughter of some rich merchant. When his father died, Devadása became in course of time addicted to vice, and lost all his wealth at play. And then his wife’s father came and took away to his own house in Pauṇḍravardhana his daughter, who was distressed by poverty and the other hardships of her lot. Gradually the husband began to be afflicted by his misfortunes, and wishing to be set up in his business, he came to Pauṇḍravardhana to ask his father-in-law to lend him the capital which he required. And having arrived in the evening at the city of Pauṇḍravardhana, seeing that he was begrimed with dust, and in tattered garments, he thought to himself, “How can I enter my father-in-law’s house in this state? In truth for a proud man death is preferable to exhibiting poverty before one’s relations.” Thus reflecting, he went into the market-place, and remained outside a certain shop during the night, crouching with contracted body, like the lotus which is folded at night. And immediately he saw a certain young merchant open the door of that shop and enter it. And a moment after he saw a woman come with noiseless step to that same place, and rapidly enter. And while he fixed his eyes on the interior of the shop in which a light was burning, he recognized in that woman his own wife. Then Devadása seeing that wife of his repairing to another man, and bolting the door, being smitten with the thunderbolt of grief, thought to himself; “A man deprived of wealth loses even his own body, how then can he hope to retain the affections of a woman? For women have fickleness implanted in their nature by an invariable law, like the flashes of lightning. So here I have an instance of the misfortunes which befall men who fall into the sea of vice, and of the behaviour of an independent woman who lives in her father’s house.” Thus he reflected as he stood outside, and he seemed to himself to hear his wife confidentially conversing with her lover. So he applied his ear to the door, and that wicked woman was at the moment saying in secret to the merchant, her paramour; “Listen; as I am so fond of you, I will to-day tell you a secret; my husband long ago had a great-grandfather named Víravarman; [147]in the courtyard of his house he secretly buried in the ground four jars of gold, one jar in each of the four corners. And he then informed one of his wives of that fact, and his wife at the time of her death told her daughter-in-law, she told it to her daughter-in-law who was my mother-in-law, and my mother-in-law told it to me. So this is an oral tradition in my husband’s family, descending through the mothers-in-law. But I did not tell it to my husband though he is poor, for he is odious to me as being addicted to gambling, but you are above all dear to me. So go to my husband’s town and buy the house from him with money, and after you have obtained that gold, come here and live happily with me.” When the merchant, her paramour, heard this from that treacherous woman, he was much pleased with her, thinking that he had obtained a treasure without any trouble. Devadása for his part, who was outside, bore henceforth the hope of wealth, so to speak, riveted in his heart with those piercing words of his wicked wife. So he went thence quickly to the city of Páṭaliputra, and after reaching his house, he took that treasure and appropriated it. Then that merchant, who was in secret the paramour of his wife, arrived in that country, on pretence of trading, but in reality eager to obtain the treasure. So he bought that house from Devadása, who made it over to him for a large sum of money. Then Devadása set up another home, and cunningly brought back that wife of his from the house of his father-in-law. When this had been done, that wicked merchant, who was the lover of his wife, not having obtained the treasure, came and said to him; “This house of yours is old, and I do not like it. So give me back my money, and take back your own house.” Thus he demanded, and Devadása refused, and being engaged in a violent altercation, they both went before the king. In his presence Devadása poured forth the whole story of his wife, painful to him as venom concealed in his breast. Then the king had his wife summoned, and after ascertaining the truth of the case, he punished that adulterous merchant with the loss of all his property; Devadása for his part cut off the nose of that wicked wife, and married another, and then lived happily in his native city on the treasure he had obtained.

“Thus treasure obtained by virtuous methods is continued to a man’s posterity, but treasure of another kind is as easily melted away as a flake of snow when the rain begins to fall. Therefore a man should endeavour to obtain wealth by lawful methods, but a king especially, since wealth is the root of the tree of empire. So honour all your ministers according to custom in order that you may obtain success, and then accomplish the conquest of the regions, so as to gain opulence in addition to virtue. For out of regard to the fact that you are allied by marriage with your two powerful fathers-in-law, few kings will oppose you, most will join you. However, this king of Benares named Brahmadatta is always your enemy, therefore [148]conquer him first; when he is conquered, conquer the eastern quarter, and gradually all the quarters, and exalt the glory of the race of Páṇḍu gleaming white like a lotus.” When his chief minister said this to him, the king of Vatsa consented, eager for conquest, and ordered his subjects to prepare for the expedition; and he gave the sovereignty of the country of Videha to his brother-in-law Gopálaka, by way of reward for his assistance, thereby shewing his knowledge of policy; and he gave to Sinhavarman the brother of Padmávatí, who came to his assistance with his forces, the land of Chedi, treating him with great respect; and the monarch summoned Pulindaka the friendly king of the Bhillas,2 who filled the quarters with his hordes, as the rainy season fills them with clouds; and while the preparation for the expedition was going on in the great king’s territories, a strange anxiety was produced in the heart of his enemies; but Yaugandharáyaṇa first sent spies to Benares to find out the proceedings of king Brahmadatta; then on an auspicious day, being cheered with omens portending victory, the king of Vatsa first marched against Brahmadatta in the Eastern quarter, having mounted3 a tall victorious elephant, with a lofty umbrella on its back, as a furious lion ascends a mountain with one tree in full bloom on it. And his expedition was facilitated4 by the autumn which arrived as a harbinger of good fortune, and shewed him an easy path, across rivers flowing with diminished volume, and he filled the face of the land with his shouting forces, so as to produce the appearance of a sudden rainy season without clouds; and then the cardinal points resounding with the echoes of the roaring of his host, seemed to be telling one another their fears of his coming, and his horses, collecting the brightness of the sun on their golden trappings, moved along followed, as it were, by the fire pleased with the purification of his army.5

And his elephants with their ears like white chowries, and with streams of ichor flowing from their temples reddened by being mixed with vermilion, appeared, as he marched along, like the sons of the mountains, streaked with white clouds of autumn, and pouring down streams of water coloured with red mineral, sent by the parent hills, in their fear, to join his expedition. And the dust from the earth concealed the brightness of the sun, as if thinking that the king could not endure the effulgent splendour of rivals. And the two queens followed the king step by step on the way, like the goddess of Fame, and the Fortune of Victory, attracted by his [149]politic virtues.6 The silk of his host’s banners, tossed to and fro in the wind, seemed to say to his enemies,—“Bend in submission, or flee.” Thus he marched, beholding the districts full of blown white lotuses, like the uplifted hoods of the serpent Śesha7 terrified with fear of the destruction of the world. In the meanwhile those spies, commissioned by Yaugandharáyaṇa, assuming the vows of scull-bearing worshippers of Śiva, reached the city of Benares. And one of them, who was acquainted with the art of juggling, exhibiting his skill, assumed the part of teacher, and the others passed themselves off as his pupils. And they celebrated that pretended teacher, who subsisted on alms, from place to place, saying, “This master of ours is acquainted with past, present, and future.” Whatever that sage predicted, in the way of fires and so on, to those who came to consult him about the future, his pupils took care to bring about secretly; so he became famous. He gained complete ascendancy over the mind of a certain Rájpút courtier there, a favourite of the king’s, who was won over by this mean skill of the teacher’s. And when the war with the king of Vatsa came on, the king Brahmadatta began to consult him by the agency of the Rájpút, so that he learnt the secrets of the government. Then the minister of Brahmadatta, Yogakaraṇḍaka, laid snares in the path of the king of Vatsa as he advanced. He tainted, by means of poison and other deleterious substances, the trees, flowering creepers, water and grass all along the line of march. And he sent poison-damsels8 as dancing girls among the enemy’s host, and he also despatched nocturnal assassins into their midst. But that spy, who had assumed the character of a prophet, found all this out, and then quickly informed Yaugandharáyaṇa of it by means of his companions. Yaugandharáyaṇa for his part, when he found it out, purified at every step along the line of march the poisoned grass, water, and so on, by means of corrective antidotes, and forbade in the camp the society of strange women, and with the help of Rumaṇvat he captured and put to death those assassins. When he heard of that, Brahmadatta having found all his stratagems fail, came to the conclusion that the king of Vatsa, who filled with his forces the whole country, was hard to overcome. After deliberating and sending an ambassador, he came in person to the king of Vatsa who was encamped near, placing his clasped hands upon his head in token of submission. [150]

The king of Vatsa for his part, when the king of Benares came to him, bringing a present, received him with respect and kindness, for heroes love submission. He being thus subdued, that mighty king went on pacifying the East, making the yielding bend, but extirpating the obstinate, as the wind treats the trees, until he reached the Eastern ocean, rolling with quivering waves, as it were, trembling with terror on account of the Ganges having been conquered. On its extreme shore he set up a pillar of victory,9 looking like the king of the serpents emerging from the world below to crave immunity for Pátála. Then the people of Kalinga10 submitted and paid tribute, and acted as the king’s guides, so that the renown of that renowned one ascended the mountain of Mahendra. Having conquered a forest of kings by means of his elephants, which seemed like the peaks of the Vindhya come to him terrified at the conquest of Mahendra, he went to the southern quarter. There he made his enemies cease their threatening murmurs and take to the mountains, strengthless11 and pale, treating them as the season of autumn treats the clouds. The Káverí being crossed by him in his victorious onset, and the glory of the king of the Chola12 race being surpassed, were befouled at the same time. He no longer allowed the Muralas13 to exalt their heads, for they were completely beaten down by tributes imposed on them. Though his elephants drank the waters of the Godávarí divided into seven streams, they seemed to discharge them again seven-fold in the form of ichor. Then the king crossed the Revá and reached Ujjayiní, and entered the city, being made by king Chaṇḍamahásena to precede him. And there he became the target of the amorous sidelong glances of the ladies of Málava, who shine with twofold beauty by loosening their braided hair and wearing garlands, and he remained there in great comfort, hospitably entertained by his father-in-law, so [151]that he even forgot the long-regretted enjoyments of his native land. And Vásavadattá was continually at her parents’ side, remembering her childhood, seeming despondent even in her happiness. The king Chaṇḍamahásena was as much delighted at meeting Padmávatí, as he was at meeting again his own daughter. But after he had rested some days, the delighted king of Vatsa, reinforced by the troops of his father-in-law, marched towards the western region; his curved sword14 was surely the smoke of the fire of his valour, since it dimmed with gushing tears the eyes of the women of Láṭa; the mountain of Mandara, when its woods were broken through by his elephants, seemed to tremble lest he should root it up to churn the sea.15 Surely he was a splendid luminary excelling the sun and other orbs, since in his victorious career he enjoyed a glorious rising even in the western quarter. Then he went to Alaká, distinguished by the presence of Kuvera, displaying its beauties before him, that is to say, to the quarter made lovely by the smile of Kailása, and having subdued the king of Sindh, at the head of his cavalry he destroyed the Mlechchhas as Ráma destroyed the Rákshasas at the head of the army of monkeys; the cavalry squadrons of the Turushkas16 were broken on the masses of his elephants, as the waves of the agitated sea on the woods that line the sea-shore. The august hero received the tribute of his foes, and cut off the head of the wicked king of the Párasíkas17 as Vishṇu did that of Ráhu.18 His glory, after he had inflicted a defeat on the Húṇas19, made the four quarters resound, and poured down the Himálaya like a second Ganges. When the hosts of the monarch, whose enemies were still from fear, were shouting, a hostile answer was heard only in the hollows of the rocks. It is not strange that then the king of Kámarúpa,20 bending before him with head deprived of the umbrella, was without shade and also without brightness. Then that sovereign returned, followed by elephants presented by the king of Kámarúpa, resembling moving rocks made over to him by the mountains by way of tribute. Having thus conquered the earth, the king of Vatsa with his attendants reached the city of the king of Magadha the father of Padmávatí. But the king of Magadha, when he arrived with the queens, was as joyous as the god of love when the moon illuminates the night. Vásavadattá, who had lived with him before without being recognised, [152]was now made known to him, and he considered her deserving of the highest regard.

Then that victorious king of Vatsa, having been honoured by the king of Magadha with his whole city, followed by the minds of all the people which pursued him out of affection, having swallowed the surface of the earth with his mighty army, returned to Lávánaka in his own dominions.

There was once on a time in the land of Padma an excellent Bráhman of high renown, named Agnidatta, who lived on a grant of land given by the king. He had born to him two sons, the elder named Somadatta, and the second Vaiśvánaradatta. The elder of them was of fine person, but ignorant, and ill-conducted, but the second was sagacious, well-conducted, and fond of study. And those two after they were married, and their father had died, divided that royal grant and the rest of his possessions between them, each taking half; and the younger of the two was honoured by the king, but the elder Somadatta, who was of unsteady character, remained a husbandman. One day a Bráhman, who had been a friend of his father’s, seeing him engaged in conversation with some Śúdras, thus addressed him, “Though you are the son of Agnidatta, you behave like a Śúdra, you blockhead, and you are not ashamed, though you see your own brother in favour with the king.” Somadatta, when he heard that, flew into a passion, and forgetting the respect due to the old man, ran upon him, and gave him a kick. Then the Bráhman, enraged on account of the kick, immediately called on some other Bráhmans [153]to bear witness to it, and went and complained to the king. The king sent out soldiers to take Somadatta prisoner, but they, when they went out, were slain by his friends, who had taken up arms. Then the king sent out a second force, and captured Somadatta, and blinded by wrath ordered him to be impaled. Then that Bráhman, as he was being lifted on to the stake, suddenly fell to the ground, as if he were flung down by somebody. And those executioners, when preparing to lift him on again, became blind, for the fates protect one who is destined to be prosperous. The king, as soon as he heard of the occurrence, was pleased, and being entreated by the younger brother, spared the life of Somadatta; then Somadatta, having escaped death, desired to go to another land with his wife on account of the insulting treatment of the king, and when his relations in a body disapproved of his departure, he determined to live without the half of the king’s grant, which he resigned; then, finding no other means of support, he desired to practise husbandry, and went to the forest on a lucky day to find a piece of ground suitable for it. There he found a promising piece of ground, from which it seemed likely that an abundant crop could be produced, and in the middle of it he saw an Aśvattha tree of great size. Desiring ground fit for cultivation, and seeing that tree to be cool like the rainy season, as it kept off the rays of the sun with its auspicious thick shade, he was much delighted. He said, “I am a faithful votary of that being, whoever he may be, that presides over this tree,” and walking round the tree so as to keep it on his right, he bowed before it.1 Then he yoked a pair of bullocks, and recited a prayer for success, and after making an oblation to that tree, he began to plough there. And he remained under that tree night and day, and his wife always brought him his meals there. And in course of time, when the corn was ripe that piece of ground was, as fate would have it, unexpectedly plundered by the troops of a hostile kingdom. Then the hostile force having departed, the courageous man, though his corn was destroyed, comforted his weeping wife, gave her the little that remained, and after making an offering as before, remained in the same place, under the same tree. For that is the character of resolute men, that their perseverance is increased by misfortune. Then one night, when he was sleepless from anxiety and alone, a voice came out from that Aśvattha tree, “O Somadatta, I am pleased with thee, therefore go to the kingdom of a king named Ádityaprabha in the land of Śríkaṇṭha; continually repeat at the door of that king, (after reciting the form of words used at the evening oblation to Agni,) the following sentence—‘I am Phalabhúti by name, a Bráhman, hear what I say: he who does good will obtain good, and he who does evil, will obtain evil;’—by repeating this there thou shalt attain great prosperity; and now learn from me the form of words [154]used at the evening oblation to Agni; I am a Yaksha.” Having said this, and having immediately taught him by his power the form of words used in the evening oblation, the voice in the tree ceased. And the next morning the wise Somadatta set out with his wife, having received the name of Phalabhúti by imposition of the Yaksha, and after crossing various forests uneven and labyrinthine as his own calamities,2 he reached the land of Śríkaṇṭha. There he recited at the king’s door the form of words used at the evening oblation, and then he announced, as he had been directed, his name as Phalabhúti, and uttered the following speech which excited the curiosity of the people, “The doer of good will obtain good, but the doer of evil, evil.” And after he had said this frequently, the king Ádityaprabha, being full of curiosity, caused Phalabhúti to be brought into the palace, and he entered, and over and over again repeated that same speech in the presence of the king. That made the king and all his courtiers laugh. And the king and his chiefs gave him garments and ornaments, and also villages, for the amusement of great men is not without fruit; and so Phalabhúti, having been originally poor, immediately obtained by the favour of the Guhyaka3 wealth bestowed by the king; and by continually reciting the words mentioned above, he became a special favourite of the monarch for the regal mind loves diversion. And gradually he attained to a position of love and respect in the palace, in the kingdom, and in the female apartments, as being beloved by the king. One day that king Ádityaprabha returned from hunting in the forest, and quickly entered his harem; his suspicions were aroused by the confusion of the warders, and when he entered, he saw the queen named Kuvalayávalí engaged in worshipping the gods, stark naked,4 with her hair standing on end, and her eyes half-closed, with a large patch of red lead upon her forehead, with her lips trembling in muttering charms, in the midst of a great circle5 strewed with various coloured powders, after offering a horrible oblation of blood, spirits, and human flesh. She for her part, when the king entered, in her confusion seized her garments, and when questioned by him immediately answered, after craving pardon for what she had done, “I have gone through this ceremony in order that you might obtain prosperity, and now, my lord, [155]listen to the way in which I learnt these rites, and the secret of my magic skill.”

Long ago, when I was living in my father’s house, I was thus addressed, while enjoying myself in the garden during the spring festival, by my friends who met me there; “There is in this pleasure-garden an image of Gaṇeśa, the god of gods, in the middle of an arbour made of trees, and that image grants boons, and its power has been tested. Approach with devout faith that granter of petitions, and worship him, in order that you may soon obtain without difficulty a suitable husband.” When I heard that, I asked my friends in my ignorance; “What! do maidens obtain husbands by worshipping Gaṇeśa?” Then they answered me; “Why do you ask such a question? Without worshipping him no one obtains any success in this world; and in proof of it we will give you an instance of his power, listen.” Saying this, my friends told me the following tale:

Long ago, when Indra oppressed by Táraka was desirous or obtaining a son from Śiva to act as general of the gods, and the god of love had been consumed,6 Gaurí by performing austerities sought and gained as a husband the three-eyed god, who was engaged in a very long and terrible course of mortification. Then she desired the obtaining of a son, and the return to life of the god of love, but she did not remember to worship Gaṇeśa in order to gain her end. So, when his beloved asked that her desire should be granted, Śiva said to her, “My dear goddess, the god of love was born long ago from the mind of Brahmá, and no sooner was he born than he said in his insolence, ‘Whom shall I make mad? (kan darpayámi).’ So Brahmá called him Kandarpa, and said to him, ‘Since thou art very confident, my son, avoid attacking Śiva only, lest thou receive death from him.’ Though the Creator gave him this warning, the ill-disposed god came to trouble my austerities, therefore he was burnt up by me, and he cannot be created again with his body.7 But I will create by my power a son from you, for I do not require the might of love in order to have offspring as mortals do.” While the god, whose ensign is a bull,8 was saying this to Párvatí, Brahmá accompanied by Indra appeared before him; and when he had been praised by them, and entreated to bring about the destruction of the Asura Táraka, Śiva consented to beget on the goddess a son of his body. And, at their entreaty, he consented that the god of love should be born without body in [156]the minds of animate creatures, to prevent the destruction of created beings. And he gave permission to love to influence his own mind; pleased with that, the Creator went away and Párvatí was delighted. But when, after the lapse of hundreds of years, there appeared no hope of Párvatí having any offspring, the god by the order of Brahmá called to mind Agni; Agni for his part, the moment they called him to mind, thinking that the foe of the god of love was irresistible, and afraid to interfere, fled from the gods and entered the water; but the frogs being burned by his heat told the gods, who were searching for him, that he was in the water; then Agni by his curse immediately made the speech of the frogs thenceforth inarticulate, and again disappearing fled to a place of refuge. There the gods found him, concealed in the trunk of a tree, in the form of a snail, for he was betrayed by the elephants and parrots, and he appeared to them. And after making by a curse the tongues of the parrots and the elephants incapable of clear utterance, he promised to do what the gods requested, having been praised by them. So he went to Śiva, and after inclining humbly before him, through fear of being cursed, he informed him of the commission the gods had given him. Śiva thereupon deposited the embryo in the fire. Then the goddess distracted with anger and grief, said, “I have not obtained a son from you after all,” and Śiva said to her; “An obstacle has arisen in this matter, because you neglected to worship Gaṇeśa, the lord of obstacles; therefore adore him now in order that a child may be born to us of the fire.” When thus addressed by Śiva, the goddess worshipped Gaṇeśa, and the fire became pregnant with that germ of Śiva. Then, bearing that embryo of Śiva, the fire shone even in the day as if the sun had entered into it. And then it discharged into the Ganges the germ difficult to bear, and the Ganges, by the order of Śiva, placed it in a sacrificial cavity on mount Meru.9 There that germ was watched by the Gaṇas, Śiva’s attendants, and after a thousand years had developed it, it became a boy with six faces. Then, drinking milk with his six mouths from the breasts of the six Kṛittikás10 appointed by Gaurí to nurse him, the boy grew big in a few days. In the meanwhile, the king of the gods, overcome by the Asura Táraka, fled to the difficult peaks of mount Meru, abandoning the field of battle. And the gods together with the Ṛishis went to the six-mouthed Kártikeya for protection, and he, defending the gods, remained surrounded by them. When Indra heard that, he was troubled, considering that his kingdom was taken from him, and being jealous he went and made war upon Kártikeya. But [157]from the body of Kártikeya, when struck by the thunderbolt of Indra, there sprang two sons called Śákha and Viśákha, both of incomparable might. Then Śiva came to his offspring Kártikeya, who exceeded Indra in might, and forbade him and his two sons to fight, and rebuked him in the following words: “Thou wast born in order that thou mightest slay Táraka and protect the realm of Indra, therefore do thy own duty.” Then Indra was delighted and immediately bowed before him, and commenced the ceremony of consecrating by ablutions Kártikeya as general of his forces. But when he himself lifted the pitcher for that purpose, his arm became stiff, wherefore he was despondent, but Śiva said to him; “Thou didst not worship the elephant-faced god, when thou desiredst a general; it was for this reason that thou hast met with this obstacle, therefore adore him now.” Indra, when he heard that, did so, and his arm was set free, and he duly performed the joyful ceremony of consecrating the general. And not long after, the general slew the Asura Táraka, and the gods rejoiced at having accomplished their object, and Gaurí at having obtained a son. So, princess, you see even the gods are not successful without honouring Gaṇeśa, therefore adore him when you desire a blessing.

After hearing this from my companions I went, my husband, and worshipped an image of Gaṇeśa, that stood in a lonely part of the garden, and after I had finished the worship, I suddenly saw that those companions of mine had flown up by their own power and were disporting themselves in the fields of the air; when I saw that, out of curiosity I called them and made them come down from the heaven, and when I asked them about the nature of their magic power, they immediately gave me this answer; “These are the magic powers of witches’ spells, and they are due to the eating of human flesh, and our teacher in this is a Bráhman woman known by the name of Kálarátri.” When my companions said this to me, I being desirous of acquiring the power of a woman that can fly in the air, but afraid of eating human flesh, was for a time in a state of hesitation; then eager to possess that power, I said to those friends of mine, “Cause me also to be instructed in this science.” And immediately they went and brought, in accordance with my request, Kálarátri, who was of repulsive appearance. Her eyebrows met,11 she had dull eyes, a depressed flat nose, large cheeks, widely parted lips, projecting teeth, a long neck, pendulous breasts, a large belly, and broad expanded feet. She appeared as if the creator had made her as a specimen of his skill in producing ugliness. When I fell at her [158]feet, after bathing and worshipping Gaṇeśa, she made me take off my clothes and perform, standing in a circle, a horrible ceremony in honour of Śiva in his terrific form, and after she had sprinkled me with water, she gave me various spells known to her, and human flesh to eat that had been offered in sacrifice to the gods; so, after I had eaten man’s flesh and had received the various spells, I immediately flew up, naked as I was, into the heaven with my friends, and after I had amused myself, I descended from the heaven by command of my teacher, and I, the princess, went to my own apartments. Thus even in my girlhood I became one of the society of witches, and in our meetings we devoured the bodies of many men.

But listen, king, to a story which is a digression from my main tale. That Kálarátri had for husband a Bráhman of the name of Vishṇusvámin, and he, being an instructor in that country, taught many pupils who came from different lands, as he was skilful in the exposition of the Vedas. And among his pupils he had one young man of the name of Sundaraka, the beauty of whose person was set off by his excellent character; one day the teacher’s wife Kálarátri being love-sick secretly courted him, her husband having gone away to some place or other. Truly Love makes great sport with ugly people as his laughing-stocks, in that she, not considering her own appearance, fell in love with Sundaraka. But he, though tempted, detested with his whole soul the crime; however women may misbehave, the mind of the good is not to be shaken. Then, he having departed, Kálarátri in a rage tore her own body with bites and scratches, and she remained weeping,12 with dress and locks disordered, until the teacher Vishṇusvámin entered the house. And when he had entered, she said to him,—“Look, my Lord, to this state has Sundaraka reduced me, endeavouring to gain possession of me by force.” As soon as the teacher heard that, he was inflamed with anger, for confidence in women robs even wise men of their power of reflection; and when Sundaraka returned home at night, he ran upon him, and he and his pupils kicked him, and struck him with fists, and sticks; moreover when he was senseless with the blows, he ordered his pupils to fling him out in the road by night, without regard to his safety, and they did so. Then Sundaraka was gradually restored to consciousness by the cool night breeze, and seeing himself thus outraged he reflected, “Alas! the instigation of a woman troubles the minds even of those men whose souls are not under the dominion of passion, as a storm disturbs the repose of lakes which are not reached by dust.13 This is why that teacher of mine in the excess of his anger, though old and wise, was so inconsiderate [159]as to treat me so cruelly. But the fact is, lust and wrath are appointed in the dispensation of fate, from the very birth even of wise Bráhmans, to be the two bolts on the door of their salvation.14 For were not the sages long ago angry with Śiva in the devadáru-wood, being afraid that their wives would go astray? And they did not know that he was a god, as he had assumed the appearance of a Buddhist mendicant, with the intention of shewing Umá that even Ṛishis do not possess self-restraint. But after they had cursed him, they discovered that he was the ruling god, that shakes the three worlds, and they fled to him for protection. So it appears that even hermits injure others, when beguiled by the six faults that are enemies of man,15 lust, wrath, and their crew, much more so Bráhmans learned in the Vedas.” Thinking thus, Sundaraka from fear of robbers during the night, climbed up and took shelter in a neighbouring cow-house. And while he was crouching unobserved in a corner of that cow-house, Kálarátri came into it with a drawn sword in her hand,16 terrible from the hissing she uttered, with wind and flames issuing from her mouth and eyes, accompanied by a crowd of witches. Then the terrified Sundaraka, beholding Kálarátri arriving in such a guise, called to mind the spells that drive away Rákshasas, and bewildered by these spells Kálarátri did not see him crouching secretly in a corner, with his limbs drawn together from fear. Then Kálarátri with her friends recited the spells that enable witches to fly, and they flew up into the air, cow-house and all.

And Sundaraka heard the spell and remembered it;17 but Kálarátri with the cow-house quickly flew through the air to Ujjayiní: there she made it descend by a spell in a garden of herbs, and went and sported in the cemetery among the witches: and immediately Sundaraka being hungry went down into the garden of herbs, and made a meal on some roots which he dug up, and after he had allayed the pangs of hunger, and returned as before to the cow-house, Kálarátri came back in the middle of the night from her meeting. Then she got up into the cow-house, and, just as before, she flew through the air with her pupils by the power of her magic, and returned home in the night. And after she had replaced the cow-house, which she made use of as a vehicle, in its original situation, and had dismissed those followers of hers, she entered her sleeping apartment. And Sundaraka, having thus passed through that night, astonished at the [160]troubles he had undergone, in the morning left the cow-house and went to his friends; there he related what had happened to him, and, though desirous of going to some other country, he was comforted by those friends and took up his abode among them, and leaving the dwelling of his teacher, and taking his meals in the almshouse for Bráhmans, he lived there enjoying himself at will in the society of his friends. One day Kálarátri, having gone out to buy some necessaries for her house, saw Sundaraka in the market. And being once more love-sick, she went up to him and said to him a second time—“Sundaraka, shew me affection even now, for my life depends on you.” When she said this to him, the virtuous Sundaraka said to her, “Do not speak thus, it is not right; you are my mother, as being the wife of my teacher.” Then Kálarátri said; “If you know what is right, then grant me my life, for what righteousness is greater than the saving of life?” Then Sundaraka said—“Mother, do not entertain this wish, for what righteousness can there be in approaching the bed of my preceptor.” Thus repulsed by him, and threatening him in her wrath, she went home, after tearing her upper garment with her own hand, and shewing the garment to her husband, she said to him, “Look, Sundaraka ran upon me, and tore this garment of mine in this fashion;” so her husband went in his anger and stopped Sundaraka’s supply of food at the almshouse, by saying that he was a felon who deserved death. Then Sundaraka in disgust, being desirous of leaving that country, and knowing the spell for flying up into the air which he had learnt in the cow-house, but being conscious that he had forgotten, after hearing it, the spell for descending from the sky, which he had been taught there also, again went in the night to that deserted cow-house, and while he was there, Kálarátri came as before, and flying up in the cow-house in the same way as on the former occasion, travelled through the air to Ujjayiní, and having made the cow-house descend by a spell in the garden of herbs, went again to the cemetery to perform her nightly ceremonies.

And Sundaraka heard that spell again, but failed again to retain it; for how can magic practices be thoroughly learnt without explanation by a teacher? Then he ate some roots there, and put some others in the cow-house to take away with him, and remained there as before; then Kálarátri came, and climbing up into the cow-house, flew through the air by night, and stopping the vehicle, entered her house. In the morning Sundaraka also left that house, and taking the roots with him he went to the market in order to procure money with which to purchase food. And while he was selling them there, some servants of the king’s, who were natives of Málava, took them away without paying for them, seeing that they were the produce of their own country. Then he began to remonstrate angrily, so they manacled him, and took him before the king on a charge of throwing [161]stones at them, and his friends followed him. Those villains said to the king—“This man, when we asked him how he managed continually to bring roots from Málava and sell them in Ujjayiní, would not give us any answer, on the contrary he threw stones at us.”

When the king heard this, he asked him about that marvel,18 then his friends said—“If he is placed on the palace with us, he will explain the whole wonder, but not otherwise.” The king consented, and Sundaraka was placed on the palace, whereupon by the help of the spell he suddenly flew up into the heaven with the palace. And travelling on it with his friends, he gradually reached Prayága,19 and being now weary he saw a certain king bathing there, and after stopping the palace there, he plunged from the heaven into the Ganges, and, beheld with wonder by all, he approached that king. The king inclining before him, said to him, “Who art thou, and why hast thou descended from heaven?” Sundaraka answered, “I am an attendant of the god Śiva, named Murajaka, and by his command I have come to thee desiring human pleasures.” When the king heard this, he supposed it was true, and gave him a city, rich in corn, filled with jewels, with women and all the insignia of rank. Then Sundaraka entered that city and flew up into the heaven with his followers, and for a long time roamed about at will, free from poverty. Lying on a golden bed, and fanned with chowries by beautiful women, he enjoyed happiness like that of Indra. Then once on a time a Siddha, that roamed in the air, with whom he had struck up a friendship, gave him a spell for descending from the air, and Sundaraka, having become possessed of this spell enabling him to come down to earth, descended from the sky-path in his own city of Kányakubja. Then the king hearing that he had come down from heaven, possessed of full prosperity, with a city, went in person to meet him out of curiosity, and Sundaraka, when recognized and questioned, knowing what to say on all occasions, informed the king of all his own adventures brought about by Kálarátri. Then the king sent for Kálarátri and questioned her, and she fearlessly confessed her improper conduct, and the king was angry and made up his mind to cut off her ears, but she, when seized, disappeared before the eyes of all the spectators. Then the king forbade her to live in his kingdom, and Sundaraka having been honourably treated by him returned to the air.

Having said this to her husband the king Ádityaprabha, the queen Kuvalayávalí went on to say; “King, such magic powers, produced by the spells of witches, do exist, and this thing happened in my father’s kingdom, and it is famous in the world, and, as I told you at first, I am a pupil of Kálarátri’s, but because I am devoted to my husband, I [162]possess greater power even than she did. And to-day you saw me just at the time when I had performed ceremonies to ensure your welfare, and was endeavouring to attract by a spell a man to offer as a victim. So do you enter now into our practice, and set your foot on the head of all kings, conquering them by magic power. When he heard this proposal, the king at first rejected it, saying, “What propriety is there in a king’s connecting himself with the eating of human flesh, the practice of witches?” But when the queen was bent on committing suicide, he consented, for how can men who are attracted by the objects of passion remain in the good path? Then she made him enter into the circle previously consecrated, and said to the king, after he had taken an oath; “I attempted to draw hither as a victim that Bráhman named Phalabhúti, who is so intimate with you, but the drawing him hither is a difficult task, so it is the best way to initiate some cook in our rites, that he may himself slay him and cook him. And you must not feel any compunction about it, because by eating a sacrificial offering of his flesh, after the ceremonies are complete, the enchantment will be perfect, for he is a Bráhman of the highest caste.” When his beloved said this to him, the king, though afraid of the sin, a second time consented. Alas! terrible is compliance with women! Then that royal couple had the cook summoned, whose name was Sáhasika, and after encouraging him, and initiating him, they both said to him,—“Whoever comes to you to-morrow morning and says—‘The king and queen will eat together to-day, so get some food ready quickly,’ him you must slay, and make for us secretly a savoury dish of his flesh.” When the cook heard this, he consented, and went to his own house. And the next morning, when Phalabhúti arrived, the king said to him, “Go and tell the cook Sáhasika in the kitchen, ‘the king together with the queen will eat to-day a savoury mess, therefore prepare as soon as possible a splendid dish.’” Phalabhúti said, “I will do so” and went out. When he was outside, the prince whose name was Chandraprabha, came to him, and said—“Have made for me this very day with this gold a pair of earrings, like those you had made before for my noble father.” When the prince said this, Phalabhúti, in order to please him, went that moment, as he was commissioned, to get the earrings made, and the prince readily went with the king’s message, which Phalabhúti told him, alone to the kitchen; when he got there and told the king’s message, the cook Sáhasika, true to his agreement, immediately killed him with a knife, and made a dish of his flesh, which the king and queen, after performing their ceremonies, ate, not knowing the truth;20 and after spending that night in [163]remorse, the next morning the king saw Phalabhúti arrive with the earrings in his hand.

So, being bewildered, he questioned him about the earrings immediately; and when Phalabhúti had told him his story, the king fell on the earth, and cried out; “Alas my son!” blaming the queen and himself, and when his ministers questioned him, he told them the whole story, and repeated what Phalabhúti had said every day—”‘The doer of good will obtain good, and the doer of evil, evil.’ Often the harm that one wishes to do to another, recoils on one’s self, as a ball thrown against a wall rebounding frequently; thus we, wicked ones, desiring to slay a Bráhman, have brought about our own son’s death, and devoured his flesh.” After the king had said this and informed his ministers, who stood with their faces fixed on the earth, of the whole transaction, and after he had anointed that very Phalabhúti as king in his place, he made a distribution of alms and then, having no son, entered the fire with his wife to purify himself from guilt, though already consumed by the fire of remorse: and Phalabhúti, having obtained the royal dignity, ruled the earth; thus good or evil done by a man is made to return upon himself.

Having related the above tale in the presence of the king of Vatsa, Yaugandharáyaṇa again said to that king; “If Brahmadatta therefore were to plot against you, O great king, who, after conquering him, treated him kindly, he ought to be slain.” When the chief minister had said this to him, the king of Vatsa approved of it, and rising up went to perform the duties of the day, and the day following he set out from Lávánaka to go to his own city Kauśámbí, having accomplished his objects in effecting the conquest of the regions; in course of time the lord of earth accompanied by his retinue reached his own city, which seemed to be dancing with delight, imitating with banners uplifted the taper arms21 of the dancing girl. So he entered the city, producing, at every step, in the lotus-garden composed of the eyes of the women of the city, the effect of the rising of a breeze. And the king entered his palace, sung by minstrels, praised by bards, and worshipped by kings. Then the monarch of Vatsa laid his commands on the kings of every land, who bowed before him, and triumphantly ascended that throne, the heirloom of his race, which he had found long [164]ago in the deposit of treasure. And the heaven was filled with the combined high and deep echoes of the sound of the drums, which accompanied the auspicious ceremonies on that occasion, like simultaneous shouts of applause uttered by the guardians of the world, each in his several quarter, being delighted with the prime minister of the king of Vatsa. Then the monarch, who was free from avarice, distributed to the Bráhmans all kinds of wealth acquired by the conquest of the world, and after great festivities, satisfied the desires of the company of kings and of his own ministers. Then in that city filled with the noise of drums resembling the thunder of the clouds, while the king was raining benefits on the fields22 according to each man’s desert, the people, expecting great fruit in the form of corn, kept high festival in every house. Having thus conquered the world, that victorious king devolved on Rumaṇvat and Yaugandharáyaṇa the burden of his realm, and lived at ease there with Vásavadattá and Padmávatí. So he, being praised by excellent bards, seated between those two queens as if they were the goddesses of Fame and Fortune, enjoyed the rising of the moon white as his own glory, and continually drank wine as he had swallowed the might of his foes. [165]

In old time there was a certain petty monarch of the name of Jayadatta and there was born to him a son, named Devadatta. And that wise king wishing to marry his son who was grown up, thus reflected—“The prosperity of kings is very unstable, being like a hetæra to be enjoyed by force, but the prosperity of merchants is like a woman of good family, it is steady and does not fly to another man. Therefore I will take a wife to my son from a merchant’s family, in order that misfortune may not overtake his throne, though it is surrounded with many relations.” Having formed this resolve, that king sought for his son the daughter of a merchant in Páṭaliputra named Vasudatta. Vasudatta, for his part, eager for such a distinguished alliance, gave that daughter of his to the prince, though he dwelt in a remote foreign land.

And he loaded his son-in-law with wealth to such an extent that he no longer felt much respect for his father’s magnificence. Then king Jayadatta dwelt happily with that son of his who had obtained the daughter of that rich merchant. Now one day the merchant Vasudatta came, full of desire to see his daughter, to the palace of his connexion by marriage, and took away his daughter to his own home. Shortly after the king Jayadatta suddenly went to heaven, and that kingdom was seized by his relations who rose in rebellion; through fear of them his son Devadatta was secretly taken away by his mother during the night to another country. Then that mother distressed in soul said to the prince—“Our feudal lord is the emperor who rules the eastern region, repair to him, my son, he will procure you the kingdom.” When his mother said this to him, the prince answered her; “Who will respect me if I go there without attendants?” When she heard that, his mother went on to say, “Go to the house of your father-in-law, and get money there and so procure followers, and then repair to the emperor.” Being urged in these words by his mother, the prince, though full of shame, slowly plodded on and reached his father-in-law’s house in the evening, but he could not bear to enter at such an unseasonable hour, for he was afraid of shedding tears, being bereaved of his father, [169]and having lost his worldly splendour, besides shame withheld him. So he remained in the verandah of an alms house near, and at night he suddenly beheld a woman descending with a rope from his father-in-law’s house, and immediately he recognized her as his wife, for she was so resplendent with jewels that she looked like a meteor fallen from the clouds, and he was much grieved thereat, but she, though she saw him, did not recognise him, as he was emaciated and begrimed, and asked him who he was; when he heard that, he answered, “I am a traveller;” then the merchant’s daughter entered the alms-house, and the prince followed her secretly to watch her. There she advanced towards a certain man, and he towards her, and asking her why she had come so late, he bestowed several kicks on her.8 Then the passion of the wicked woman was doubled, and she appeased him and remained with him on the most affectionate terms. When he saw that, the discreet prince reflected; “This is not the time for me to shew anger, for I have other affairs in hand, and how could I employ against these two contemptible creatures, this wife of mine and the man who has done me this wrong, this sword which is to be used against my foes? Or what quarrel have I with this adulteress, for this is the work of malignant destiny, that showers calamities upon me, shewing skill in the game of testing my firmness? It is my marriage with a woman below me in rank that is in fault, not the woman herself; how can a female crow leave the male crow to take pleasure in a cuckoo?” Thus reflecting, he allowed that wife of his to remain in the society of her paramour; for in the minds of heroes possessed with an ardent desire of victory, of what importance is woman, valueless as a straw? But at the moment when his wife ardently embraced her paramour, there fell from her ear an ornament thickly studded with valuable jewels. And she did not observe this, but at the end of her interview taking leave of her paramour, returned hurriedly to her house as she came. And that unlawful lover also departed somewhere or other. Then the prince saw that jewelled ornament and took it up; it flashed with many jewel-gleams, dispelling the gathering darkness of despondency, and seemed like a hand-lamp obtained by him to assist him in searching for his lost prosperity. The prince immediately perceived that it was very valuable, and went off, having obtained all he required, to Kányakubja; there be pledged that ornament for a hundred thousand gold pieces, and after buying horses and elephants went into the presence of the emperor. And with the troops, which he gave him, he marched and slew his enemies in fight, and recovered his father’s kingdom, and his mother applauded his success. Then he redeemed from pawn that ornament, and sent it to his father-in-law to reveal that unsuspected secret; his father-in-law, when he saw that ear-ring of [170]his daughter’s, which had come to him in such a way, was confounded and shewed it to her: she looked upon it, lost long ago like her own virtue, and when she heard that it had been sent by her husband, she was distracted and called to mind the whole circumstance: “This is the very ornament which I let fall in the alms-house the night I saw that unknown traveller standing there; so that must undoubtedly have been my husband come to test my virtue, but I did not recognize him, and he picked up this ornament.” While the merchant’s daughter was going through this train of reflection, her heart, afflicted by the misfortune of her unchastity having been discovered, in its agony, broke. Then her father artfully questioned a maid of hers who knew all her secrets, and found out the truth, and so ceased to mourn for his daughter; as for the prince, after he recovered the kingdom, he obtained as wife the daughter of the emperor won by his virtues, and enjoyed the highest prosperity.

So you see that the hearts of women are hard as adamant in daring sin, but are soft as a flower when the tremor of fear falls upon them. But there are some few women born in good families, that, having hearts virtuous9 and of transparent purity, become like pearls the ornaments of the earth. And the fortune of kings is ever bounding away like a doe, but the wise know how to bind it by the tether of firmness, as you see in my story; therefore those who desire good fortune must not abandon their virtue even in calamity, and of this principle my present circumstances are an illustration, for I preserved my character, O queen, even in this calamity, and that has borne me fruit in the shape of the good fortune of beholding you.

Having heard this tale from the mouth of that Bráhman woman, the queen Vásavadattá, feeling respect for her, immediately thought,—“Surely this Bráhman woman must be of good family, for the indirect way in which she alluded to her own virtue and her boldness in speech prove that she is of gentle birth, and this is the reason why she shewed such tact in entering the king’s court of justice,”—having gone through these reflections, the queen again said to the Bráhman woman: “Whose wife are you, or what is the history of your life? Tell me.” When she heard that, the Bráhman woman again began to speak—

Queen, there was a certain Bráhman in the country or Málava, named Agnidatta, the home of Fortune and of Learning, who willingly impoverished himself to help suppliants, and in course of time there were born to him two sons like himself; the eldest was called Śankaradatta and the other Śántikara; of these two, oh glorious one, Śántikara suddenly left his father’s house in quest of learning, while he was still a boy, and went, I know not whither, and the other son his elder brother married me, who am [171]the daughter of Yajnadatta who collected wealth for the sake of sacrifice only. In course of time the father of my husband, who was named Agnidatta, being old, went to the next world and his wife followed him,10 and my husband left me, when I was pregnant, to go to holy places, and through sorrow for his loss abandoned the body in fire purified by the goddess Sarasvatí; and when that fact was told us by those who accompanied him in his pilgrimage, I was not permitted to follow him by my relations, as I was pregnant. Then, while my grief was fresh, brigands suddenly swooped down on us and plundered my house and all the royal grant; immediately I fled with three Bráhman women from that place, for fear that I might be outraged, taking with me very few garments. And, as the whole kingdom was ravaged, I went to a distant land accompanied by them, and remained there a month only supporting myself by menial drudgery. And then hearing from people that the king of Vatsa was the refuge of the helpless, I came here with the three Bráhman women, with no other travelling provision than my virtue; and as soon as I arrived I gave birth at the same time to two boys. Thus, though I have the friendly assistance of these three Bráhman women, I have suffered bereavement, banishment, poverty, and now comes this birth of twins; Alas! Providence has opened to me the door of calamity. Accordingly, reflecting that I had no other means of maintaining these children, I laid aside shame, the ornament of women, and entering into the king’s court I made a petition to him. Who is able to endure the sight of the misery of youthful offspring? And in consequence of his order, I have come into your august presence, and my calamities have turned back, as if ordered away from your door. This is my history: as for my name, it is Pingaliká, because from my childhood my eyes have been reddened by the smoke of the burnt-offerings. And that brother-in-law of mine Śántikara dwells in a foreign land, but in what land he is now living, I have not as yet discovered.

When the Bráhman woman had told her history in these words, the queen came to the conclusion that she was a lady of high birth, and after reflecting, said this to her with an affectionate manner: “There is dwelling here a foreign Bráhman of the name of Śántikara, and he is our domestic chaplain; I am certain he will turn out to be your brother-in-law.” After saying this to the eager Bráhman lady, the queen allowed that night to pass, and the next morning sent for Śántikara and asked him about his descent. And when he had told her his descent, she, ascertaining that the two accounts tallied completely, shewed him that Bráhman lady, and said to him—“Here is your brother’s wife.” And when they recognised one another, and he had heard of the death of his relations, he took the Bráhman lady the wife of his brother to his own house. There he mourned exceedingly, [172]as was natural, for the death of his parents and his brother, and comforted the lady who was accompanied by her two children; and the queen Vásavadattá settled that the Bráhman lady’s two young sons should be the domestic chaplains of her future son, and the queen also gave the eldest the name of Śántisoma, and the next of Vaiśvánara, and she bestowed on them much wealth. The people of this world are like a blind man, being led to the place of recompense by their own actions, going before them,11 and their courage is merely an instrument. Then those two children, and their mother and Śántikara remained united there, having obtained wealth.

Then once upon a time, as days went on, the queen Vásavadattá beheld from her palace a certain woman of the caste of potters coming with five sons, bringing plates, and she said to the Bráhman lady Pingaliká, who was at her side; “Observe, my friend: this woman has five sons, and I have not even one as yet, to such an extent is such a one the possessor of merit, while such a one as myself is not.”12

Then Pingaliká said, “Queen, these numerous sons are people who have committed many sins in a previous existence, and are born to poor people in order that they may suffer for them, but the son that shall be born to such a one as you, must have been in a former life a very virtuous person. Therefore do not be impatient, you will soon obtain a son such as you deserve.” Though Pingaliká said this to her, Vásavadattá, being eager for the birth of a son, remained with her mind overpowered by anxiety about it. At that moment the king of Vatsa came and perceiving what was in her heart said—“Queen, Nárada said that you should obtain a son by propitiating Śiva, therefore we must continually propitiate Śiva, that granter of boons.” Upon that, the queen quickly determined upon performing a vow, and when she had taken a vow, the king and his ministers and the whole kingdom also took a vow to propitiate Śiva; and after the royal couple had fasted for three nights, that Lord was so pleased that he himself appeared to them and commanded them in a dream,—“Rise up; from you shall spring a son who shall be a portion of the god of love, and owing to my favour shall be king of all the Vidyádharas.” When the god, whose crest is the moon, had said this and disappeared, that couple woke up, and immediately felt unfeigned joy at having obtained their boon, and considered that they had gained their object. And in the morning the king and queen rose up, and after delighting the subjects with the taste of the nectarous story of their dream, kept high festival with their relations and servants, and broke in this manner the fast of their vow. After some days had past, a certain man with matted locks came and gave the queen Vásavadattá a fruit in her dream. Then the king of Vatsa rejoiced with the queen, who informed him of that clear dream, and he was congratulated [173]by his ministers, and supposing that the god of the moon-crest had given her a son under the form of a fruit, he considered the fulfilment of his wish to be not far off.

There is a great mountain named Himavat, the father of the mother of the world,4 who is not only the chief of hills, but the spiritual preceptor of Śiva, and on that great mountain, the home of the Vidyádharas, dwelt the lord of the Vidyádharas, the king Jímútaketu. And in his house there was a wishing-tree5, which had come down to him from his ancestors, called by a name which expressed its nature, The Giver of Desires. And one day the king Jímútaketu approached that wishing-tree in his garden, which was of divine nature, and supplicated it; “We always obtain from you all we desire, therefore give me, O god, who am now childless, a virtuous son.” Then the wishing-tree said,—“King, there shall be born to thee a son who shall remember his past birth, who shall be a hero in giving, and kind to all creatures.” When he heard that, the king was delighted, and bowed before that tree, and then he went and delighted his queen with the news: accordingly in a short time a son was born to him, and his father called the son Jímútaváhana. Then that Jímútaváhana, who was of great goodness, grew up step by step with the growth of his innate compassion for all creatures. And in course of time, when he was made Crown-Prince, he being full of compassion for the world said in secret to his father, who was pleased by his attentions—“I know, O father, that in this world all things perish in an instant, but the pure glory of the great alone endures till the end of a Kalpa.6 If it is acquired by benefiting others, what other wealth can be, like it, valued by high-minded men more than life. And as for prosperity, if it be not used to benefit others, it is like lightning which for a moment pains the eye, and flickering disappears somewhere or other. So, if this wishing-tree, which we possess, and which grants all desires, is employed for the benefit of others, we shall have reaped from it all the fruit it can give. So let me take such steps as that by its riches the whole multitude of men in need may be rescued from poverty.” This petition Jímútaváhana made to his father, and having obtained his permission, he went and said to that wishing-tree, “O god, thou always givest us the desired fruit, therefore fulfil to-day this one wish of ours. O my friend, relieve this whole world from its poverty, success to thee, thou art bestowed on the world that desires wealth!” The wishing-tree being addressed in this style by that self-denying one, showered much gold on the earth, and all the people rejoiced; what other compassionate incarnation of a Bodhisattva except the glorious Jímútaváhana would be able to dispose even of [175]a wishing-tree in favour of the needy? For this reason every region of the earth7 became devoted to Jímútaváhana, and his stainless fame was spread on high.

Then the relations of Jímútaketu, seeing that his throne was firmly established by the glory of his son, were envious, and became hostile to him. And they thought it would be easy to conquer that place, which possessed the excellent wishing-tree that was employed for bestowing gifts, on account of its not being strong: then they assembled and determined on war, and thereupon the self-denying Jímútaváhana said to his father,—“As this body of ours is like a bubble in the water, for the sake of what do we desire prosperity, which flickers like a candle exposed to the wind? And what wise man desires to attain prosperity by the slaughter of others? Accordingly, my father, I ought not to fight with my relations. But I must leave my kingdom and go to some forest or other; let these miserable wretches be, let us not slay the members of our own family.” When Jímútaváhana had said this, his father Jímútaketu formed a resolution and said to him; “I too must go, my son, for what desire for rule can I, who am old, have, when you, though young, out of compassion abandon your realm as if it were so much grass?” In these words his father expressed his acquiescence in the project of Jímútaváhana, who then, with his father and his father’s wife, went to the Malaya mountain. There he remained in a hermitage, the dwelling of the Siddhas, where the brooks were hidden by the sandal-wood trees, and devoted himself to taking care of his father. There he struck up a friendship with the self-denying son of Viśvávasu, the chief prince of the Siddhas, whose name was Mitrávasu. And once on a time the all-knowing Jímútaváhana beheld in a lonely place Mitrávasu’s maiden sister, who had been his beloved in a former birth. And the mutual gaze of those two young people was like the catching in a frail net of the deer of the mind.8

Then one day Mitrávasu came up suddenly to Jímútaváhana, who deserved the respect of the three worlds, with a pleased expression, and said to him, “I have a younger sister, the maiden called Malayavatí; I give her to you, do not refuse to gratify my wish.” When Jímútaváhana heard that, he said to him, “O prince, she was my wife in a former birth, and in that life you became my friend, and were like a second heart to me. I am one who remembers the former state of existence, I recollect all that happened in my previous birth.” When he said this, Mitrávasu said to him, “then tell me this story of your former birth, for I feel curiosity about it.” When he heard this from Mitrávasu, the benevolent Jímútaváhana told him the tale of his former birth as follows: [176]

Thus it is; formerly I was a sky-roaming Vidyádhara, and once on a time I was passing over a peak of the Himálaya. And then Śiva, who was below, sporting with Gaurí, being angry at my passing above him, cursed me, saying, “Descend into a mortal womb, and after obtaining a Vidyádharí for your wife, and appointing your son in your place, you shall remember your former birth, and again be born as a Vidyádhara.” Having pronounced when this curse should end, Śiva ceased and disappeared; and soon after I was born upon earth in a family of merchants. And I grew up as the son of a rich merchant in a city named Vallabhí, and my name was Vasudatta. And in course of time, when I became a young man, I had a retinue given me by my father, and went by his orders to another land to traffic. As I was going along, robbers fell upon me in a forest, and after taking all my property, led me in chains to a temple of Durgá in their village, terrible with a long waving banner of red silk like the tongue of Death eager to devour the lives of animals. There they brought me into the presence of their chief named Pulindaka, who was engaged in worshipping the goddess, in order that I might serve as a victim. He, though he was a Śavara,9 the moment he saw me, felt his heart melt with pity for me; an apparently causeless affectionate movement of the heart is a sign of friendship in a former birth. Then that Śavara king, having saved me from slaughter, was about to complete the rite by the sacrifice of himself, when a heavenly voice said to him—“Do not act thus, I am pleased with thee, crave a boon of me,”—thereupon he was delighted, and said—“O goddess, thou art pleased; what other blessing can I need, nevertheless I ask so much—may I have friendship with this merchant’s son in another birth also.” The voice said—“So be it,” and then ceased, and then that Śavara gave me much wealth, and sent me back to my own home. And then, as I had returned from foreign travel and from the jaws of death, my father, when he heard the whole occurrence, made a great feast in my honour. And in course of time I saw there that very same Śavara chief, whom the king had ordered to be brought before him as a prisoner for plundering a caravan. I told my father of it immediately, and making a petition to the king, I saved him from capital punishment by the payment of a hundred thousand gold-pieces. And having in this way repaid the benefit, which he conferred upon me by saving my life, I brought him to my house, and entertained him honourably for a long time with all loving attention. And then, after this hospitable entertainment, I dismissed him, and he went to his own village fixing upon me a heart tender with affection. Then, while he thought about a present for me that might be worthy of my return for his previous kindness, he came to the conclusion that the pearls and musk [177]and treasures of that kind, which were at his disposal, were not valuable enough. Thereupon he took his bow and went off to the Himálaya to shoot elephants, in order to obtain a surpassingly splendid necklace10 for me. And while he was roaming about there, he reached a great lake with a temple upon its shore, being welcomed by its lotuses, which were as devoted to their friend11 as he was to me. And suspecting that the wild elephants would come there to drink water, he remained in concealment with his bow, in order to kill them. In the meanwhile he saw a young lady of wonderful beauty come riding upon a lion to worship Śiva, whose temple stood on the shore of the lake; looking like a second daughter of the king of the snowy mountains, devoted to the service of Śiva while in her girlhood. And the Śavara, when he saw her, being overpowered with wonder, reflected—“Who can this be? If she is a mortal woman, why does she ride upon a lion? On the other hand, if she is divine, how can she be seen by such as me? So she must certainly be the incarnate development of the merits of my eyes in a former birth. If I could only marry my friend to her, then I should have bestowed upon him a new and wonderful recompense. So I had better first approach her to question her.” Thus reflecting, my friend the Śavara advanced to meet her. In the meanwhile she dismounted from the lion, that lay down in the shade, and advancing began to pick the lotuses of the lake. And seeing the Śavara, who was a stranger, coming towards her and bowing, out of a hospitable feeling she gratified him with a welcome. And she said to him—“Who are you, and why have you come to this inaccessible land?” Thereupon the Śavara answered her, “I am a prince of the Śavaras, who regard the feet of Bhavání as my only refuge, and I am come to this wood to get pearls from the heads of elephants. But when I beheld you just now, O goddess, I called to mind my own friend that saved my life, the son of a merchant prince, the auspicious Vasudatta. For he, O fair one, is, like you, matchless for beauty and youth, a very fount of nectar to the eyes of this world. Happy is that maiden in the world, whose braceleted hand is taken in this life by that treasure-house of friendship, generosity, compassion, and patience. And if this beautiful form of yours is not linked to such a man, then I cannot help grieving that Káma bears the bow in vain.” By these words of the king of the hunters the mind of the maiden was suddenly carried away, as if by the syllables of the god of Love’s bewildering spell. And prompted by love, she said to that Śavara, “Where is that friend of yours? Bring him here and shew him to me.” When he heard that, he said—“I will do so,” and that moment the Śavara took leave of her and set out on his journey in high spirits, considering his object attained. And after he [178]had reached his village, he took with him pearls and musk, a weight sufficient for hundreds of heavily-laden porters, and came to our house. There he was honoured by all the inmates, and entering it, he offered to my father that present, which was worth much gold. And after that day and that night had been spent in feasting, he related to me in private the story of his interview with the maiden from the very commencement. And he said to me, who was all excitement, “Come, let us go there,” and so the Śavara carried me off at night just as he pleased. And in the morning my father found that I had gone off somewhere with the Śavara prince, but feeling perfect confidence in his affection, he remained master of his feelings. But I was conducted in course of time by that Śavara, who travelled fast, to the Himálaya, and he tended me carefully throughout the journey.

And one evening we reached that lake, and bathed, and we remained that one night in the wood eating sweet fruits. That mountain wood, in which the creepers strewed the ground with flowers, and which was charming with the hum of bees, full of balmy gales, and with beautiful gleaming herbs for lamps, was like the chamber of Rati to repose in during the night for us two, who drank the water of the lake. Then, the next day that maiden came there, and at every step my mind, full of strange longings, flew to meet her, and her arrival was heralded by this my right eye, throbbing as if through eagerness to behold her.12 And that maid with lovely eyebrows was beheld by me, on the back of a knotty-maned lion, like a digit of the moon resting in the lap of an autumn cloud; and I cannot describe how my heart felt at that time while I gazed on her, being full of tumultuous emotions of astonishment, longing, and fear; then that maiden dismounted from the lion, and gathered flowers, and after bathing in the lake, worshipped Śiva who dwelt in the temple on its banks.13 And when the worship was ended, that Śavara, my friend, advanced towards her and announcing himself, bowed, and said to her who received him courteously; “Goddess, I have brought that friend of mine as a suitable bridegroom for you: if you think proper, I will shew him to you this moment.” When she heard that, she said, “Shew him,” and that Śavara came and took me near her and shewed me to her. She looked at me askance with an eye that shed love, and being overcome by Cupid’s taking possession of her soul, said to that chieftain of the Śavaras; “This friend of yours is not a man, surely he is some god come here to deceive me to-day: how could a mortal have such a handsome shape?” When I heard that, I said myself to remove all doubt from her mind: “Fair one, I am in very truth a mortal, what is the use of employing fraud against one so honest as yourself, lady? For I am the son of a merchant named Mahádhana that dwells in Vallabhí, and I was gained [179]by my father by the blessing of Śiva. For he, when performing austerities to please the god of the moony crest, in order that he might obtain a son, was thus commanded by the god in a dream being pleased with him; ‘Rise up, there shall spring from thee a great-hearted son, and this is a great secret, what is the use of setting it forth at length?’ After hearing this, he woke up, and in course of time I was born to him as a son, and I am known by the name of Vasudatta. And long ago, when I went to a foreign land, I obtained this Śavara chieftain for a chosen friend, who shewed himself a true helper in misfortune. This is a brief statement of the truth about me.” When I had said this I ceased; and that maiden, with her face cast down from modesty, said—“It is so; to-day, I know, Śiva being propitiated deigned to tell me in a dream, after I had worshipped him,—‘To-morrow morning thou shalt obtain a husband:’—so you are my husband, and this friend of yours is my brother.” When she had delighted me by this nectar-like speech, she ceased; and after I had deliberated with her, I determined to go to my own house with my friend, in order that the marriage might be solemnized in due form. Then that fair one summoned by a sign of her own that lion, on which she rode, and said to me, “Mount it, my husband,” then I, by the advice of my friend, mounted the lion, and taking that beloved one in my arms, I set out thence for my home, having obtained all my objects, riding on the lion with my beloved, guided by that friend. And living on the flesh of the deer that he killed with his arrows, we all reached in course of time the city of Vallabhí. Then the people, seeing me coming along with my beloved, riding on a lion, being astonished, ran and told that fact quickly to my father. He too came to meet me in his joy, and when he saw me dismount from the lion and fall at his feet, he welcomed me with astonishment.

And when he saw that incomparable beauty adore his feet, and perceived that she was a fit wife for me, he could not contain himself for joy. So he entered the house, and after asking us about the circumstances, he made a great feast, praising the friendship of the Śavara chieftain. And the next day, by the appointment of the astrologers, I married that excellent maiden, and all my friends and relations assembled to witness our wedding. And that lion, on which my wife had ridden, having witnessed the marriage, suddenly before the eyes of all, assumed the form of a man. Then all the by-standers were bewildered thinking—“What can this mean?” But he, assuming heavenly garments and ornaments, thus addressed me: “I am a Vidyádhara named Chitrángada, and this maiden is my daughter Manovatí by name, dearer to me than life. I used to wander continually through the forest with her in my arms, and one day I reached the Ganges, on the banks of which are many ascetic groves. And as I was going along in the middle of the river, for fear of disturbing the ascetics, my garland by accident fell into its waters. [180]Then the hermit Nárada, who was under the water, suddenly rose up, and angry because the garland had fallen upon his back, cursed me in the following words: ‘On account of this insolence, depart, wicked one, thou shalt become a lion, and repairing to the Himálaya, shalt carry this daughter upon thy back. And when thy daughter shall be taken in marriage by a mortal, then after witnessing the ceremony, thou shalt be freed from this curse.’ After being cursed in these words by the hermit, I became a lion, and dwelt on the Himálaya carrying about this daughter of mine, who is devoted to the worship of Śiva. And you know well the sequel of the story, how by the exertions of the Śavara chieftain this highly auspicious event has been brought about. So I shall now depart; good luck to you all! I have now reached the termination of that curse.” Having said this, that Vidyádhara immediately flew up into the sky. Then my father, overwhelmed with astonishment at the marvel, delighted at the eligible connection, and finding that his friends and relations were overjoyed, made a great feast. And there was not a single person who did not say with astonishment, reflecting again and again on that noble behaviour of the Śavara chieftain—“Who can imagine the actions of sincere friends, who are not even satisfied when they have bestowed on their sworn brothers the gift of life?” The king of the land too, hearing of that occurrence, was exceedingly pleased with the affection which the Śavara prince had shown me, and finding he was pleased, my father gave him a present of jewels, and so induced him immediately to bestow on the Śavara a vast forest territory. Then I remained there in happiness, considering myself to have attained all that heart could wish, in having Manovatí for a wife, and the Śavara prince for a friend. And that Śavara chieftain generally lived in my house, finding that he took less pleasure in dwelling in his own country than he formerly did. And the time of us two friends, of him and me, was spent in continually conferring benefits upon one another without our ever being satisfied. And not long after I had a son born to me by Manovatí, who seemed like the heart-joy of the whole family in external visible form; and being called Hiraṇyadatta he gradually grew up, and after having been duly instructed, he was married. Then my father having witnessed that, and considering that the object of his life had been accomplished, being old, went to the Ganges with his wife to leave the body. Then I was afflicted by my father’s death, but having been at last persuaded by my relations to control my feelings, I consented to uphold the burden of the family. And at that time on the one hand the sight of the beautiful face of Manovatí, and on the other the society of the Śavara prince delighted me. Accordingly those days of mine passed, joyous from the goodness of my son, charming from the excellence of my wife, happy from the society of my friend. [181]

Then, in course of time, I became well-stricken in years, and old age seized me by the chin, as it were out of love giving me this wholesome reproach—“Why are you remaining in the house so long as this, my son?” Then disgust with the world was suddenly produced in my breast, and longing for the forest I appointed my son in my stead. And with my wife I went to the mountain of Kálinjara, together with the king of the Śavaras, who abandoned his kingdom out of love to me. And when I arrived there, I at once remembered that I had been a Vidyádhara in a former state of existence, and that the curse I had received from Śiva had come to an end. And I immediately told my wife Manovatí of that, and my friend the king of the Śavaras, as I was desirous of leaving this mortal body. I said—“May I have this wife and this friend in a future birth, and may I remember this birth,” and then I meditated on Śiva in my heart, and flung myself from that hill side, and so suddenly quitted the body together with that wife and friend. And so I have been now born, as you see, in this Vidyádhara family, under the name of Jímútaváhana, with a power of recollecting my former existence. And you, that prince of the Śavaras, have been also born again by the favour of Śiva, as Mitrávasu the son of Viśvávasu the king of the Siddhas. And, my friend, that Vidyádhara lady, my wife Manovatí, has been again born as your sister Malayavatí by name. So your sister is my former wife, and you were my friend in a former state of existence, therefore it is quite proper that I should marry her. But first go and tell this to my parents, for if the matter is referred to them, your desire will be successfully accomplished.

When Mitrávasu heard this from Jímútaváhana, he was pleased, and he went and told all that to the parents of Jímútaváhana. And when they received his proposal gladly, he was pleased, and went and told that same matter to his own parents. And they were delighted at the accomplishment of their desire, and so the prince quickly prepared for the marriage of his sister. Then Jímútaváhana, honoured by the king of the Siddhas, received according to usage the hand of Malayavatí. And there was a great festival, in which the heavenly minstrels bustled about, the dense crowd of the Siddhas assembled, and which was enlivened by bounding Vidyádharas. Then Jímútaváhana was married, and remained on that Malaya mountain with his wife in very great prosperity. And once on a time he went with his brother-in-law Mitrávasu to behold the woods on the shore of the sea. And there he saw a young man come in an agitated state, sending away his mother, who kept exclaiming “Alas! my son!” And another man, who seemed to be a soldier, following him, conducted him to a broad and high slab of rock and left him there. Jímútaváhana said to him: “Who are you? What are you about to do, and [182]why does your mother weep for you?” Then the man told him his story.

“Long ago Kadrú and Vinatá, the two wives of Kaśyapa, had a dispute in the course of a conversation which they were carrying on. The former said that the Sun’s horses were black, the latter that they were white, and they made an agreement that the one that was wrong should become a slave to the other.14 Then Kadrú, bent on winning, actually induced her sons, the snakes, to defile the horses of the Sun by spitting venom over them; and shewing them to Vinatá in that condition, she conquered her by a trick and made her her slave: terrible is the spite of women against each other! When Garuḍa the son of Vinatá heard of that, he came and tried to induce Kadrú by fair means to release Vinatá from her slavery; then the snakes, the sons of Kadrú, reflecting, said this to him; ‘O Garuḍa, the gods have began to churn the sea of milk, bring the nectar thence and give it to us as a substitute, and then take your mother away with you, for you are the chief of heroes.’ When Garuḍa heard that, he went to the sea of milk, and displayed his great might in order to obtain the nectar. Then the god Vishṇu pleased with his might deigned to say to him, ‘I am pleased with thee, choose some boon.’ Then Garuḍa, angry because his mother was made a slave, asked as a boon from Vishṇu—‘May the snakes become my food.’ Vishṇu consented, and when Garuḍa had obtained the nectar by his own valour, he was thus addressed by Indra who had heard the whole story: ‘King of birds, you must take steps to prevent the foolish snakes from consuming the nectar, and to enable me to take it away from them again.’ When Garuḍa heard that, he agreed to do it, and elated by the boon of Vishṇu, he went to the snakes with the vessel containing the nectar.

And he said from a distance to those foolish snakes, who were terrified on account of the boon granted to him, “Here is the nectar brought by me, release my mother and take it; if you are afraid, I will put it for you on a bed of Darbha grass. When I have procured my mother’s release, I will go; take the nectar thence.” The snakes consented, and then he put the vessel of nectar on a pure bed of Kuśa grass,15 and they let his mother go. So Garuḍa departed, having thus released his mother from slavery; but while the snakes were unsuspectingly taking the nectar, Indra suddenly swooped down, and bewildering them by his power, carried off the vessel of nectar from the bed of Kuśa grass. Then the snakes in despair licked that bed of Darbha grass, thinking there might be a drop of spilt nectar on it; the effect was that their tongues were split, and they became double-tongued [183]for nothing.16 What but ridicule can ever be the portion of the over-greedy? Then the snakes did not obtain the nectar of immortality, and their enemy Garuḍa, on the strength of Vishṇu’s boon, began to swoop down and devour them. And this he did again and again. And while he was thus attacking them, the snakes17 in Pátála were dead with fear, the females miscarried, and the whole serpent race was well-nigh destroyed. And Vásuki the king of the snakes, seeing him there every day, considered that the serpent world was ruined at one blow: then, after reflecting, he preferred a petition to that Garuḍa of irresistible might, and made this agreement with him—“I will send you every day one snake to eat, O king of birds, on the hill that rises out of the sand of the sea. But you must not act so foolishly as to enter Pátála, for by the destruction of the serpent world your own object will be baffled.” When Vásuki said this to him, Garuḍa consented, and began to eat every day in this place one snake sent by him: and in this way innumerable serpents have met their death here. But I am a snake called Śankachúḍa,18 and it is my turn to-day: for that reason I have to-day, by the command of the king of the snakes, in order to furnish a meal to Garuḍa, come to this rock of execution, and to be lamented by my mother.”

When Jímútaváhana heard this speech of Śankachúḍa’s, he was grieved, and felt sorrow in his heart and said to him, “Alas! Vásuki exercises his kingly power in a very cowardly fashion, in that with his own hand he conducts his subjects to serve as food for his enemy. Why did he not first offer himself to Garuḍa? To think of this effeminate creature choosing to witness the destruction of his race! And how great a sin does Garuḍa, though the son of Kaśyapa, commit! How great folly do even great ones commit for the sake of the body only! So I will to-day deliver you alone from Garuḍa by surrendering my body. Do not be despondent, my friend.” When Śankachúḍa heard this, he out of his firm patience said to him,—“This be far from thee, O great-hearted one, do not say so again. The destruction of a jewel for the sake of a piece of glass is never becoming. And I will never incur the reproach of having disgraced my race.” In these words the good snake Śankachúḍa tried to dissuade Jímútaváhana, and thinking that the time of Garuḍa’s arrival would come in a moment, he went to worship in his last hour an image of Śiva under the name of Gokarṇa, that [184]stood on the shore of the sea. And when he was gone, Jímútaváhana, that treasure-house of compassion, considered that he had gained an opportunity of offering himself up to save the snake’s life. Thereupon he quickly dismissed Mitrávasu to his own house on the pretext of some business, artfully pretending that he himself had forgotten it. And immediately the earth near him trembled, being shaken by the wind of the wings of the approaching Garuḍa, as if through astonishment at his valour. That made Jímútaváhana think that the enemy of the snakes was approaching, and full of compassion for others he ascended the stone of execution. And in a moment Garuḍa swooped down, darkening the heaven with his shadow, and carried off that great-hearted one, striking him with his beak. He shed drops of blood, and his crest-jewel dropped off torn out by Garuḍa, who took him away and began to eat him on the peak of the mountain. At that moment a rain of flowers fell from heaven, and Garuḍa was astonished when he saw it, wondering what it could mean.

In the meanwhile Śankachúḍa came there, having worshipped Gokarṇa, and saw the rock of execution sprinkled with many drops of blood; then he thought—“Alas! surely that great-hearted one has offered himself for me, so I wonder where Garuḍa has taken him in this short time. I must search for him quickly, perhaps I may find him.” Accordingly the good snake went following up the track of the blood. And in the meanwhile Garuḍa, seeing that Jímútaváhana was pleased, left off eating and thought with wonder: “This must be some one else, other than I ought to have taken, for though I am eating him, he is not at all miserable, on the contrary the resolute one rejoices.” While Garuḍa was thinking this, Jímútaváhana, though in such a state, said to him in order to attain his object: “O king of birds, in my body also there is flesh and blood; then why have you suddenly stopped eating, though your hunger is not appeased?” When he heard that, that king of birds, being overpowered with astonishment, said to him—“Noble one, you are not a snake, tell me who you are.” Jímútaváhana was just answering him, “I am a snake,19 so eat me, complete what you have begun, for men of resolution never leave unfinished an undertaking they have begun,” when Śankachúḍa arrived and cried out from afar, “Stop, stop, Garuḍa, he is not a snake, I am the snake meant for you, so let him go, alas! how have you suddenly come to make this mistake?” On hearing that, the king of birds was excessively bewildered, and Jímútaváhana was grieved at not having accomplished his desire. Then Garuḍa, learning, in the course of their conversation20 with one another, that he had [185]begun to devour by mistake the king of the Vidyádharas, was much grieved. He began to reflect, “Alas! in my cruelty I have incurred sin. In truth those who follow evil courses easily contract guilt. But this great-hearted one who has given his life for another, and despising21 the world, which is altogether under the dominion of illusion, come to face me, deserves praise.” Thinking thus, he was about to enter the fire to purify himself from guilt, when Jímútaváhana said to him: “King of birds, why do you despond? If you are really afraid of guilt, then you must determine never again to eat these snakes: and you must repent of eating all those previously devoured, for this is the only remedy available in this case, it was idle for you ever to think of any other.” Thus Jímútaváhana, full of compassion for creatures, said to Garuḍa, and he was pleased and accepted the advice of that king, as if he had been his spiritual preceptor, determining to do what he recommended; and he went to bring nectar from heaven to restore to life rapidly that wounded prince, and the other snakes, whose bones only remained. Then the goddess Gaurí, pleased with Jímútaváhana’s wife’s devotion to her, came in person and rained nectar on him: by that his limbs were reproduced with increased beauty, and the sound of the drums of the rejoicing gods was heard at the same time. Then, on his rising up safe and sound, Garuḍa brought the nectar of immortality22 from heaven, and sprinkled it along the whole shore of the sea. That made all the snakes there rise up alive, and then that forest along the shore of the sea, crowded with the numerous tribe of snakes, appeared like Pátála23 come to behold Jímútaváhana, having lost its previous dread of Garuḍa. Then Jímútaváhana’s relations congratulated him, having seen that he was glorious with unwounded body and undying fame. And his wife rejoiced with her relations, and his parents also. Who would not joy at pain ending in happiness? And with his permission Śankachúḍa departed to Rasátala,24 and without it his glory, of its own accord, spread through the three worlds. Then, by virtue of the favour of the daughter of the Himálaya all his relations, Matanga and others, who were long hostile to him, came to Garuḍa, before whom the troops of gods were inclining out of love, and timidly approaching the glory of the Vidyádhara race, prostrated themselves [186]at his feet. And being entreated by them, the benevolent Jímútaváhana went from that Malaya mountain to his own home, the slope of the Himálaya. There, accompanied by his parents and Mitrávasu and Malayavatí, the resolute one long enjoyed the honour of emperor of the Vidyádharas. Thus a course of fortunate events always of its own accord follows the footsteps of all those, whose exploits arouse the admiration of the three worlds. When the queen Vásavadattá heard this story from the mouth of Yaugandharáyaṇa, she rejoiced, as she was eager to hear of the splendour of her unborn son. Then, in the society of her husband, she spent that day in conversation about her son, who was to be the future king of the Vidyádharas, which was suggested by that story, for she placed unfailing reliance upon the promise of the favouring gods.

There was a king in Benares named Vikramachaṇḍa, and he had a favourite follower named Sinhaparákrama; who was wonderfully successful in all battles and in all gambling contests. And he had a wife very deformed both in body and mind, called by a name, which expressed her nature, Kalahakárí.3 This brave man continually obtained much money both from the king and from gambling, and, as soon as he got it, he gave it all to his wife. But the shrewish woman, backed by her three sons begotten by him, could not in spite of this remain one moment without a quarrel. She continually worried him by yelling out these words at him with her sons—“You are always eating and drinking away from home, and you never give us anything.” And though he was for ever trying to propitiate her with meat, drink, and raiment, she tortured him day and night like an interminable thirst. Then, at last, Sinhaparákrama vexed with indignation on that account, left his house, and went on a pilgrimage to the goddess Durgá that dwells in the Vindhya hills. While he was fasting, the goddess said to him in a dream: “Rise up, my son, go to thy own city of Benares; there is an enormous nyagrodha tree, by digging round its root thou wilt at once obtain a treasure. And in the treasure thou wilt find a dish of emerald, bright as a sword-blade, looking like a piece of the sky fallen down to earth; casting thy eyes on that, thou wilt see, as it were, reflected inside, the previous existence of every individual, in whatever case thou mayest wish to know it. By means of that thou wilt learn the previous birth of thy wife and of thyself, and having learned the truth wilt dwell there in happiness free from grief.” Having thus been addressed by the goddess, Sinhaparákrama woke up and broke his fast, and went in the morning to Benares; and after he had reached the city, he found at the root of the nyagrodha tree a treasure, and in it he discovered a large emerald dish, and, eager to learn the truth, he saw in that dish that in a previous birth his wife had been a terrible she-bear, and himself a lion. And so recognising that the hatred between himself and his wife was irremediable owing to the influence of bitter enmity in a previous birth, he abandoned grief and bewilderment. Then Sinhaparákrama examined many maidens by means of the dish, and discovering that they had belonged to alien races in a previous birth, he avoided them, but after he had discovered one, who had been a lioness in a previous birth and so was a suitable match for him, he married her as his second wife, and her name was Sinhaśrí. And after assigning to that Kalahakárí one village only as her portion, he lived, delighted with the acquisition of treasure, in the society of his new wife. Thus, O king, wives and others are friendly or hostile to men in this world by virtue of impressions in a previous state of existence. [189]

When the king of Vatsa had heard this wonderful story from Vasantaka, he was exceedingly delighted and so was the queen Vásavadattá. And the king was never weary day or night of contemplating the moon-like face of the pregnant queen. And as days went on, there were born to all of his ministers in due course sons with auspicious marks, who heralded approaching good fortune. First there was born to Yaugandharáyaṇa, the chief minister, a son Marubhúti by name. Then Rumaṇvat had a son called Hariśikha, and to Vasantaka there was born a son named Tapantaka. And to the head-warder called Nityodita, whose other title was Ityaka,4 there was born a son named Gomukha. And after they were born a great feast took place, and during it a bodiless voice was heard from heaven—“These ministers shall crush the race of the enemies of the son of the king of Vatsa here, the future universal emperor. And as days went by, the time drew near for the birth of the child, with which the queen Vásavadattá was destined to present the king of Vatsa, and she repaired to the ornamented lying-in-chamber, which was prepared by matrons having sons, and the windows of which were covered with arka and śamí plants. The room was hung with various weapons, rendered auspicious by being mixed with the gleam of jewel-lamps, shedding a blaze5 able to protect the child; and secured by conjurers who went through innumerable charms and spells and other incantations, so that it became a fortress of the matrons hard for calamity to storm, and there she brought forth in good time a prince of lovely aspect, as the heaven brings forth the moon from which stream pure nectarous rays. The child, when born, not only irradiated that room, but the heart also of that mother from which the darkness of grief had departed; then, as the delight of the inmates of the harem was gradually extended, the king heard of the birth of a son from the people who were admitted to it; the reason he did not give his kingdom in his delight to the person, who announced it, was, that he was afraid of committing an impropriety, not that he was avaricious. And so the king, suddenly coming to the harem with longing mind, beheld his son, and his hope bore fruit after a long delay. The child had a long red lower lip like a leaf, beautiful flowing hair like wool, and his whole face was like the lotus, which the goddess of the Fortune of empire carries for her delight. He was marked on his soft feet with umbrellas and chowries, as if the Fortunes of other kings had beforehand abandoned their badges in his favour, out of fear. Then, while the king shed with tearful eye, that swelled with the pressure of the fulness of the weight of his joy, drops that seemed to be drops of paternal [190]affection,6 and the ministers with Yaugandharáyaṇa at their head rejoiced, a voice was heard from heaven at that time to the following effect:

“King, this son that is born to thee is an incarnation of Káma,7 and know that his name is Naraváhanadatta; and he will soon become emperor of the kings of the Vidyádharas, and maintain that position unwearied for a kalpa of the gods.”8 When so much had been said, the voice stopped, and immediately a rain of flowers fell from heaven, and the sounds of the celestial drums went forth. Then the king, excessively delighted, made a great feast, which was rendered all the more solemn from the gods having begun it. The sound of cymbals floated in the air rising from temples, as if to tell all the Vidyádharas of the birth of their king: and red banners, flying in the wind on the tops of the palaces, seemed with their splendour to fling red dye to one another. On earth beautiful women assembled and danced everywhere, as if they were the nymphs of heaven glad that the god of love had been born with a body.9 And the whole city appeared equally splendid with new dresses and ornaments bestowed by the rejoicing king. For while that rich king rained riches upon his dependants, nothing but the treasury was empty. And the ladies belonging to the families of the neighbouring chieftains came in from all sides, with auspicious prayers, versed in the good custom,10 accompanied by dancing girls, bringing with them splendid presents, escorted by various excellent guards, attended with the sound of musical instruments, like all the cardinal points in bodily form. Every movement there was of the nature of a dance, every word uttered was attended with full vessels,11 every action was of the nature of munificence, the city resounded with musical instruments, the people were adorned with red powder, and the earth was covered with bards,—all these things were so in that city which was all full of festivity. Thus the great feast was carried on with increasing magnificence for many days, and did not come to an end before the wishes of the citizens were fully satisfied. And as days went on, that infant prince grew like the new moon, and his father bestowed on him with appropriate formalities the name of Naraváhanadatta, [191]which had been previously assigned him by the heavenly voice. His father was delighted when he saw him make his first two or three tottering steps, in which gleamed the sheen of his smooth fair toe-nails, and when he heard him utter his first two or three indistinct words, shewing his teeth which looked like buds. Then the excellent ministers brought to the infant prince their infant sons, who delighted the heart of the king, and commended them to him. First Yaugandharáyaṇa brought Marubhúti, and then Rumaṇvat Hariśikha, and then the head-warder named Ityaka brought Gomukha, and Vasantaka his son named Tapantaka. And the domestic chaplain Śántikara presented the two twin sons of Pingaliká, his nephews Śántisoma and Vaiśvánara. And at that moment there fell from heaven a rain of flowers from the gods, which a shout of joy made all the more auspicious, and the king rejoiced with the queens, having bestowed presents on that company of ministers’ sons. And that prince Naraváhanadatta was always surrounded by those six ministers’ sons devoted to him alone, who commanded respect even in their boyhood,12 as if with the six political measures that are the cause of great prosperity. The days of the lord of Vatsa passed in great happiness, while he gazed affectionately on his son with his smiling lotus-like face, going from lap to lap of the kings whose minds were lovingly attached to him, and making in his mirth a charming indistinct playful prattling. [193]

There lived long ago in a city called Vardhamána,3 the ornament of the earth, a king the terror of his foes, called Paropakárin. And this exalted monarch possessed a queen of the name of Kanakaprabhá,4 as the cloud holds the lightning, but she had not the fickleness of the lightning. And in course of time there was born to him by that queen a daughter, who seemed to have been formed by the Creator to dash Lakshmí’s pride in her beauty. And that moon of the eyes of the world was gradually reared to womanhood by her father, who gave her the name of Kanakarekhá suggested by her mother’s name Kanakaprabhá. Once on a time, when she had grown up, the king, her father, said to the queen Kanakaprabhá, who came to him in secret: “A grown up daughter cannot be kept in one’s house, accordingly Kanakarekhá troubles my heart with anxiety about a suitable marriage for her. For a maiden of good family, who does not obtain a proper position, is like a song out of tune; when heard of by the ears even of one unconnected with her, she causes distress. But a daughter, who through folly is made over to one not suitable, is like learning imparted to one not fit to receive it, and cannot tend to glory or merit but only to regret. So I am very anxious as to what king I must give this daughter of mine to, and who will be a fit match for her.” When Kanakaprabhá heard this, she laughed and said,—“You say this, but your daughter does not wish to be married; for to-day when she was playing with a doll and making believe it was a child, I said to her in fun, ‘My daughter, when shall I see you married?’ When she heard that, she answered me reproachfully: ‘Do not say so, you must not marry me to any one; and my separation from you is not appointed, I do well enough as a maiden, but if I am married, know that I shall be a corpse; there is a certain reason for this.’ As she has said this to me I have come to you, O king, in a state of distress; for, as she has refused to be married, what use is there in deliberating about a bridegroom?” When the king heard this from the queen, he was bewildered, and going to the private apartments of the princess he said to his daughter: “When the maidens of the gods and Asuras practise austerities in order to obtain a husband, why, my daughter, do you refuse to take one?’ When the princess Kanakarekhá heard this speech of her father’s, she fixed her eyes on the ground and said, Father, I do not desire to be married at present, so what object has my father in it, and why does he insist [195]upon it?” That king Paropakárin, when his daughter addressed him in that way, being the discreetest of men, thus answered her: “How can sin be avoided unless a daughter is given in marriage? And independence is not fit for a maiden who ought to be in dependence on relations? For a daughter in truth is born for the sake of another and is kept for him. The house of her father is not a fit place for her except in childhood. For if a daughter reaches puberty unmarried, her relations go to hell, and she is an outcast, and her bridegroom is called the husband of an outcast.” When her father said this to her, the princess Kanakarekhá immediately uttered a speech that was in her mind, “Father, if this is so, then whatever Bráhman or Kshatriya has succeeded in seeing the city called the Golden City, to him I must be given, and he shall be my husband, and if none such is found, you must not unjustly reproach me.” When his daughter said that to him, that king reflected: “It is a good thing at any rate that she has agreed to be married on a certain condition, and no doubt she is some goddess born in my house for a special reason, for else how comes she to know so much though she is a child?” Such were the king’s reflections at that time: so he said to his daughter, “I will do as you wish,” and then he rose up and did his day’s work. And on the next day, as he was sitting in the hall of audience, he said to his courtiers, “Has any one among you seen the city called the Golden City? Whoever has seen it, if he be a Bráhman or a Kshatriya, I will give him my daughter Kanakarekhá, and make him crown-prince.” And they all, looking at one another’s faces, said, “We have not even heard of it, much less have we seen it.” Then the king summoned the warder and said to him, “Go and cause a proclamation to be circulated in the whole of this town with the beating of drums, and find out if any one has really seen that city.” When the warder received this order, he said, “I will do so,” and went out; and after he had gone out, he immediately gave orders to the police, and caused a drum to be beaten all round the city, thus arousing curiosity to hear the proclamation, which ran as follows: “Whatever Bráhman or Kshatriya youth has seen the city called the Golden City, let him speak, and the king will give him his daughter and the rank of crown-prince.” Such was the astounding announcement proclaimed all about the town after the drum had been beaten. And the citizens said, after hearing that proclamation: “What is this Golden City that is to-day proclaimed in our town, which has never been heard of or seen even by those among us who are old?” But not a single one among them said, “I have seen it.”

And in the meanwhile a Bráhman living in that town, Śaktideva by name, the son of Baladeva, heard that proclamation; that youth, being addicted to vice, had been rapidly stripped of his wealth at the gaming-table, and he reflected, being excited by hearing of the giving in marriage [196]of the king’s daughter: “As I have lost all my wealth by gambling, I cannot now enter the house of my father, nor even the house of a hetæra, so, as I have no resource, it is better for me to assert falsely to those who are making the proclamation by beat of drum, that I have seen that city. Who will discover that I know nothing about it, for who has ever seen it? And in this way I may perhaps marry the princess.” Thus reflecting Śaktideva went to the police, and said falsely, “I have seen that city.” They immediately said to him, “Bravo! then come with us to the king’s warder.” So he went with them to the warder. And in the same way he falsely asserted to him that he had seen that city, and he welcomed him kindly, and took him to the king. And without wavering he maintained the very same story in the presence of the king: what indeed is difficult for a blackleg to do who is ruined by play? Then the king, in order to ascertain the truth, sent that Bráhman to his daughter Kanakarekhá, and when she heard of the matter from the mouth of the warder, and the Bráhman came near, she asked him: “Have you seen that Golden City?” Then he answered her, “Yes, that city was seen by me when I was roaming through the earth in quest of knowledge.”5 She next asked him, “By what road did you go there, and what is it like?” That Bráhman then went on to say: “From this place I went to a town called Harapura, and from that I next came to the city of Benares; and from Benares in a few days to the city of Pauṇḍravardhana, thence I went to that city called the Golden City, and I saw it, a place of enjoyment for those who act aright, like the city of Indra, the glory of which is made for the delight of gods.6 And having acquired learning there, I returned here after some time; such is the path by which I went, and such is that city.” After that fraudulent Bráhman Śaktideva had made up this story, the princess said with a laugh;—“Great Bráhman, you have indeed seen that city, but tell me, tell me again by what path you went.” When Śaktideva heard that, he again displayed his effrontery, and then the princess had him put out by her servants. And immediately after putting him out, she went to her father, and her father asked her: “Did that Bráhman speak the truth?”—And then the princess said to her father: “Though you are a king you act without due consideration; do you not know that rogues deceive honest people? For that Bráhman simply wants to impose on me with a falsehood, but the liar has never seen the golden city. And all kinds of deceptions are practised on the earth by rogues; for listen to the [197]story of Śiva and Mádhava, which I will tell you.” Having said this, the princess told the following tale:

There is an excellent city rightly named Ratnapura,7 and in it there were two rogues named Śiva and Mádhava. Surrounding themselves with many other rogues, they contrived for a long time to rob, by making use of trickery, all the rich men in the town. And one day those two deliberated together and said—“We have managed by this time to plunder this town thoroughly; so let us now go and live in the city of Ujjayiní; there we hear that there is a very rich man named Śankarasvámin, who is chaplain to the king. If we cheat him out of his money we may thereby enjoy the charms of the ladies of Málava. He is spoken of by Bráhmans as a miser, because he withholds8 half their usual fee with a frowning face, though he possesses treasure enough to fill seven vessels; and that Bráhman has a pearl of a daughter spoken of as matchless, we will manage to get her too out of him along with the money.” Having thus determined, and having arranged beforehand what part each was to play, the two rogues Śiva and Mádhava went out of that town. At last they reached Ujjayiní, and Mádhava, with his attendants, disguised as a Rájpút, remained in a certain village outside the town. But Śiva, who was expert in every kind of deception, having assumed perfectly the disguise of a religious ascetic, first entered that town alone. There he took up his quarters in a hut on the banks of the Siprá, in which he placed, so that they could be seen, clay, darbha grass, a vessel for begging, and a deer-skin. And in the morning he anointed his body with thick clay, as if testing beforehand his destined smearing with the mud of the hell Avíchi. And plunging in the water of the river, he remained a long time with his head downward, as if rehearsing beforehand his future descent to hell, the result of his evil actions. And when he rose up from his bath, he remained a long time looking up towards the sun, as if shewing that he deserved to be impaled. Then he went into the presence of the god and making rings of Kuśa grass,9 and muttering prayers, he remained sitting in the posture called Padmásana,10 with a hypocritical cunning face, and from time to time he made an offering to Vishṇu, having gathered white flowers, even as he took captive the [198]simple hearts of the good by his villainy; and having made his offering he again pretended to betake himself to muttering his prayers, and prolonged his meditations as if fixing his attention on wicked ways. And the next day, clothed in the skin of a black antelope, he wandered about the city in quest of alms, like one of his own deceitful leers intended to beguile it, and observing a strict silence he took three handfuls of rice from Bráhmans’ houses, still equipped with stick and deer-skin, and divided the food into three parts like the three divisions of the day, and part he gave to the crows, and part to his guest, and with the third part he filled his maw; and he remained for a long time hypocritically telling his beads, as if he were counting his sins at the same time, and muttering prayers; and in the night he remained alone in his hut, thinking over the weak points of his fellow-men, even the smallest; and by thus performing every day a difficult pretended penance he gained complete ascendancy over the minds of the citizens in every quarter. And all the people became devoted to him, and a report spread among them in every direction that Śiva was an exceedingly self-denying hermit.

And in the meanwhile his accomplice, the other rogue Mádhava, having heard from his emissaries how he was getting on, entered that city; and taking up his abode there in a distant temple, he went to the bank of the Siprá to bathe, disguised as a Rájpút, and after bathing, as he was returning with his retinue, he saw Śiva praying in front of the god, and with great veneration he fell at his feet, and said before all the people, “There is no other such ascetic in the world, for he has been often seen by me going round from one holy place to another.” But Śiva, though he saw him, kept his neck immoveable out of cunning, and remained in the same position as before, and Mádhava returned to his own lodging. And at night those two met together and ate and drank, and deliberated over the rest of their programme, what they must do next. And in the last watch of the night Śiva went back leisurely to his hut. And in the morning Mádhava said to one of his gang, “Take these two garments and give them as a present to the domestic chaplain of the king here, who is called Śankarasvámin, and say to him respectfully: ‘There is a Rájpút come from the Deccan of the name of Mádhava, who has been oppressed by his relations, and he brings with him much inherited wealth; he is accompanied by some other Rájpúts like himself, and he wishes to enter into the service of your king here, and he has sent me to visit you, O treasure-house of glory.’” The rogue, who was sent off by Mádhava with this message, went to the house of that chaplain with the present in his hand, and after approaching him, and giving him the present at a favourable moment, he delivered to him in private Mádhava’s message, as he had been ordered; he, for his part, out of his greed for presents, believed it all, anticipating other favours in the future, for a bribe [199]is the sovereign specific for attracting the covetous. The rogue then came back, and on the next day Mádhava, having obtained a favourable opportunity, went in person to visit that chaplain, accompanied by attendants, who hypocritically assumed the appearance of men desiring service,11 passing themselves off as Rájpúts, distinguished by the maces they carried; he had himself announced by an attendant preceding him, and thus he approached the family priest, who received him with welcomes which expressed his delight at his arrival. Then Mádhava remained engaged in conversation with him for some time, and at last being dismissed by him, returned to his own house. On the next day he sent another couple of garments as a present, and again approached that chaplain and said to him, “I indeed wish to enter into service to please my retainers, for that reason I have repaired to you, but I possess wealth.” When the chaplain heard that, he hoped to get something out of him, and he promised Mádhava to procure for him what he desired, and he immediately went and petitioned the king on this account, and, out of respect for the chaplain, the king consented to do what he asked. And on the next day the family priest took Mádhava and his retinue, and presented them to the king with all due respect. The king too, when he saw that Mádhava resembled a Rájpút in appearance, received him graciously and appointed him a salary. Then Mádhava remained there in attendance upon the king, and every night he met Śiva to deliberate with him. And the chaplain entreated him to live with him in his house, out of avarice, as he was intent on presents.

Then Mádhava with his followers repaired to the house of the chaplain; this settlement was the cause of the chaplain’s ruin, as that of the mouse in the trunk of the tree was the cause of its ruin. And he deposited a safe in the strong room of the chaplain, after filling it with ornaments made of false gems. And from time to time he opened the box and by cunningly half-shewing some of the jewels, he captivated the mind of the chaplain as that of a cow is captivated by grass. And when he had gained in this way the confidence of the chaplain, he made his body emaciated by taking little food, and falsely pretended that he was ill. And after a few days had passed, that prince of rogues said with weak voice to that chaplain, who was at his bedside; “My condition is miserable in this body, so bring, good Bráhman, some distinguished man of your caste, in order that I may bestow my wealth upon him for my happiness here and hereafter, for, life being unstable, what care can a wise man have for riches?” That chaplain, [200]who was devoted to presents, when addressed in this way, said, “I will do so,” and Mádhava fell at his feet. Then whatever Bráhman the chaplain brought, Mádhava refused to receive, pretending that he wanted a more distinguished one. One of the rogues in attendance upon Mádhava, when he saw this, said—“Probably an ordinary Bráhman does not please him. So it will be better now to find out whether the strict ascetic on the banks of Siprá named Śiva pleases him or not?” When Mádhava heard that, he said plaintively to that chaplain: “Yes, be kind, and bring him, for there is no other Bráhman like him.”

The chaplain, thus entreated, went near Śiva, and beheld him immoveable, pretending to be engaged in meditation. And then he walked round him, keeping him on his right hand, and sat down in front of him: and immediately the rascal slowly opened his eyes. Then the family priest, bending before him, said with bowed head,—“My Lord, if it will not make you angry, I will prefer a petition to you. There is dwelling here a very rich Rájpút from the Deccan, named Mádhava, and he, being ill, is desirous of giving away his whole property: if you consent, he will give you that treasure which glitters with many ornaments made out of priceless gems.” When Śiva heard that, he slowly broke silence, and said,—“O Bráhman, since I live on alms, and observe perpetual chastity, of what use are riches to me?” Then that chaplain went on to say to him, “Do not say that, great Bráhman, do you not know the due order of the periods in the life of a Bráhman?12 By marrying a wife, and performing in his house offerings to the Manes, sacrifices to the gods and hospitality to guests, he uses his property to obtain the three objects of life;13 the stage of the householder is the most useful of all.” Then Śiva said, “How can I take a wife, for I will not marry a woman from any low family?” When the covetous chaplain heard that, he thought that he would be able to enjoy his wealth at will, and, catching at the opportunity, he said to him: “I have an unmarried daughter named Vinayasváminí, and she is very beautiful, I will bestow her in marriage on you. And I will keep for you all the wealth which you receive as a donation from Mádhava, so enter on the duties of a householder.” When Śiva heard this, having got the very thing he wanted, he said, “Bráhman, if your heart is set on this,14 I will do what you say. But I am an ascetic who knows nothing about gold and jewels: I shall act as you advise; do as you think best.” When the chaplain heard that speech of Śiva’s, he was delighted, and the fool said, “Agreed”—and conducted [201]Śiva to his house. And when he had introduced there that inauspicious guest named Śiva,15 he told Mádhava what he had done and was applauded by him. And immediately he gave Śiva his daughter, who had been carefully brought up, and in giving her he seemed to be giving away his own prosperity lost by his folly. And on the third day after his marriage, he took him to Mádhava who was pretending to be ill, to receive his present. And Mádhava rose up and fell at his feet and said what was quite true, “I adore thee whose asceticism is incomprehensible.”16 And in accordance with the prescribed form he bestowed on Śiva that box of ornaments made of many sham jewels, which was brought from the chaplain’s treasury. Śiva for his part, after receiving it, gave it into the hand of the chaplain, saying, “I know nothing about this, but you do.” And that priest immediately took it, saying, “I undertook to do this long ago, why should you trouble yourself about it?” Then Śiva gave them his blessing, and went to his wife’s private apartments, and the chaplain took the box and put it in his strong room. Mádhava for his part gradually desisted from feigning sickness, affecting to feel better the next day, and said that his disease had been cured by virtue of his great gift. And he praised the chaplain when he came near, saying to him, “It was by your aiding me in an act of faith that I tided over this calamity.” And he openly struck up a friendship with Śiva, asserting that it was due to the might of Śiva’s holiness that his life had been saved. Śiva, for his part, after some days said to the chaplain: “How long am I to feast in your house in this style? Why do you not take from me those jewels for some fixed sum of money? If they are valuable, give me a fair price for them.” When the priest heard that, thinking that the jewels were of incalculable value, he consented, and gave to Śiva as purchase-money his whole living. And he made Śiva sign a receipt for the sum with his own hand, and he himself too signed a receipt for the jewels, thinking that that treasure far exceeded his own wealth in value. And they separated, taking one another’s receipts, and the chaplain lived in one place, while Śiva kept house in another. And then Śiva and Mádhava dwelt together and remained there leading a very pleasant life consuming the chaplain’s wealth. And as time went on, that chaplain, being in need of cash, went to the town to sell one of the ornaments in the bazar.

Then the merchants, who were connoisseurs in jewels, said after examining it, “Ha! the man who made these sham jewels was a clever fellow, whoever he was. For this ornament is composed of pieces of glass and quartz coloured with various colours and fastened together with brass, and there are no gems or gold in it.” When the chaplain heard that, [202]he went in his agitation and brought all the ornaments from his house, and showed them to the merchants. When they saw them, they said that all of them were composed of sham jewels in the same way; but the chaplain, when he heard that, was, so to speak, thunderstruck. And immediately the fool went off and said to Śiva, “Take back your ornaments and give me back my own wealth.” But Śiva answered him, “How can I possibly have retained your wealth till now? Why it has all in course of time been consumed in my house.” Then the chaplain and Śiva fell into an altercation, and went, both of them, before the king, at whose side Mádhava was standing. And the chaplain made this representation to the king: “Śiva has consumed all my substance, taking advantage of my not knowing that a great treasure, which he deposited in my house,17 was composed of skilfully coloured pieces of glass and quartz fastened together with brass.” Then Śiva said, “King, from my childhood I have been a hermit, and I was persuaded by that man’s earnest petition to accept a donation, and when I took it, though inexperienced in the ways of the world, I said to him, ‘I am no connoisseur in jewels and things of that kind, and I rely upon you,’ and he consented saying, ‘I will be your warrant in the matter.’ And I accepted all the donation and deposited it in his hand. Then he bought the whole from me at his own price, and we hold from one another mutual receipts; and now it is in the king’s power to grant me help in my sorest need.” Śiva having thus finished his speech, Mádhava said, “Do not say this, you are honourable, but what fault have I committed in the matter? I never received anything either from you or from Śiva; I had some wealth inherited from my father, which I had long deposited elsewhere; then I brought that wealth and presented it to a Bráhman. If the gold is not real gold, and the jewels are not real jewels, then let us suppose that I have reaped fruit from giving away brass, quartz, and glass. But the fact that I was persuaded with sincere heart that I was giving something, is clear from this, that I recovered from a very dangerous illness.” When Mádhava said this to him without any alteration in the expression of his face, the king laughed and all his ministers, and they were highly delighted. And those present in court said, laughing in their sleeves, “Neither Mádhava nor Śiva has done anything unfair.” Thereupon that chaplain departed with downcast countenance, having lost his wealth. For of what calamities is not the blinding of the mind with excessive greed the cause? And so those two rogues Śiva and Mádhava long remained there, happy in having obtained the favour of the delighted king.

“Thus do rogues spread the webs of their tongue with hundreds of intricate threads, like fishermen upon dry land, living by the net. So you may be certain, my father, that this Bráhman is a case in point. By falsely [203]asserting that he has seen the City of Gold, he wishes to deceive you, and to obtain me for a wife. So do not be in a hurry to get me married; I shall remain unmarried at present, and we will see what will happen.” When the king Paropakárin heard this from his daughter Kanakarekhá, he thus answered her: “When a girl is grown up, it is not expedient that she should remain long unmarried, for wicked people envious of good qualities, falsely impute sin. And people are particularly fond of blackening the character of one distinguished; to illustrate this, listen to the story of Harasvámin which I am about to tell you.”

There is a city on the banks of the Ganges named Kusumapura,19 and in it there was an ascetic who visited holy places, named Harasvámin. He was a Bráhman living by begging; and constructing a hut on the banks of the Ganges, he became, on account of his surprisingly rigid asceticism, the object of the people’s respect.20 And one day a wicked man among the inhabitants, who could not tolerate his virtue, seeing him from a distance going out to beg, said, “Do you know what a hypocritical ascetic that is? It is he that has eaten up all the children in this town.” When a second there who was like him, heard this, he said, “It is true, I also have heard people saying this.” And a third confirming it said, “Such is the fact.” The chain of villains’ conversation binds reproach on the good. And in this way the report spread from ear to ear, and gained general credence in the city. And all the citizens kept their children by force in their houses, saying, “Harasvámin carries off all the children and eats them.” And then the Bráhmans in that town, afraid that their offspring would be destroyed, assembled and deliberated about his banishment from the city. And as they did not dare to tell him face to face, for fear he might perhaps eat them up in his rage, they sent messengers to him. And those messengers went and said to him from a distance; “The Bráhmans command you to depart from this city.” Then in his astonishment he asked them “Why?” And they went on to say; “You eat every child as soon as you see it.” When Harasvámin heard that, he went near those Bráhmans, in order to reassure them, and the people fled before him for fear. And the Bráhmans, as soon as they saw him, were terrified and went up to the top of their monastery. People who are deluded by reports are not, as a rule, capable of discrimination. Then Harasvámin standing below called all the Bráhmans who were above, one by one, by name, and said to them, “What delusion is [204]this, Bráhmans? Why do you not ascertain with one another how many children I have eaten, and whose, and how many of each man’s children.” When they heard that, the Bráhmans began to compare notes among themselves, and found that all of them had all their children left alive. And in course of time other citizens, appointed to investigate the matter, admitted that all their children were living. And merchants and Bráhmans and all said, “Alas in our folly we have belied a holy man; the children of all of us are alive; so whose children can he have eaten?” Harasvámin, being thus completely exonerated, prepared to leave that city, for his mind was seized with disgust at the slanderous report got up against him by wicked men. For what pleasure can a wise man take in a wicked place, the inhabitants of which are wanting in discrimination? Then the Bráhmans and merchants, prostrating themselves at his feet, entreated him to stay there, and he at last, though with reluctance, consented to do so.

“In this way evil men often impute crime falsely to good men, allowing their malicious garrulity full play on beholding their virtuous behaviour. Much more, if they obtain a slight glimpse of any opportunity for attacking them, do they pour copious showers of oil on the fire thus kindled. Therefore if you wish, my daughter, to draw the arrow from my heart, you must not, while this fresh youth of yours is developing, remain unmarried to please yourself, and so incur the ready reproach of evil men.” Such was the advice which the princess Kanakarekhá frequently received from her father the king, but she, being firmly resolved, again and again answered him: “Therefore quickly search for a Bráhman or Kshatriya who has seen that City of Gold and give me to him, for this is the condition I have named.” When the king heard that, reflecting that his daughter, who remembered her former birth, had completely made up her mind, and seeing no other way of obtaining for her the husband she desired, he issued another order to the effect that henceforth the proclamation by beat of drum was to take place every day in the city, in order to find out whether any of the newcomers had seen the Golden City. And once more it was proclaimed in every quarter of the city every day, after the drum had been beaten,—“If any Bráhman or Kshatriya has seen the Golden City, let him speak; the king will give him his own daughter, together with the rank of Crown-prince.” But no one was found who had obtained a sight of the Golden City. [205]

Formerly there was a great Bráhman named Govindasvámin, living on a great royal grant of land on the banks of the Yamuná. And in course of time there were born to that virtuous Bráhman two sons like himself, Aśokadatta and Vijayadatta. While they were living there, there arose a [209]terrible famine in that land, and so Govindasvámin said to his wife; “This land is ruined by famine, and I cannot bear to behold the misery of my friends and relations. For who gives anything to anybody? So let us at any rate give away to our friends and relations what little food we possess and leave this country. And let us go with our family to Benares to live there.” When he said this to his wife, she consented, and he gave away his food, and set out from that place with his wife, sons, and servants. For men of noble soul cannot bear to witness the miseries of their relatives. And on the road he beheld a skull-bearing Śaiva ascetic, white with ashes, and with matted hair, like the god Śiva himself with his half-moon. The Bráhman approached that wise man with a bow, and out of love for his sons, asked him about their destiny, whether it should be good or bad, and that Yogí answered him: “The future destiny of your sons is auspicious, but you shall be separated, Bráhman, from this younger one Vijayadatta, and finally by the might of the second Aśokadatta you shall be reunited to him.” Govindasvámin, when that wise man said this to him, took leave of him and departed overpowered with joy, grief, and wonder; and after reaching Benares he spent the day there in a temple of Durgá outside the town, engaged in worshipping the goddess and such like occupations. And in the evening he encamped outside that temple under a tree, with his family, in the company of pilgrims who had come from other countries. And at night, while all were asleep, wearied with their long journey, stretched out on strewn leaves, and, such other beds as travellers have to put up with, his younger son Vijayadatta, who was awake, was suddenly seized with a cold ague-fit; that ague quickly made him tremble, and caused his hair to stand on end, as if it had been the fear of his approaching separation from his relations. And oppressed with the cold he woke up his father, and said to him: “A terrible ague afflicts me here now, father, so bring fuel and light me a fire to keep off the cold, in no other way can I obtain relief or get through the night.” When Govindasvámin heard him say this, he was distressed at his suffering, and said to him; “Whence can I procure fire now my son?” Then his son said; “Why surely we may see a fire burning near us on this side, and it is very large, so why should I not go there and warm my body? So take me by the hand, for I have a shivering fit, and lead me there.” Thus entreated by his son the Bráhman went on to say: “This is a cemetery,9 and the fire is that of a funeral pyre, so how can you go to a place terrible from the presence of goblins and other spirits, for you are only a child?” When the brave Vijayadatta heard that speech of his affectionate father’s, he laughed and said in his confidence, “What can the wretched goblins and other evil ones do to me? Am I a weakling? So take me there without [210]fear.” When he said this so persistently, his father led him there, and the boy warming his body approached the pyre, which seemed to bear on itself the presiding deity of the Rákshasas in visible form, with the smoke of the flames for dishevelled hair, devouring the flesh of men. The boy at once encouraged his father10 and asked him what the round thing was that he saw inside the pyre. And his father standing at his side, answered him, “This, my son, is the skull of a man which is burning in the pyre.” Then the boy in his recklessness struck the skull with a piece of wood lighted at the top, and clove it. The brains spouted up from it and entered his mouth, like the initiation into the practices of the Rákshasas, bestowed upon him by the funeral flame. And by tasting them that boy became a Rákshasa, with hair standing on end, with sword that he had drawn from the flame, terrible with projecting tusks: so he seized the skull and drinking the brains from it, he licked it with tongue restlessly quivering like the flames of fire that clung to the bone. Then be flung aside the skull, and lifting his sword he attempted to slay his own father Govindasvámin. But at that moment a voice came out from the cemetery, “Kapálasphoṭa,11 thou god, thou oughtest not to slay thy father, come here.” When the boy heard that, having obtained the title of Kapálasphoṭa and become a Rákshasa, he let his father alone, and disappeared; and his father departed exclaiming aloud, “Alas my son! Alas my virtuous son! Alas Vijayadatta!” And he returned to the temple of Durgá; and in the morning he told his wife and his eldest son Aśokadatta what had taken place. Then that unfortunate man together with them suffered an attack of the fire of grief, terrible like the falling of lightning from a cloud, so that the other people, who were sojourning in Benares, and had come to visit the shrine of the goddess, came up to him and sympathised heartily with his sorrow. In the meanwhile a great merchant, who had come to worship the goddess, named Samudradatta, beheld Govindasvámin in that state. The good man approached him and comforted him, and immediately took him and his family home to his own house. And there he provided him with a bath and other luxuries, for this is the innate tendency of the great, to have mercy upon the wretched. Govindasvámin also and his wife recovered their self-command, having heard12 the speech of the great Śaiva ascetic, hoping to be re-united to their son. And thenceforth he lived in that city of Benares, in the house of that rich merchant, having been asked by him [211]to do so. And there his other son Aśokadatta grew up to be a young man, and after studying the sciences learnt boxing and wrestling. And gradually he attained such eminence in these arts, that he was not surpassed by any champion on the earth. And once on a time there was a great gathering of wrestlers at an idol procession, and a great and famous wrestler came from the Deccan. He conquered all the other wrestlers of the king of Benares, who was called Pratápamukuṭa, before his eyes. Then the king had Aśokadatta quickly summoned from the house of that excellent merchant, and ordered him to contend with that wrestler. That wrestler began the combat by catching the arm of Aśokadatta with his hand, but Aśokadatta seized his arm, and hurled him to the ground. Then the field of combat, as it were, pleased, applauded the victor with the resounding noise produced by the fall of that champion wrestler. And the king being gratified, loaded Aśokadatta with jewels, and having seen his might, he made him his own personal attendant. So he became a favourite of the king’s, and in time attained great prosperity, for to one who possesses heroic qualities, a king who appreciates merit is a perfect treasure-house. Once on a time, that king went on the fourteenth day of the month away from his capital, to worship the god Śiva in a splendid temple in a distant town. After he had paid his devotions, he was returning by night near the cemetery when he heard this utterance issue from it: “O king, the chief magistrate out of private malice proclaimed that I deserved death, and it is now the third day since I was impaled, and even now my life will not leave my body, though I am innocent, so I am exceedingly thirsty; O king, order water to be given me.” When the king heard it, out of pity he said to his personal attendant Aśokadatta, “Send that man some water.” Then Aśokadatta said, “Who would go there at night? So I had better go myself.” Accordingly he took the water, and set off. After the king had proceeded on his way to his capital, the hero entered that cemetery, the interior of which was difficult to penetrate, as it was filled with dense darkness within; in it there were awful evening oblations offered with the human flesh scattered about by the jackals; in places the cemetery was lighted up by the flaming beacons of the blazing funeral pyres, and in it the Vetálas made terrible music with the clapping of their hands, so that it seemed as if it were the palace of black night. Then he cried aloud, “Who asked the king for water?” And he heard from one quarter an answer, “I asked for it.” Following the voice he went to a funeral pyre near, and beheld a man impaled on the top of a stake, and underneath it he saw a woman that he had never seen before, weeping, adorned with beautiful ornaments, lovely in every limb; like the night adorned with the rays of the moon, now that the moon itself had set, its splendour having waned in the dark fortnight, come to worship the funeral pyre. He asked the [212]woman: “Who are you, mother, and why are you standing weeping here?” She answered him, “I am the ill-fated wife of him who is here impaled, and I am waiting here with the firm intention of ascending the funeral pyre with him. And I am waiting some time for his life to leave his body, for though it is the third day of his impalement, his breath does not depart. And he often asks for that water which I have brought here, but I cannot reach his mouth, my friend, as the stake is high.” When he heard that speech of hers, the mighty hero said to her: “But here is water in my hand sent to him by the king, so place your foot on my back and lift it to his mouth, for the mere touching of another man in sore need does not disgrace a woman.” When she heard that, she consented, and taking the water she climbed up so as to plant her two feet on the back of Aśokadatta, who bent down at the foot of the stake. Soon after, as drops of blood unexpectedly began to fall upon the earth and on his back, the hero lifted up his face and looked. Then he saw that woman cutting off slice after slice of that impaled man’s flesh with a knife, and eating it.13

Then, perceiving that she was some horrible demon,14 he dragged her down in a rage, and took hold of her by her foot with its tinkling anklets in order to dash her to pieces on the earth. She, for her part, dragged away from him that foot, and by her deluding power quickly flew up into the heaven, and became invisible. And the jewelled anklet, which had fallen from her foot, while she was dragging it away, remained in one of Aśokadatta’s hands. Then he, reflecting that she had disappeared after shewing herself mild at first, and evil-working in the middle, and at the end horror-striking by assuming a terrible form, like association with wicked men,—and seeing that heavenly anklet in his hand, was astonished, grieved and delighted at the same time; and then he left that cemetery, taking the anklet with him, and went to his own house, and in the morning, after bathing, to the palace of the king.

And when the king said—“Did you give the water to the man who was impaled,” he said he had done so, and gave him that anklet; and when the king of his own accord asked him where it came from, he told that king his wonderful and terrible night-adventure. And then the king, perceiving that his courage was superior to that of all men, though he was [213]before pleased with his other excellent qualities, was now more exceedingly delighted; and he took that anklet in his joy and gave it with his own hand to the queen, and described to her the way in which he had obtained it. And she, hearing the story and beholding that heavenly jewelled anklet, rejoiced in her heart and was continually engaged in extolling Aśokadatta. Then the king said to her: “Queen, in birth, in learning, in truthfulness and beauty Aśokadatta is great among the great; and I think it would be a good thing if he were to become the husband of our lovely daughter Madanalekhá; in a bridegroom these qualities are to be looked for, not fortune that vanishes in a moment, so I will give my daughter to this excellent hero.” When she heard that speech of her husband’s, that queen approving the proposal said, “It is quite fitting, for the youth will be an appropriate match for her, and her heart has been captivated by him, for she saw him in a spring-garden, and for some days her mind has been in a state of vacancy and she neither hears nor sees; I heard of it from her confidante, and, after spending an anxious night, towards morning I fell asleep, and I remember I was thus addressed by some heavenly woman in a dream, ‘My child, thou must not give this thy daughter Madanalekhá to any one but Aśokadatta, for she is his wife acquired by him in a former birth.’ And when I heard it, I woke up, and in the morning I went myself on the strength of the dream and consoled my daughter. And now, my husband has of his own accord proposed the marriage to me. Let her therefore be united to him, as a spring-creeper to its stalk.” When the king’s beloved wife said this to him, he was pleased, and he made festal rejoicings, and summoning Aśokadatta gave that daughter to him. And the union of those two, the daughter of the king, and the son of the great Bráhman, was such that each enhanced the other’s glory, like the union of prosperity and modesty. And once upon a time the queen said to the king, with reference to the anklet brought by Aśokadatta: “My husband, this anklet by itself does not look well, so let another be made like it.” When the king heard that, he gave an order to the goldsmiths and other craftsmen of the kind, to make a second anklet like that. But they, after examining it said;—“It is impossible, O king, to make another like it, for the work is heavenly, not human. There are not many jewels of this kind upon the earth, so let another be sought for where this was obtained.” When the king and the queen heard this, they were despondent, and Aśokadatta who was there, on seeing that, immediately said, “I myself will bring you a fellow to that anklet.” And having made this promise he could not give up the project on which he was resolved, although the king, terrified at his temerity, endeavoured to dissuade him out of affection. And taking the anklet he went again on the fourteenth night of the black fortnight to the cemetery where he had first obtained it; and after he had entered that cemetery which [214]was full of Rákshasas as it was of trees, besmirched with the copious smoke of the funeral pyres, and with men hanging from their trunks15 which were weighed down and surrounded with nooses, he did not at first see that woman that he had seen before, but he thought of an admirable device for obtaining that bracelet, which was nothing else than the selling of human flesh.16 So he pulled down a corpse from the noose by which it was suspended on the tree, and he wandered about in the cemetery, crying aloud—“Human flesh for sale, buy, buy!” And immediately a woman called to him from a distance, saying, “Courageous man, bring the human flesh and come along with me.” When he heard that, he advanced following that woman, and beheld at no great distance under a tree a lady of heavenly appearance, surrounded with women, sitting on a throne, glittering with jewelled ornaments, whom he would never have expected to find in such a place, any more than to find a lotus in a desert. And having been led up by that woman, he approached the lady seated as has been described, and said, “Here I am, I sell human flesh, buy, buy!” And then the lady of heavenly appearance said to him, “Courageous hero, for what price will you sell the flesh?” Then the hero, with the corpse hanging over his shoulder and back, said to her, shewing her at the same time that single jewelled anklet which was in his hand, “I will give this flesh to whoever will give me a second anklet like this one; if you have got a second like it, take the flesh.” When she heard that, she said to him, “I have a second like it, for this very single anklet was taken by you from me. I am that very woman who was seen by you near the impaled man, but you do not recognise me now, because I have assumed another shape. So what is the use of flesh? If you do what I tell you, I will give you my second anklet, which matches the one in your hand.” When she said this to the hero, he consented and said, “I will immediately do whatever you say.” Then she told him her whole desire from the beginning: “There is, good sir, a city named Trighanṭa on a peak of the Himálayas. In it there lived a heroic prince of the Rákshasas named Lambajihva. I am his wife, Vidyuchchhikhá by name, and I can change my form at will. And as fate would have it, that husband of mine, after the birth of my daughter, was slain in battle fighting in front of the king Kapálasphoṭa; then that king being pleased gave me his own city, and I have lived with my daughter in great comfort on its proceeds up to the present time. And that daughter of mine has by this time grown up to fresh womanhood, and I have great anxiety in my mind as to how to obtain for her a brave husband. Then being here on the fourteenth night of the lunar fortnight, and seeing you coming [215]along this way with the king, I thought—‘This good-looking youth is a hero and a fit match for my daughter. So why should I not devise some stratagem for obtaining him?’ Thus I determined, and imitating the voice of an impaled person, I asked for water, and brought you into the middle of that cemetery by a trick. And there I exhibited my delusive power in assuming a false shape and other characteristics, and saying what was false I imposed upon you there, though only for a moment. And I artfully left one of my anklets there to attract you again, like a binding chain to draw you, and then I came away. And to-day I have obtained you by that very expedient, so come to my house; marry my daughter and receive the other anklet.” When the Rákshasí said this to him, the hero consented, and by means of her magic power he went with her through the air to her city. And he saw that city built of gold on a peak of the Himálayas, like the orb of the sun fixed in one spot, being weary with the toil of wandering through the heavens. There he married that daughter of the prince of the Rákshasas, by name Vidyutprabhá, like the success of his own daring incarnate in bodily form. And Aśokadatta dwelt with that loved one some time in that city, enjoying great comfort by means of his mother-in-law’s wealth. Then he said to his mother-in-law, “Give me that anklet, for I must now go to the city of Benares, for I myself long ago promised the king that I would bring a second anklet, that would vie with the first one so distinguished for its unparalleled beauty.” The mother-in-law, having been thus entreated by her son-in-law, gave him that second anklet of hers, and in addition a golden lotus.17

Then he left that city with the anklet and the lotus, after promising to return, and his mother-in-law by the power of her magic knowledge carried him once more through the air to the cemetery. And then she stopped under the tree and said to him, “I always come here on the fourteenth night of the black fortnight, and whenever you come here on that18 night, you will find me here under the banyan-tree.” When Aśokadatta heard this, he agreed to come there on that night, and took leave of that Rákshasí, and went first to his father’s house. And just as he was gladdening by his unexpected arrival his parents, who were grieved by such an absence of his, which doubled their grief for their separation from their younger son, the king his father-in-law, who had heard of his arrival, came in. The king indulged in a long outburst of joy, embracing him who bent before him, with limbs the hairs of which stood on end like thorns, as if terrified at touching one so daring.19 Then Aśokadatta entered with him the palace of the king, [216]like joy incarnate in bodily form, and he gave to the king those two anklets matched together, which so to speak praised his valour with their tinkling, and he bestowed on that king the beautiful golden lotus, as it were the lotus, with which the presiding Fortune of the Rákshasas’ treasure plays, torn, from her hand; then being questioned out of curiosity by the king and queen he told the story of his exploits, which poured nectar into their ears. The king then exclaimed—“Is glittering glory, which astonishes the mind by the description of wonderful exploits, ever obtained without a man’s bringing himself to display boldness?” Thus the king spake on that occasion, and he and the queen, who had obtained the pair of anklets, considered their object in life attained, now that they had such a son-in-law. And then that palace, resounding with festal instruments, appeared as if it were chanting the virtues of Aśokadatta. And on the next day the king dedicated the golden lotus in a temple made by himself, placing it upon a beautiful silver vessel; and the two together, the vessel and the lotus, gleamed white and red like the glory of the king and the might20 of Aśokadatta. And beholding them thus, the king, a devout worshipper of Śiva, with eyes expanded with joy, spoke inspired with the rapture of adoration, “Ah! this lofty vessel appears, with this lotus upon it, like Śiva white with ashes, with his auburn matted locks. If I had a second golden lotus like it, I would place it in this second silver vessel.” When Aśokadatta heard this speech of the king’s, he said, “I, king, will bring you a second golden lotus;” when the king heard that, he answered him, “I have no need of another lotus, a truce to your temerity!” Then as days went on, Aśokadatta being desirous of bringing a golden lotus, the fourteenth day of the black fortnight returned; and that evening the sun, the golden lotus of the sky-lake, went to the mountain of setting, as if out of fear, knowing his desire for a golden lotus; and when the shades of night, brown as smoke, began immediately to spread everywhere like Rákshasas, proud of having swallowed the red clouds of evening as if they were raw flesh, and the mouth of night, like that of an awful female goblin, began to yawn, shining and terrible as tamála, full of flickering flames,21 Aśokadatta of his own accord left the palace where the princess was asleep, and again went to that cemetery. There he beheld at the foot of that banyan-tree his mother-in-law the Rákshasí, who had again come, and who received him with a courteous welcome, and with her the youth went again to her home, the peak of the Himálayas, where his wife was anxiously awaiting him. And after he had remained some time with his wife, he said to his mother-in-law, “Give me a second golden lotus from somewhere or other.” When [217]she heard that, she said to him, “Whence can I procure another golden lotus? But there is a lake here belonging to our king Kapálasphoṭa, where golden lotuses of this kind grow on all sides. From that lake he gave that one lotus to my husband as a token of affection.” When she said this, he answered her, “Then take me to that lake, in order that I may myself take a golden lotus from it.” She then attempted to dissuade him saying, “It is impossible; for the lake is guarded by terrible Rákshasas;” but nevertheless he would not desist from his importunity. Then at last his mother-in-law was with much difficulty induced to take him there, and he beheld from afar that heavenly lake on the plateau of a lofty mountain, covered with dense and tall-stalked lotuses of gleaming gold, as if from continually facing the sun’s rays they had drunk them in, and so become interpenetrated with them.

So he went there and began to gather the lotuses, and while he was thus engaged, the terrible Rákshasas, who guarded it, endeavoured to prevent him from doing so. And being armed he killed some of them, but the others fled and told their king Kapálasphoṭa,22 and when that king of the Rákshasas heard of it, he was enraged and came there himself, and saw Aśokadatta with the lotuses he had carried off. And in his astonishment he exclaimed as he recognised his brother: “What! is this my brother Aśokadatta come here?” Then he flung away his weapon, and with his eyes washed with tears of joy, he quickly ran and fell at his feet, and said to him: “I am Vijayadatta, your younger brother, we are both the sons of that excellent Bráhman Govindasvámin. And by the appointment of destiny, I became a Rákshasa such as you see, and have continued such for this long time, and I am called Kapálasphoṭa from my cleaving the skull on the funeral pyre.

“But now from seeing you I have remembered my former Bráhman nature, and that Rákshasa nature of mine, that clouded my mind with delusion, has left me.” When Vijayadatta said this, Aśokadatta embraced him, and so to speak, washed with copious tears of joy his body defiled by the Rákshasa nature. And while he was thus engaged, there descended from heaven by divine command the spiritual guide of the Vidyádharas, named Kauśika. And he approaching these two brothers, said, “You and your family are all Vidyádharas, who have been reduced to this state by a curse, and now the curse of all of you has terminated. So receive these sciences, which belong to you, and which you must share with your relations. And return to your own proper dwelling taking with you your relations.” Having said this, the spiritual guide, after bestowing the sciences on them, ascended to heaven.

And they, having become Vidyádharas, awoke from their long dream, [218]and went through the air to that peak of the Himálayas, taking with them the golden lotuses, and there Aśokadatta repaired to his wife the daughter of the king of the Rákshasas, and then her curse came to an end, and she became a Vidyádharí. And those two brothers went in a moment with that fair-eyed one to Benares, travelling through the air. And there they visited their parents, who were scorched with the fire of separation, and refreshed them by pouring upon them the revivifying nectar of their own appearance. And those two, who, without changing the body, had gone through such wonderful transformations, produced joy not only in their parents, but in the people at large. And when Vijayadatta’s father, after so long a separation, folded him in a close embrace, he filled full not only his arms, but also his desire. Then the king Pratápamukuṭa, the father-in-law of Aśokadatta, hearing of it, came there in high delight; and Aśokadatta, being kindly received by the king, entered with his relations the king’s palace, in which his beloved was anxiously awaiting him, and which was in a state of festal rejoicing. And he gave many golden lotuses to that king, and the king was delighted at getting more than he had asked for. Then Vijayadatta’s father Govindasvámin, full of wonder and curiosity, said to him in the presence of all: “Tell me, my son, what sort of adventures you had, after you had become a Rákshasa in the cemetery during the night.” Then Vijayadatta said to him—“My father, when in my reckless frivolity I had cloven the burning skull on the funeral pyre, as fate would have it, I immediately, as you saw, became a Rákshasa by its brains having entered my mouth, being bewildered with delusion. Then I was summoned by the other Rákshasas, who gave me the name of Kapálasphoṭa, and I joined them. And then I was led by them to their sovereign the king of the Rákshasas, and he, when he saw me, was pleased with me and appointed me commander-in-chief. And once on a time that king of the Rákshasas went in his infatuation to attack the Gandharvas, and was there slain in battle by his foes. And then his subjects accepted my rule, so I dwelt in his city and ruled those Rákshasas, and while I was there, I suddenly beheld that elder brother of mine Aśokadatta, who had come for golden lotuses, and the sight of him put a stop to that Rákshasa nature in me. What follows, how we were released from the power of the curse, and thereby recovered our sciences,23 all this my elder brother will relate to you.” When Vijayadatta had told this story, Aśokadatta began to tell his from the beginning: “Long ago we were Vidyádharas, and from the heaven we beheld the daughters of the hermits bathing in the Ganges near the hermitage of Gálava,24 and then we fell suddenly in love with them, and they returned [219]our affection; all this took place in secret, but their relations, who possessed heavenly insight, found it out and cursed us in their anger: ‘May you two wicked ones be born both of you to a mortal woman, and then you shall be separated in a marvellous manner, but when the second of you shall behold the first arrived in a distant land, inaccessible to man, and shall recognise him, then you shall have your magic knowledge restored to you by the spiritual preceptor of the Vidyádharas, and you shall again become Vidyádharas, released from the curse and re-united to your friends.’ Having been cursed in this way by those hermits, we were both born here in this land, and you know the whole story of our separation, and now by going to the city of the king of the Rákshasas, by virtue of my mother-in-law’s magic power, to fetch the golden lotuses, I have found this younger brother of mine. And in that very place we obtained the sciences from our preceptor Prajnaptikauśika, and suddenly becoming Vidyádharas we have quickly arrived here.” Thus Aśokadatta spoke, and then that hero of various adventures, delighted at having escaped the darkness of the curse, bestowed on his parents and his beloved, the daughter of the king, his own wonderful sciences of many kinds, so that their minds were suddenly awakened, and they became Vidyádharas. Then the happy hero took leave of the king, and with his brother, his parents, and his two wives, flew up, and quickly reached through the air the palace of his emperor. There he beheld him, and received his orders, and so did his brother, and he bore henceforth the name of Aśokavega, and his brother of Vijayavega. And both the brothers, having become noble Vidyádhara youths, went, accompanied by their relations, to the splendid mountain named Govindakúṭa, which now became their home. And Pratápamukuṭa the king of Benares, overpowered by wonder, placed one of the golden lotuses in the second vessel in his temple, and offered to Śiva the other golden lotuses presented by Aśokadatta, and delighted with the honour of his connexion, considered his family highly fortunate.

“Thus divine persons become incarnate for some reason, and are born in this world of men, and possessing their native virtue and courage, attain successes which it is hard to win. So I am persuaded that you, O sea of courage, are some portion of a divinity, and will attain success as you desire; daring in achievements hard to accomplish even by the great, generally indicates a surpassingly excellent nature. Moreover the princess Kanakarekhá, whom you love, must surely be a heavenly being, otherwise being a mere child how could she desire a husband that has seen the Golden City?” Having heard in secret this long and interesting story from Vishṇudatta, Śaktideva desiring in his heart to behold the Golden City, and supporting himself with resolute patience, managed to get through the night. [220]

Long ago there lived in the city of Kambuka a Bráhman named Haridatta; and the son of that auspicious man, who was named Devadatta, though he studied in his boyhood, was, as a young man, exclusively addicted to the vice of gaming. As he had lost his clothes and everything by gambling, he was not able to return to his father’s house, so he entered once on a time an empty temple. And there he saw alone a great ascetic, named Jálapáda, who had attained many objects by magic, and he was muttering spells in a corner. So he went up to him slowly and bowed before him, and the ascetic, abandoning his habit of not speaking to any one, greeted him with a welcome; and after he had remained there a moment, the ascetic, seeing his trouble, asked him the cause, and he told him of his affliction produced by the loss of his wealth, which had been dissipated in gambling. Then the ascetic said to Devadatta; “My child, there is not wealth enough in the whole world to satisfy gamblers; but if you desire to escape from your calamity, do what I tell you, for I have made preparations to attain the rank of a Vidyádhara; so help me to accomplish this, O man of fortunate destiny,13 you have only to obey my orders and then your calamities will be at an end.” When the ascetic said this to him, Devadatta promised to obey him, and immediately took up his residence with him. And the next day the ascetic went into a corner of the cemetery and performed worship by night under a banyan-tree, and offered rice boiled in milk, and flung portions of the oblation towards the four cardinal points, after worshipping them, and said to the Bráhman who was in attendance on him; “You must worship here in this style every day, and say ‘Vidyutprabhá, accept this worship.’ And then I am certain that we shall both attain our ends;” having said this the ascetic went with him to his own house. Then Devadatta, consenting, went every day and duly performed worship at the foot of that tree, according to his instructions. And one day, at the end of his worship, the tree suddenly clave open, and a heavenly nymph came out of it before his eyes, and said, “My good sir, my mistress summons you to come to her.” And then she introduced him into the middle of that tree. When he entered it, he beheld a heavenly palace made of jewels, and a beautiful lady within it reclining upon a sofa. [230]And he immediately thought—“This may be the success of our enterprise incarnate in bodily form,” but while he was thinking thus, that beautiful lady, receiving him graciously, rose with limbs on which the ornaments rang as if to welcome him, and seated him on her own sofa. And she said to him, “Illustrious sir, I am the maiden daughter of a king of the Yakshas, named Ratnavarsha, and I am known by the name of Vidyutprabhá; and this great ascetic Jálapáda was endeavouring to gain my favour, to him I will give the attainment of his ends, but you are the lord of my life. So, as you see my affection, marry me.” When she said this, Devadatta consented, and did so. And he remained there some time, but when she became pregnant, he went to the great ascetic with the intention of returning, and in a state of terror he told him all that had happened, and the ascetic, desiring his own success, said to him, “My good sir, you have acted quite rightly, but go and cut open that Yakshí and taking out the embryo, bring it quickly here.” The ascetic said this to him, and then reminded him of his previous promise, and being dismissed by him, the Bráhman returned to his beloved, and while he stood there despondent with reflecting on what he had to do, the Yakshí Vidyutprabhá of her own accord said to him;—“My husband, why are you cast down? I know, Jálapáda has ordered you to cut me open, so cut me open and take out this child, and if you refuse, I will do it myself, for there is an object in it.” Though she said this to him, the Bráhman could not bring himself to do it, then she cut herself open and took out the child, and flung it down before him and said, “Take this, which will enable him who consumes it, to obtain the rank of a Vidyádhara. But I, though properly a Vidyádharí, have been born as a Yakshí owing to a curse, and this is the appointed end of my curse, strange as it is, for I remember my former existence. Now I depart to my proper home, but we two shall meet again in that place.” Saying this Vidyutprabhá vanished from his eyes. And Devadatta took the child with sorrowful mind, and went to that ascetic Jálapáda, and gave it to him, as that which would ensure the success of his incantations, for good men do not even in calamity give way to selfishness. The great ascetic divided the child’s flesh, and sent Devadatta to the wood to worship Durgá in her terrific form. And when the Bráhman came back after presenting an oblation, he saw that the ascetic had made away with all the flesh. And while he said—“What, have you consumed it all?” the treacherous Jálapáda, having become a Vidyádhara, ascended to heaven. When he had flown up, with sword blue as the sky, adorned with necklace and bracelet, Devadatta reflected, “Alas! how I have been deceived by this evil-minded one! Or rather on whom does not excessive compliance entail misfortune? So how can I revenge myself on him for this ill turn, and how can I reach [231]him who has become a Vidyádhara? Well! I have no other resource in this matter except propitiating a Vetála.”14 After he had made up his mind to do this, he went at night to the cemetery. There he summoned at the foot of a tree a Vetála into the body of a man, and after worshipping him, he made an oblation of human flesh to him. And as that Vetála was not satisfied, and would not wait for him to bring more, he prepared to cut off his own flesh in order to gratify him. And immediately that Vetála said to that brave man;—“I am pleased with this courage of yours, do not act recklessly. So, my good sir, what desire have you for me to accomplish for you?” When the Vetála said this, the hero answered him; “Take me to the dwelling-place of the Vidyádharas, where is the ascetic Jálapáda, who deceives those that repose confidence in him, in order that I may punish him.” The Vetála consented, and placing him on his shoulder, carried him through the air in a moment to the dwelling of the Vidyádharas; and there he saw Jálapáda in a palace, seated on a jewelled throne, elated at being a king among the Vidyádharas, endeavouring by various speeches to induce that Vidyutprabhá,15 who had obtained the rank of a Vidyádharí, to marry him in spite of her reluctance. And the moment that the young man saw him, he attacked him with the help of the Vetála, being to the eyes of the delighted Vidyutprabhá, what the moon, the repository of nectar, is to the partridges.16 And Jálapáda beholding him suddenly arrived in this way, dropped his sword in his fright, and fell from his throne on the floor. But Devadatta, though he had obtained his sword, did not slay him, for the great-hearted feel pity even for their enemies when they are terrified.

And when the Vetála wanted to kill him, he dissuaded him, and said, “Of what use will it be to us to kill this miserable heretic? So take him and place him in his own house on earth, it is better that this wicked skull-bearing ascetic should remain there.” At the very moment that Devadatta was saying this, the goddess Durgá descended from heaven and appeared to him, and said to him who bent before her, “My son, I am satisfied with thee now, on account of this incomparable courage of thine; so I give thee on the spot the rank of king of the Vidyádharas.” Having said this, she bestowed the magic sciences17 on him, and immediately disappeared. And the Vetála immediately took Jálapáda, whose splendour fell from him, and placed him on earth; (wickedness does not long ensure success;) and Devadatta accompanied by Vidyutprabhá, having obtained that sovereignty of the Vidyádharas, flourished in his kingdom. [232]

Having told this story to her husband Śaktideva, the softly-speaking Vindurekhá again said to him with eagerness; “Such necessities do arise, so cut out this child of mine as Vindumatí told you, without remorse.” When Vindurekhá said this, Śaktideva was afraid of doing wrong, but a voice sounded from heaven at this juncture, “O Śaktideva, take out this child without fear, and seize it by the neck with your hand, then it will turn into a sword.” Having heard this divine voice, he cut her open; and quickly taking out the child, he seized it by the throat with his hand; and no sooner did he seize it, than it became a sword in his hand; like the long hair of Good Fortune seized by him with an abiding grasp. Then that Bráhman quickly became a Vidyádhara, and Vindurekhá that moment disappeared. And when he saw that, he went, as he was, to his second wife Vindumatí, and told her the whole story. She said to him, “My lord, we are three sisters, the daughter of a king of the Vidyádharas, who have been banished from Kanakapurí in consequence of a curse. The first was Kanakarekhá, the termination of whose curse you beheld in the city of Vardhamána; and she has gone to that city of hers, her proper home. For such was the strange end of her curse, according to the dispensation of fate, and I am the third sister, and now my curse is at an end. And this very day I must go to that city of mine, my beloved, for there our Vidyádhara bodies remain. And my elder sister, Chandraprabhá, is dwelling there; so you also must come there quickly by virtue of the magic power of your sword. And you shall rule in that city, after obtaining all four of us as wives, bestowed upon you by our father who has retired to the forest, and others in addition to us.”

Thus Vindumatí declared the truth about herself, and Śaktideva consenting, went again to the City of Gold, this time through the air, together with that Vindumatí. And when he arrived, he again saw those three darlings of his bending before him, Kanakarekhá and the others, after entering with their souls, as was fitting, those heavenly female bodies, which he saw on a former occasion extended lifeless on the couches in those three pavilions. And he saw that fourth sister there, Chandraprabhá, who had performed auspicious ceremonies, and was drinking in his form with an eye rendered eager by seeing him after so long an absence. His arrival was joyfully hailed by the servants, who were occupied in their several duties, as well as by the ladies, and when he entered the private apartments, that Chandraprabhá said to him—“Noble sir, here is that princess Kanakarekhá, who was seen by you in the city of Vardhamána, my sister called Chandrarekhá. And here is that daughter of the fisher king, Vindumatí, whom you first married in the island of Utsthala, my sister Śaśirekhá. And here is my youngest sister Śaśiprabhá, the princess who after that was brought there by the Dánava, and then became your wife. So now come, [233]successful hero, with us into the presence of our father, and quickly marry us all, when bestowed upon you by him.”

When Chandraprabhá had swiftly and boldly uttered this decree of Cupid, Śaktideva went with those four to the recesses of the wood to meet their father, and their father, the king of the Vidyádharas, having been informed of the facts by all his daughters who bowed at his feet, and also moved by a divine voice, with delighted soul gave them all at once to Śaktideva. Immediately after that, he bestowed on Śaktideva his opulent realm in the City of Gold, and all his magic sciences, and he gave the successful hero his name, by which he was henceforth known among his Vidyádharas. And he said to him; “No one else shall conquer thee, but from the mighty lord of Vatsa there shall spring a universal emperor, who shall reign among you here under the title of Naraváhanadatta and be thy superior, to him alone wilt thou have to submit.” With these words the mighty lord of the Vidyádharas, named Śaśikhaṇḍapada, dismissed his son-in-law from the wood where he was practising asceticism, after entertaining him kindly, that he might go with his wives to his own capital. Then that Śaktivega, having become a king, entered the City of Gold, that glory of the Vidyádhara world, proceeding thither with his wives. Living in that city, the palaces of which gleamed with fabric of gold, which seemed on account of its great height to be the condensed rays of the sun falling in brightness, he enjoyed exceeding happiness with those fair-eyed wives, in charming gardens, the lakes of which had steps made out of jewels.

Having thus related his wonderful history, the eloquent Śaktivega went on to say to the king of Vatsa, “Know me, O lord of Vatsa, ornament of the lunar race, to be that very Śaktideva come here, full of desire to behold the two feet of your son who is just born, and is destined to be our new emperor. Thus I have obtained, though originally a man, the rank of sovereign among the Vidyádharas by the favour of Śiva: and now, O king, I return to my own home; I have seen our future lord; may you enjoy unfailing felicity.”

After finishing his tale, Śaktivega said this with clasped hands, and receiving permission to depart, immediately flew up into the sky like the moon in brightness, and then the king of Vatsa in the company of his wives, surrounded by his ministers, and with his young son, enjoyed, in his own capital a state of indescribable felicity. [235]

There was once a city named Takshaśilá3 on the banks of the Vitastá, the reflection of whose long line of palaces gleamed in the waters of the river, as if it were the capital of the lower regions come to gaze at its splendour. In it there dwelt a king named Kalingadatta, a distinguished [236]Buddhist, all whose subjects were devoted to the great Buddha the bridegroom of Tárá.4 His city shone with splendid Buddhist temples densely crowded together, as if with the horns of pride elevated because it had no rival upon earth. He not only cherished his subjects like a father, but also himself taught them knowledge like a spiritual guide. Moreover there was in that city a certain rich Buddhist merchant called Vitastadatta, who was exclusively devoted to the honouring of Buddhist mendicants. And he had a son, a young man named Ratnadatta. And he was always expressing his detestation of his father, calling him an impious man. And when his father said to him, “Son, why do you blame me?”—the merchant’s son answered with bitter scorn, “My father, you abandon the religion of the three Vedas and cultivate irreligion. For you neglect the Bráhmans and are always honouring Śramaṇas.5 What have you to do with that Buddhist discipline, which all kinds of low-caste men resort to, to gratify their desire to have a convent to dwell in, released from bathing and other strict ordinances, loving to feed whenever it is convenient,6 rejecting the Bráhmanical lock and other prescribed methods of doing the hair, quite at ease with only a rag round their loins?” When the merchant heard that he said—“Religion is not confined to one form; a transcendent religion is a different thing from a religion that embraces the whole world. People say that Bráhmanism too consists in avoiding passion and other sins, in truth, and compassion to creatures, not in quarrelling causelessly with one’s relations.7 Moreover you ought not to blame generally that school which I follow, which extends security to all creatures, on account of the fault of an individual. Nobody questions the propriety of conferring benefits, and my beneficence consists simply in giving security to creatures. So, if I take exceeding pleasure in this system, the principal characteristic of which is abstinence from injuring any creature, and which brings liberation, wherein am I irreligious in doing so?” When his father said this to him, that merchant’s son obstinately refused to admit it, and only blamed his father all the more. Then his father, in disgust, went and reported the [237]whole matter to the king Kalingadatta, who superintended the religion of his people. The king, for his part, summoned on some pretext the merchant’s son into his judgement-hall, and feigning an anger he did not feel, said to the executioner, “I have heard that this merchant’s son is wicked and addicted to horrible crimes, so slay him without mercy as a corrupter of the realm.” When the king had said this, the father interceded, and then the king appointed that the execution should be put off for two months, in order that he might learn virtue, and entrusted the merchant’s son to the custody of his father, to be brought again into his presence at the end of that time. The merchant’s son, when he had been taken home to his father’s house, was distracted with fear, and kept thinking, “What crime can I have committed against the king?” and pondering over his causeless execution which was to take place at the end of two months; and so he could get no sleep day or night, and was exhausted by taking less than his usual food at all times. Then, the reprieve of two months having expired, that merchant’s son was again taken, thin and pale, into the presence of the king. And the king seeing him in such a depressed state said to him—“Why have you become so thin? Did I order you not to eat?” When the merchant’s son heard that, he said to the king—“I forgot myself for fear, much more my food. Ever since I heard your majesty order my execution, I have been thinking every day of death slowly advancing.” When the merchant’s son said this, the king said to him, “I have by an artifice made you teach yourself what the fear of death is.8 Such must be the fear which every living creature entertains of death, and tell me what higher piety can there be than the benefit of preserving creatures from that? So I shewed you this in order that you might acquire religion and the desire of salvation,9 for a wise man being afraid of death strives to attain salvation. Therefore you must not blame your father who follows this religion.” When the merchant’s son heard this, he bowed and said to the king—“Your majesty has made me a blessed man by teaching me religion, and now a desire for salvation has arisen in me, teach me that also, my lord.” When the king heard that, as it was a feast in the city, he gave a vessel full of oil into the hand of the merchant’s son and said to him, “Take this vessel in your hand and walk all round this city, and you must avoid spilling a single drop of it, my son; if you spill one drop of it, these men will immediately cut you down.”10 Having said this, the king dismissed the merchant’s son to walk round the city, ordering men with drawn swords to follow him. The merchant’s son, in his fear, took care to avoid spilling a drop of oil, and having perambulated that city with [238]much difficulty, returned into the presence of the king. The king, when he saw that he had brought the oil without spilling it, said to him: “Did you see any one to-day, as you went along in your perambulation of the city?” When the merchant’s son heard that, he clasped his hands, and said to the king—“In truth, my lord, I neither saw nor heard any thing, for at the time when I was perambulating the city I had my undivided attention fixed on avoiding spilling a drop of oil, lest the swords should descend upon me.” When the merchant’s son said this, the king said to him; “Because your whole soul was intent on looking at the oil, you saw nothing. So practise religious contemplation with the same undivided attention. For a man, who with intent concentration averts his attention from all outward operations, has intuition of the truth, and after that intuition he is not entangled again in the meshes of works. Thus I have given you in a compendious form instruction in the doctrine of salvation.” Thus the king spoke and dismissed him, and the merchant’s son fell at his feet and went home rejoicing to his father’s house, having attained all his objects. This Kalingadatta, who superintended in this way the religion of his subjects, had a wife named Tárádattá, of equal birth with the king, who being politic and well-conducted, was such an ornament to the king as language is to a poet, who delights in numerous illustrations. She was meritorious for her bright qualities and was inseparable from that beloved king, being to him what the moonlight is to the moon, the receptacle of nectar. The king lived happily there with that queen, and passed his days like Indra with Śachí in heaven.

At this point of my tale Indra, for some cause or other, had a great feast in heaven. All the Apsarases assembled there to dance, except one beautiful Apsaras named Surabhidattá, who was not to be seen there. Then Indra by his divine power of insight perceived her associating in secret with a certain Vidyádhara in Nandana. When Indra saw it, wrath arose in his bosom, and he thought—“Ah! these two, blinded with love, are both wicked: the Apsaras, because forgetting us she acts in a wilful manner, the Vidyádhara, because he enters the domain of the gods and commits improprieties. Or rather, what fault is that miserable Vidyádhara guilty of? For she has enticed him here, ensnaring him with her beauty. A lovely one will sweep away with the sea of her beauty, flowing between the lofty banks of her breasts, even one who can restrain his passions. Was not even Śiva disturbed long ago when he beheld Tilottamá, whom the Creator made by taking an atom from all the noblest beings?11 And did not Viśvámitra leave his asceticism when he beheld [239]Menaká? And did not Yayáti come to old age for love of Śarmishṭá? So this young Vidyádhara has committed no crime in allowing himself to be allured by an Apsaras with her beauty, which is able to bewilder the three worlds.12 But this heavenly nymph is in fault, wicked creature, void of virtue, who has deserted the gods, and introduced this fellow into Nandana.” Thus reflecting, the lover of Ahalyá13 spared the Vidyádhara youth, but cursed that Apsaras in the following words: “Wicked one, take upon thyself a mortal nature, but after thou hast obtained a daughter not sprung from the womb, and hast accomplished the object of the gods, thou shalt return to this heaven.”

In the meanwhile Tárádattá, the consort of that king in the city of Takshaśilá, reached the period favourable for procreation. And Surabhidattá, the Apsaras who had been degraded from heaven by the curse of Indra, was conceived in her, giving beauty to her whole body. Then Tárádattá beheld in a dream a flame descending from heaven and entering into her womb; and in the morning she described with astonishment her dream to her husband, the king Kalingadatta; and he being pleased said to her,—“Queen, heavenly beings owing to a curse fall into human births, so I am persuaded that this is some divine being conceived in you. For beings, bound by various works, good and evil, are ever revolving in the state of mundane existence in these three worlds, to receive fruits blessed and miserable.” When the queen was thus addressed by the king, she took the opportunity of saying to him; “It is true, actions, good and bad, have a wonderful power, producing the perception of joy and sorrow,14 and in proof of it I will tell you this illustration, listen to me.”

There once lived a king named Dharmadatta, the lord of Kośala; he had a queen named Nágaśrí, who was devoted to her husband and was called Arundhatí on the earth, as, like her, she was the chief of virtuous women. And in course of time, O slayer of your enemies, I was born as the daughter of that king by that queen; then, while I was a mere child, that mother of mine suddenly remembered her former birth and said to her husband; “O king, I have suddenly to-day remembered my former birth; it is disagreeable to me not to tell it, but if I do tell it, it will cause my death, because they say that, if a person suddenly remembers his or her former birth and tells it, it surely brings death. Therefore, king, I feel excessively despondent.” When his queen said this to him, the king answered her; [240]“My beloved, I, like you, have suddenly remembered my former birth; therefore tell me yours, and I will tell you mine, let what will be, be; for who can alter the decree of fate.” When thus urged by her husband, the queen said to him, “If you press the matter, king, then I will tell you, listen.

“In my former birth I was a well-conducted female slave in this very land, in the house of a certain Bráhman named Mádhava. And in that birth I had a husband named Devadása, an excellent hired servant in the house of a certain merchant. And so we two dwelled there, having built a house that suited us, living on the cooked rice brought from the houses of our respective masters. A water vessel and a pitcher, a broom and a brazier, and I and my husband, formed three couples. We lived happy and contented in our house into which the demon of quarrelling never entered, eating the little food that remained over after we had made offerings to the gods, the manes and guests.

“And any clothes which either of us had over, we gave to some poor person or other. Then there arose a grievous famine in our country, and owing to that the allowance of food, which we had to receive every day, began to come to us in small quantities. Then our bodies became attenuated by hunger, and we began to despond in mind, when once on a time at meal-time there arrived a weary Bráhman guest. To him we both gave all our own food, as much as we had, though we were in danger of our lives. When the Bráhman had eaten and departed, my husband’s breath left him, as if angry that he respected a guest more than it. And then I heaped up in honour of my husband a suitable pyre, and ascended it, and so laid down the load of my own calamity. Then I was born in a royal family, and I became your queen, for the tree of good deeds produces to the righteous inconceivably glorious fruit.” When his queen said this to him, the king Dharmadatta said—“Come, my beloved, I am that husband of thine in a former birth; I was that very Devadása the merchant’s servant, for I have remembered this moment this former existence of mine.” Having said this, and mentioned the tokens of his own identity, the king, despondent and yet glad, suddenly went with his queen to heaven.

“In this way my parents went to another world, and my mother’s sister brought me to her own house to rear me, and while I was unmarried, there came there a certain Bráhman guest, and my mother’s sister ordered me to wait on him. And I diligently strove to please him as Kuntí to please Durvásas, and owing to a boon conferred by him, I obtained you, a virtuous husband. Thus good fortune is the result of virtue, owing to which my parents were both born at the same time in royal families, and also remembered their former birth.” Having heard this speech of the queen Tárádattá, the king Kalingadatta, who was exclusively devoted to [241]righteousness, answered her, “It is true, a trifling act of righteousness duly performed will bring much fruit, and in proof of this, O queen, hear the ancient tale of the seven Bráhmans.”

Long ago, in a city called Kuṇḍina, a certain Bráhman teacher had for pupils seven sons of Bráhmans. Then that teacher, under pressure of famine, sent those pupils to ask his father-in-law, who was rich in cows, to give him one. And those pupils of his went, with their bellies pinched by hunger, to his father-in-law, who dwelt in another land, and asked him, as their teacher had ordered them, for a cow. He gave them one cow to support them, but the miserly fellow did not give them food, though they were hungry. Then they took the cow, and as they were returning and had accomplished half the journey, being excessively pained by hunger, they fell exhausted on the earth. They said—“Our teacher’s house is far off, and we are afflicted by calamity far from home, and food is hard to obtain everywhere, so it is all over with our lives. And in the same way this cow is certain to die in this wilderness without water, wood, or human beings, and our teacher will not derive even the smallest advantage from it. So let us support our lives with its flesh, and quickly restore our teacher and his family with what remains over: for it is a time of sore distress.” Having thus deliberated, those seven students treated that cow as a victim, and sacrificed it on the spot according to the system prescribed in the sacred treatises. After sacrificing to the gods and manes, and eating its flesh according to the prescribed method, they went and took what remained of it to their teacher. They bowed before him, and told him all that they had done, to the letter, and he was pleased with them, because they told the truth, though they had committed a fault. And after seven days they died of famine, but because they told the truth on that occasion, they were born again with the power of remembering their former birth.

“Thus even a small germ of merit, watered with the water of holy aspiration, bears fruit to men in general, as a seed to cultivators, but the same corrupted by the water of impure aspiration bears fruit in the form of misfortune, and à propos of this I will tell you another tale, listen!”

Once on a time two men remained for the same length of time fasting on the banks of the Ganges, one a Bráhman and the other a Chaṇḍála. Of those two, the Bráhman being overpowered with hunger, and seeing some Nishádas16 come that way bringing fish and eating them, thus reflected in his folly—“O happy in the world are these fishermen, sons of female [242]slaves though they be, for they eat to their fill of the fresh meat of fish!” But the other, who was a Chaṇḍála, thought, the moment he saw those fishermen, “Out on these destroyers of life, and devourers of raw flesh! So why should I stand here and behold their faces?” Saying this to himself, he closed his eyes and remained buried in his own thoughts. And in course of time those two, the Bráhman and the Chaṇḍála, died of starvation; the Bráhman was eaten by dogs on the bank, the Chaṇḍála rotted in the water of the Ganges. So that Bráhman, not having disciplined his spirit, was born in the family of a fisherman, but owing to the virtue of the holy place, he remembered his former existence. As for that Chaṇḍála, who possessed self-control, and whose mind was not marred by passion, he was born as a king in a palace on that very bank of the Ganges, and recollected his former birth. And of those two, who were born with a remembrance of their former existence, the one suffered misery being a fisherman, the other being a king enjoyed happiness.

“Such is the root of the tree of virtue; according to the purity or impurity of a man’s heart is without doubt the fruit which he receives.” Having said this to the queen Tárádattá, king Kalingadatta again said to her in the course of conversation,—“Moreover actions which are really distinguished by great courage produce fruit, since prosperity follows on courage; and to illustrate this I will tell the following wonderful tale. Listen!”

There is in Avanti a city named Ujjayiní, famous in the world, which is the dwelling-place of Śiva,17 and which gleams with its white palaces as if with the peaks of Kailása, come thither in the ardour of their devotion to the god. This vast city, profound as the sea, having a splendid emperor for its water, had hundreds of armies entering it, as hundreds of rivers flow into the sea, and was the refuge of allied kings, as the sea is of mountains that retain their wings.18 In that city there was a king who had the name of Vikramasinha,19 a name that thoroughly expressed his character, for his enemies were like deer and never met him in fight. And he, because he could never find any enemy to face him, became disgusted with weapons and the might of his arm, and was inwardly grieved as he never obtained the joy of battle. Then his minister Amaragupta, who discovered his [243]longing, said to him incidentally in the course of conversation—“King, it is not hard for kings to incur guilt, if through pride in their strong arms, and confidence in their skill in the use of weapons, they even long for enemies; in this way Báṇa in old time, through pride in his thousand arms, propitiated Śiva and asked for an enemy that was a match for him in fight, until at last his prayer was actually granted, and Vishṇu became his enemy, and cut off his innumerable arms in battle. So you must not shew dissatisfaction because you do not obtain an opportunity of fighting, and a terrible enemy must never be desired. If you want to shew here your skill in weapons and your strength, shew it in the forest an appropriate field for it, and in hunting. And since kings are not generally exposed to fatigue, hunting is approved to give them exercise and excitement, but warlike expeditions are not recommended. Moreover the malignant wild animals desire that the earth should be depopulated, for this reason the king should slay them; on this ground too hunting is approved. But wild animals should not be too unremittingly pursued, for it was owing to the vice of exclusive devotion to hunting that former kings, Páṇḍu and others, met destruction.” When the wise minister Amaragupta said this to him, the king Vikramasinha approved the advice saying—“I will do so.” And the next day the king went out of the city to hunt, to a district beset with horses, footmen and dogs, and where all the quarters were filled with the pitching of various nets, and he made the heaven resound with the shouts of joyous huntsmen. And as he was going out on the back of an elephant, he saw two men sitting together in private in an empty temple outside the walls. And the king, as he beheld them from afar, supposed that they were only deliberating together over something at their leisure, and passed on to the forest where his hunting was to be. There he was delighted with the drawn swords, and with the old tigers, and the roaring of lions, and the scenery, and the elephants. He strewed that ground with pearls fallen from the nails of elephant-slaying lions whom he killed, resembling the seeds of his prowess. The deer leaping sideways, being oblique-goers,20 went obliquely across his path; his straight-flying arrow easily transfixing them first, reached afterwards the mark of delight. And after the king had long enjoyed the sport of hunting, he returned, as his servants were weary, with slackened bowstring to the city of Ujjayiní. There he saw those two men, whom he had seen as he was going out, who had remained the whole time in the temple occupied in the same way. He thought to himself—“Who are these, and why do they deliberate so long? Surely they must be spies, having a long talk over secrets.” So he sent his warder, and had those men [244]captured and brought into his presence, and then thrown into prison. And the next day he had them brought into his judgement-hall, and asked them—“Who are you and why did you deliberate together so long?” When the king in person asked them this, they entreated him to spare their lives, and one of these young men began to say; “Hear, O king, I will now tell the whole story as it happened.

“There lived a Bráhman, of the name of Karabhaka, in this very city of yours. I, whom you see here, am the son of that learned student of the Vedas, born by his propitiating the god of fire in order to obtain a heroic son. And, when my father went to heaven, and his wife followed him,21 I being a mere boy, though I had learned the sciences, abandoned the course of life suited to my caste, because I was friendless. And I set myself to practise gaming and the use of arms; what boy does not become self-willed if he is not kept in order by some superior? And, having passed my childhood in this way, I acquired overweening confidence in my prowess, and went one day to the forest to practise archery. And while I was thus engaged, a bride came out of the city in a covered palanquin, surrounded by many attendants of the bridegroom. And suddenly an elephant, that had broken its chain, came from some quarter or other at that very moment, and attacked that bride in its fury. And through fear of that elephant, all those cowardly attendants and her husband with them deserted the bride, and fled in all directions. When I saw that, I immediately said to myself in my excitement,—‘What! have these miserable wretches left this unfortunate woman alone? So I must defend this unprotected lady from this elephant. For what is the use of life or courage, unless employed to succour the unfortunate?’ Thus reflecting I raised a shout and ran towards that huge elephant; and the elephant, abandoning the woman, charged down upon me. Then I, before the eyes of that terrified woman, shouted and ran, and so drew off that elephant to a distance, at last I got hold of a bough of a tree thickly covered with leaves, which had been broken off, and covering myself with it, I went into the middle of the tree; and placing the bough in front of me, I escaped by a dexterous oblique movement, while the elephant trampled the bough to pieces. Then I quickly went to that lady, who remained terrified there, and asked her whether she had escaped without injury. She, when she saw me, said with afflicted and yet joyful manner; ‘How can I be said to be uninjured, now that I have been bestowed on this coward, who has deserted me in such straits, and fled somewhere or other; but so far at any rate I am uninjured, that I again behold you unharmed. So my husband is nothing to me; you henceforth are my husband, by whom regardless of your life, I have been delivered from the jaws of death. And here I see [245]my husband coming with his servants, so follow us slowly; for when we get an opportunity, you and I will elope somewhere together.’ When she said this, I consented. I ought to have thought—‘Though this woman is beautiful, and flings herself at my head, yet she is the wife of another; what have I to do with her?’ But this is the course of calm self-restraint, not of ardent youth. And in a moment her husband came up and greeted her, and she proceeded to continue her journey with him and his servants. And I, without being detected, followed her through her long journey, being secretly supplied with provisions for the journey by her, though I passed for some one unconnected with her. And she, throughout the journey, falsely asserted that she suffered pain in her limbs, from a strain produced by falling in her terror at the elephant, and so avoided even touching her husband. A passionate woman, like a female snake, terrible from the condensed venom she accumulates within, will never, if injured, neglect to wreak her vengeance. And in course of time we reached the city of Lohanagara, where was the house of the husband of that woman, who lived by trading. And we all remained during that day in a temple outside the walls. And there I met my friend this second Bráhman. And though we had never met before, we felt a confidence in one another at first sight; the heart of creatures recognises friendships formed in a previous birth. Then I told him all my secret. When he heard it, he said to me of his own accord; ‘Keep the matter quiet, I know of a device by which you can attain the object for which you came here; I know here the sister of this lady’s husband. She is ready to fly from this place with me, and take her wealth with her. So with her help I will accomplish your object for you.’

“When the Bráhman had said this to me, he departed, and secretly informed the merchant’s wife’s sister-in-law of the whole matter. And on the next day the sister-in-law, according to arrangement, came with her brother’s wife and introduced her into the temple. And while we were there, she made my friend at that very time, which was the middle of the day, put on the dress of her brother’s wife. And she took him so disguised into the city, and went into the house in which her brother lived, after arranging what we were to do. But I left the temple, and fleeing with the merchant’s wife dressed as a man, reached at last this city of Ujjayiní. And her sister-in-law at night fled with my friend from that house, in which there had been a feast, and so the people were in a drunken sleep.

“And then he came with her by stealthy journeys to this city; so we met here. In this way we two have obtained our two wives in the bloom of youth, the sister-in-law and her brother’s wife, who bestowed themselves on us out of affection. Consequently, king, we are afraid to dwell anywhere; for whose mind is at ease after performing deeds of reckless temerity? [246]So the king saw us yesterday from a distance, while we were debating about a place to dwell in, and how we should subsist. And your majesty, seeing us, had us brought and thrown into prison on the suspicion of being thieves, and to-day we have been questioned about our history, and I have just told it; now it is for your highness to dispose of us at pleasure.” When one of them had said this, the king Vikramasinha said to those two Bráhmans,—“I am satisfied, do not be afraid, remain in this city, and I will give you abundance of wealth.” When the king had said this, he gave them as much to live on as they wished, and they lived happily in his court accompanied by their wives.

“Thus prosperity dwells for men even in questionable deeds, if they are the outcome of great courage, and thus kings, being satisfied, take pleasure in giving to discreet men who are rich in daring. And thus this whole created world with the gods and demons will always reap various fruits, corresponding exactly to their own stock of deeds good or bad, performed in this or in a former birth. So rest assured, queen, that the flame which was seen by you falling from heaven in your dream, and apparently entering your womb, is some creature of divine origin, that owing to some influence of its works has been conceived in you.” The pregnant queen Tárádattá, when she heard this from the mouth of her own husband Kalingadatta, was exceedingly delighted.

Thus, long ago, there were born in succession to a certain king named Kṛita seven very beautiful princesses, and even while they were still youthful they abandoned, in disgust with life, the house of their father, and went to the cemetery, and when they were asked why they did it, they said to their retinue—“This world is unreal, and in it this body, and such delights as union with the beloved are the baseless fabric of a dream; only the good of others in this revolving world is pronounced to be real; so let us with these bodies of ours do good to our fellow creatures, let us fling these bodies, while they are alive, to the eaters of raw flesh3 in the cemetery; what is the use of them, lovely though they be?”

For there lived in old time a certain prince who was disgusted with the world, and he, though young and handsome, adopted the life of a wandering hermit. Once on a time that beggar entered the house of a certain merchant, and was beheld by his young wife with his eyes long as the leaf of a lotus. She, with heart captivated by the beauty of his eyes said to him, “How came such a handsome man as you to undertake such a severe vow as this? Happy is the woman who is gazed upon with this eye of yours!” When the begging hermit was thus addressed by the lady, he tore out one eye, and holding it in his hand, said, “Mother, behold this eye, such as it is; take the loathsome mass of flesh and blood, if it pleases [248]you.4 And the other is like it; say, what is there attractive in these?” When he said this to the merchant’s wife, and she saw the eye, she was despondent, and said, “Alas! I, unhappy wretch that I am, have done an evil deed, in that I have become the cause of the tearing out of your eye!” When the beggar heard that, he said,—“Mother, do not be grieved, for you have done me a benefit; hear the following example, to prove the truth of what I say.”

There lived long ago, in a certain beautiful garden on the banks of the Ganges, a hermit animated by the desire of experiencing all asceticism. And while he was engaged in mortifying the flesh, it happened that a certain king came there to amuse himself with the women of his harem. And after he had amused himself, he fell asleep under the influence of his potations, and while he was in this state, his queens left him out of thoughtlessness and roamed about in the garden. And beholding in a corner of the garden that hermit engaged in meditation, they stood round him out of curiosity, wondering what on earth he could be. And as they remained there a long time, that king woke up, and not seeing his wives at his side, wandered all round the garden. And then he saw the queens standing all round the hermit, and being enraged, he slashed the hermit with his sword out of jealousy. What crime will not sovereign power, jealousy, cruelty, drunkenness, and indiscretion cause separately, much more deadly are they when combined, like five fires.5 Then the king departed, and though the hermit’s limbs were gashed, he remained free from wrath; whereupon a [249]certain deity appeared and said to him,—“Great-souled one, if you approve I will slay by my power that wicked man who did this to you in a passion.” When the hermit heard that, he said, “O goddess, say not so, for he is my helper in virtue, not a harmer of me. For by his favour I have attained the grace of patience; to whom could I have shown patience, O goddess, if he had not acted thus towards me? What anger does the wise man shew for the sake of this perishing body? To shew patience equally with regard to what is agreeable and disagreeable is to have attained the rank of Brahmá.” When the hermit said this to the deity, she was pleased, and after healing the wounds in his limbs, she disappeared.

“In the same way as that king was considered a benefactor by the hermit, you, my mother, have increased my asceticism by causing me to tear out my eye.” Thus spake the self-subduing hermit to the merchant’s wife, who bowed before him, and being regardless of his body, lovely though it was, he passed on to perfection.

“Therefore, though our youth be very charming, why should we cling to this perishable body? But the only thing which, in the eye of the wise man, it is good for, is to benefit one’s fellow-creatures. So we will lay down our bodies to benefit living creatures in this cemetery, the natural home of happiness.” Having said this to their attendants, those seven princesses did so, and obtained therefrom the highest beatitude.

“Thus you see that the wise have no selfish affection even for their own bodies, much less for such worthless things6 as son, wife, and servants.”

When the king Kalingadatta had heard these and other such things from the religious teacher in the monastery, having spent the day there, he returned to his palace. And when he was there, he was again afflicted with grief on account of the birth of a daughter to him, and a certain Bráhman, who had grown old in his house, said to him—“King, why do you despond on account of the birth of a pearl of maidens? Daughters are better even than sons, and produce happiness in this world and the next. Why do kings care so much about those sons that hanker after their kingdom, and eat up their fathers like crabs? But kings like Kuntibhoja and others, by the virtues of daughters like Kuntí and others, have escaped harm from sages like the terrible Durvásas. And how can one obtain from a son the same fruit in the next world, as one obtains from the marriage of a daughter? Moreover I now proceed to tell the tale of Sulochaná, listen to it.”

There was a young king named Sushena on the mountain of Chitrakúṭa, who was created like another god of love by the Creator to spite Śiva. He made at the foot of that great mountain a heavenly garden, which was calculated to make the gods averse to dwelling in the garden of Nandana. [250]And in the middle of it he made a lake with full-blown lotuses, like a new productive bed for the lotuses with which the goddess of Fortune plays. This lake had steps leading down into it made of splendid gems, and the king used to linger on its bank without a bride, because there were no eligible matches for him. Once on a time Rambhá, a fair one of heaven, came that way, wandering at will through the air from the palace of Indra. She beheld the king roaming in that garden like an incarnation of the Spring in the midst of a garden of full-blown flowers. She said—“Can this be the moon, that has swooped down from heaven in pursuit of the goddess of Fortune fallen into a cluster of lotuses of the lake? But that cannot be, for this hero’s fortune in the shape of beauty never passes away.7 Surely this must be the god of the flowery arrows come to the garden in quest of flowers. But where has Rati, his companion, gone?” Thus Rambhá described him in her eagerness, and descending from heaven in human form, she approached that king. And when the king suddenly beheld her advancing towards him, he was astonished and reflected—“Who can this be of incredible beauty? She cannot surely be a human being, since her feet do not touch the dust, and her eye does not wink, therefore she must be some divine person. But I must not ask her who she is, for she might fly from me. Divine beings, who visit men for some cause or other, are generally impatient of having their secrets revealed.” While such thoughts were passing in the monarch’s mind, she began a conversation with him, which led in due course to his throwing his arms round her neck then and there. And he sported long there with this Apsaras, so that she forgot heaven; love is more charming than one’s native home. And the land of that king was filled with heaps of gold, by means of the Yakshiṇís, friends of hers, who transformed themselves into trees, as the heaven is filled with the peaks of Meru. And in course of time that excellent Apsaras became pregnant, and bore to king Sushena an incomparably beautiful daughter, and no sooner had she given her birth, than she said to the king—“O king, such has been my curse, and it is now at an end; for I am Rambhá, a heavenly nymph that fell in love with you on beholding you: and as I have given birth to a child, I must immediately leave you and depart. For such is the law that governs us heavenly beings; therefore take care of this daughter; when she is married, we shall again be united in heaven.” When the Apsaras Rambhá had said this, she departed, sorely against her will, and through grief at it, the king was bent on abandoning life. But his ministers said to him, “Did Viśvámitra, though despondent, abandon life when Menaká had departed after giving birth to Śakuntalá?” When the king had been plied by them with such arguments, he took the right view of the matter, and slowly recovered his self-command, taking to his heart [251]the daughter who was destined to be the cause of their re-union. And that daughter, lovely in all her limbs, her father, who was devoted to her, named Sulochaná, on account of the exceeding beauty of her eyes.

In time she grew up to womanhood, and a young hermit, named Vatsa, the descendant of Kaśyapa, as he was roaming about at will, beheld her in a garden. He, though he was all compact of asceticism, the moment he beheld that princess, felt the emotion of love, and he said to himself then and there; “Oh! exceedingly wonderful is the beauty of this maiden! If I do not obtain her as a wife, what other fruit of my asceticism can I obtain?” While thinking thus, the young hermit was beheld by Sulochaná, and he seemed to her all glorious with brightness, like fire free from smoke. When she saw him with his rosary and water vessel, she fell in love also and thought—“Who can this be that looks so self-restrained and yet so lovely?” And coming towards him as if to select him for her husband, she threw over his body the garland8 of the blue lotuses of her eyes, and bowed before that hermit. And he, with mind overpowered by the decree of Cupid, hard for gods and Asuras to evade, pronounced on her the following blessing—“Obtain a husband.” Then the excellent hermit was thus addressed by that lady, whose modesty was stolen away by love for his exceeding beauty, and who spoke with downcast face—“If this is your desire, and if this is not jesting talk, then, Bráhman, ask the king, my father, who has power to dispose of me.” Then the hermit, after hearing of her descent from her attendants, went and asked the king Sushena, her father, for her hand. He, for his part, when he saw that the young hermit was eminent both in beauty and asceticism, entertained him, and said to him—“Reverend sir, this daughter is mine by the nymph Rambhá, and by my daughter’s marriage I am to be re-united with her in heaven; so Rambhá told me when she was returning to the sky; consider, auspicious sir, how that is to be accomplished.” When the hermit heard that, he thought for a moment—“Did not the hermit Ruru, when Pramadvará the daughter of Menaká was bitten by a snake, give her the half of his life, and make her his wife? Was not the Chaṇḍála Triśanku carried to heaven by Viśvámitra? So why should not I do the same by expending my asceticism upon it?” Having thus reflected, the hermit said—“There is no difficulty in it,” and exclaimed—“Hearken ye gods, may this king mount with his body to heaven to obtain possession of Rambhá by virtue of part of my asceticism.” Thus the hermit spoke in the hearing of the court, and a distinct answer was heard from heaven—“So be it.” Then the king gave his daughter Sulochaná to the hermit Vatsa, the descendant of Kaśyapa, and ascended to heaven. There [252]he obtained a divine nature, and lived happily with that Rambhá of god-like dignity, appointed his wife by Indra.

“Thus, O king, Sushena obtained all his ends by means of a daughter. For such daughters become incarnate in the houses of such as you. And this daughter is surely some heavenly nymph, fallen from her high estate owing to a curse, and born in your house, so do not grieve, monarch, on account of her birth.” When king Kalingadatta had heard this tale from the Bráhman that had grown old in his house, he left off being distressed, and was comforted. And he gave to his dear young daughter, who gave pleasure to his eyes, as if she had been a digit of the moon, the name of Kalingasená. And the princess Kalingasená grew up in the house of her father amongst her companions. And she sported in the palaces, and in the palace-gardens, like a wave of the sea of infancy that is full of the passion9 for amusement.

Once on a time the daughter of the Asura Maya, named Somaprabhá, as she was journeying through the sky, saw her on the roof of a palace engaged in play. And Somaprabhá, while in the sky, beheld her lovely enough to bewilder with her beauty the mind even of a hermit, and feeling affection for her, reflected—“Who is this? Can she be the form of the moon? If so, how is it that she gleams in the day? But if she is Rati, where is Káma? Therefore I conclude that she is a mortal maiden.

“She must be some celestial nymph that has descended into a king’s palace in consequence of a curse; and I am persuaded I was certainly a friend of her’s in a former life. For my mind’s being full of exceeding affection for her, tells me so. Therefore it is fitting that I should again select her as my chosen friend.” Thus reflecting Somaprabhá descended invisible from heaven, in order not to frighten that maiden; and she assumed the appearance of a mortal maiden to inspire confidence, and slowly approached that Kalingasená. Then Kalingasená, on beholding her, reflected—“Bravo! here is a princess of wonderful beauty come to visit me of her own accord! she is a suitable friend for me.” So she rose up politely and embraced that Somaprabhá. And making her take a seat, she asked her immediately her descent and name. And Somaprabhá said to her; “Be patient, I will tell you all.” Then in the course of their conversation they swore friendship to each other with plighted hands. Then Somaprabhá, said—“My friend, you are a king’s daughter, and it is hard to keep up friendship with the children of kings. For they fly into an immoderate passion on account of a small fault. Hear, with regard to this point, the story of the prince and the merchant’s son which I am about to tell you.” [253]

In the city of Pushkarávatí there was a king named Gúḍhasena, and to him there was born one son. That prince was overbearing, and whatever he did, right or wrong, his father acquiesced in, because he was an only son. And once upon a time, as he was roaming about in a garden, he saw the son of a merchant, named Brahmadatta, who resembled himself in wealth and beauty. And the moment he saw him, he selected him for his special friend, and those two, the prince and the merchant’s son, immediately became like one another in all things.11 And soon they were not able to live without seeing one another, for intimacy in a former birth quickly knits friendship. The prince never tasted food that was not first prepared for that merchant’s son.

Once on a time the prince set out for Ahichchhatra in order to be married, having first decided on his friend’s marriage. And, as he was journeying with his troops, in the society of that friend, mounted on an elephant, he reached the bank of the Ikshuvatí, and encamped there. There he had a wine-party, when the moon arose; and after he had gone to bed, he began to tell a story at the solicitation of his nurse. When he had begun his story, being tired and intoxicated he was overcome by sleep, and his nurse also, but the merchant’s son kept awake out of love for him. And when the others were asleep, the merchant’s son, who was awake, heard in the air what seemed to be the voices of women engaged in conversation. The first said—“This wretch has gone to sleep without telling his tale, therefore I pronounce this curse on him. To-morrow morning he shall see a necklace, and if he take hold of it, it shall cling to his neck, and that moment cause his death.” Then the first voice ceased, and the second went on: “And if he escape that peril, he shall see a mango-tree, and if he eat the fruit of [254]it, he shall then and there lose his life.” Having uttered this, that voice also ceased, and then the third said—“If he escape this also, then, if he enter a house to be married, it shall fall on him and slay him.” Having said so much, that voice also ceased, and the fourth said, “If he escape this also, when he enters that night into his private apartments, he shall sneeze a hundred times; and if some one there does not a hundred times say to him, ‘God bless you,’ he shall fall into the grasp of death. And if the person, who has heard all this, shall inform him of it in order to save his life, he also shall die,” having said this, the voice ceased.12 And the merchant’s son having heard all this, terrible as a thunderstroke, being agitated on account of his affection for the prince, reflected—“Beshrew this tale that was begun, and not finished, for divinities have come invisible to hear it, and are cursing him out of disappointed curiosity. And if this prince dies, what good will my life do to me? So I must by some artifice deliver my friend whom I value as my life. And I must not tell him what has taken place, lest I too should suffer.” Having thus reflected, the merchant’s son got through the night with difficulty.

And in the morning the prince set out with him on his journey, and he saw a necklace in front of him, and wished to lay hold of it. Then the merchant’s son said, “Do not take the necklace, my friend, it is an illusion, else why do not these soldiers see it?” When the prince heard that, he let the necklace alone, but going on further he saw a mango-tree, and he felt a desire to eat its fruit. But he was dissuaded by the merchant’s son, as before. He felt much annoyed in his heart, and travelling on slowly he reached his father-in-law’s palace. And he was about to enter a building there for the purpose of being married, but just as his friend had persuaded him not to do so, the house fell down. So he escaped this danger by a hair’s breadth, and then he felt some confidence in his friend’s prescience. Then the prince and his wife entered at night another building. But the merchant’s son slipped in there unobserved. And the prince, when he went to bed, sneezed a hundred times, but the merchant’s son underneath it said a hundred times—“God bless you”—and then the merchant’s son, having accomplished his object, of his own accord left the house in high spirits. But the prince, who was with his wife, saw him going out, and through jealousy, forgetting his love for him, he flew into a passion and said to the sentinels at his gate: “This designing wretch has entered my [255]private apartments when I wished to be alone, so keep him in durance for the present, and he shall be executed in the morning.” When the guards heard that, they put him under arrest, and he spent the night in confinement, but as he was being led off to execution in the morning, he said to them—“First take me into the presence of the prince, in order that I may tell him a certain reason, which I had for my conduct; and then put me to death.” When he said this to the guards, they went and informed the prince, and on their information and the advice of his ministers, the prince ordered him to be brought before him. When he was brought, he told the prince the whole story, and he believed it to be true, for the fall of the house carried conviction to his mind. So the prince was satisfied, and countermanded the order for his friend’s execution, and he returned with him to his own city, a married man. And there his friend the merchant’s son married, and lived in happiness, his virtues being praised by all men.

“Thus the children of kings break loose from restraint and slaying their guides, disregard benefits, like infuriated elephants. And what friendship can there be with those Vetálas, who take people’s lives by way of a joke. Therefore, my princess, never abandon your friendship with me.”

When Kalingasená heard this story in the palace from the mouth of Somaprabhá, she answered her affectionate friend,—“Those of whom you speak are considered Piśáchas, not the children of kings, and I will tell you a story of the evil importunity of Piśáchas, listen!”13

Long ago there was a Bráhman dwelling on a royal grant, which was called Yajnasthala. He once upon a time, being poor, went to the forest to bring home wood. There, a piece of wood being cleft with the axe, fell, as chance would have it, upon his leg, and piercing it, entered deep into it. And as the blood flowed from him, he fainted, and he was beheld in that condition by a man who recognised him, and taking him up carried him home. There his distracted wife washed off the blood, and consoling him, placed a plaster upon the wound. And then his wound, though tended day by day, not only did not heal, but formed an ulcer. Then the man, afflicted with his ulcerated wound, poverty-stricken, and at the point of death, was thus advised in secret by a Bráhman friend, who came to him; “A friend of mine, named Yajnadatta, was long very poor, but he gained the aid of a Piśácha by a charm, and so, having obtained wealth, lived in happiness. And he told me that charm, so do you gain, my friend, by means of it, the aid of a Piśácha; he will heal your wound.” Having said this, he told him the form of words and described to him the ceremony as follows: “Rise up in the last watch of the night, and with dishevelled hair and naked, and without rinsing your mouth, take two handfuls of rice as large as you [256]can grasp with your two hands, and muttering the form of words go to a place where four roads meet, and there place the two handfuls of rice, and return in silence without looking behind you. Do so always until that Piśácha appears, and himself says to you, ‘I will put an end to your ailment.’ Then receive his aid gladly, and he will remove your complaint.”

When his friend had said this to him, the Bráhman did as he had been directed. Then the Piśácha, being conciliated, brought heavenly herbs from a lofty peak of the Himálayas and healed his wound. And then he became obstinately persistent, and said to the Bráhman, who was delighted at being healed, “Give me a second wound to cure, but if you will not, I will do you an injury or destroy your body.” When the Bráhman heard that, he was terrified, and immediately said to him to get rid of him—“I will give you another wound within seven days.” Whereupon the Piśácha left him, but the Bráhman felt hopeless about his life. But eventually he baffled the Piśácha by the help of his daughter, and having got over the disease, he lived in happiness.14

“Such are Piśáchas, and some young princes are just like them, and, though conciliated, produce misfortune, my friend, but they can be guarded against by counsel. But princesses of good family have never been heard to be such. So you must not expect any injury from associating with me.” When Somaprabhá heard from the mouth of Kalingasená in due course this sweet, entertaining, and amusing tale, she was delighted. And she said to her—“My house is sixty yojanas distant hence, and the day is passing away; I have remained long, so now I must depart, fair one.” Then, as the lord of day was slowly sinking to the eastern mountain, she took leave of her friend who was eager for a second interview, and in a moment flew up into the air, exciting the wonder of the spectators, and rapidly returned to her own house. And, after beholding that wonderful sight, Kalingasená entered into her house with much perplexity, and reflected, “I do not know, indeed, whether my friend is a Siddha female, or an Apsaras, or a Vidyádharí. She is certainly a heavenly female that travels through the upper air. And heavenly females associate with mortal ones led by excessive love. Did not Arundhatí live in friendship with the daughter of king Pṛithu? Did not Pṛithu by means of her friendship bring Surabhi from heaven to earth. And did not he by consuming its milk return to heaven though he had fallen from it. And were not thenceforth perfect cows born upon earth? So I am fortunate; it is by good luck that I have obtained this heavenly creature as a friend; and when she [257]comes to-morrow I will dexterously as her her descent and name.” Thinking such thoughts in her heart, Kalingasená spent that night there, and Somaprabhá spent the night in her own house being eager to behold her again.

Long ago there lived in the city of Páṭaliputra a merchant named, not without cause, Dhanapálita,6 for he was the richest of the rich. And there was born to him a daughter, named Kírtisená, who was incomparably beautiful, and dearer to him than life. And he took his daughter to Magadha and married her to a rich merchant, named Devasena. And though Devasena was himself very virtuous, he had a wicked mother as mistress in his house, for his father was dead. She, when she saw that her daughter-in-law Kírtisená was beloved by her husband, being inflamed with anger, ill-treated her in her husband’s absence. But Kírtisená was afraid to let her husband know it, for the position of a bride in the power of a treacherous mother-in-law is a difficult one. [261]

Once upon a time her husband Devasena, instigated by his relations, was preparing to go to the city of Vallabhí for the sake of trade. Then that Kírtisená said to her husband,—“I have not told you for this long time what I am now going to say: your mother ill-treats me though you are here, but I do not know what she will do to me when you are in a foreign country.” When Devasena heard that, he was perplexed, and being alarmed on account of his affection for his wife, he went and humbly said to his mother—“Kírtisená is committed to your care, mother, now that I am going to a foreign land; you must not treat her unkindly, for she is the daughter of a man of good family.” When Devasena’s mother heard that, she summoned Kírtisená, and elevating her eyes, said to him then and there,—“What have I done? ask her. This is the way in which she eggs you on, my son, trying to make mischief in the house, but both of you are the same in my eyes.” When the good merchant heard that, he departed with his mind easy on her account. For who is not deceived by the hypocritically affectionate speeches of a mother? But Kírtisená stood there silent, smiling in bewilderment, and the next day the merchant set out for Vallabhí. Then, when Kírtisená began to suffer torture at being separated from her husband, the merchant’s mother gradually forbade the female slaves to attend on her. And making an agreement with a handmaid of her own, that worked in the house, she took Kírtisená inside and secretly stripped her. And saying to her, “Wicked woman, you rob me of my son,” she pulled her hair, and with the help of her servant, mangled her with kicks, bites, and scratches. And she threw her into a cellar that was closed with a trap-door and strongly fastened, after first taking out all the things that were in it previously. And the wretch put in it every day half a plate of rice, in the evening, for the girl who was in such a state. And she thought, “I will say in a few days ‘she died of herself during her husband’s absence in a distant land, take her corpse away.’”7 Thus Kírtisená, who deserved all happiness, was thrown into a cellar by that cruel mother-in-law, and while there she reflected with tears, “My husband is rich, I was born in a good family, I am fortunately endowed and virtuous, nevertheless I suffer such calamity, thanks to my mother-in-law. And this is why relations lament the birth of a daughter, exposed to the terrors of mother-in-law, and sister-in-law, marred with inauspiciousness of every kind.” While thus lamenting, Kírtisená suddenly found a small shovel in that cellar, like a thorn extracted from her heart by the Creator. So she dug a passage underground with that iron instrument, until by good luck she rose up in her own private apartment. And she was able to see that [262]room by the light of a lamp that had been left there before, as if she were lighted by her own undiminished virtue. And she took out of it her clothes and her gold, and leaving it secretly at the close of the night, she went out of the city. She reflected—“It is not fitting that I should go to my father’s house after acting thus; what should I say there, and how would people believe me? So I must manage to repair to my husband by means of my own ingenuity; for a husband is the only refuge of virtuous women in this world and the next.” Reflecting thus, she bathed in the water of a tank, and put on the splendid dress of a prince. Then she went into the bazar and after exchanging some gold for money, she sojourned that day in the house of a certain merchant.

The next day she struck up a friendship with a merchant named Samudrasena who wished to go to Vallabhí. And wearing the splendid dress of a prince, she set out for Vallabhí with the merchant and his servants in order to catch up her husband who had set out beforehand. And she said to that merchant, “I am oppressed by my clansmen,8 so I will go with you to my friends in Vallabhí.”

Having heard that, the merchant’s son waited upon her on the journey, out of respect, thinking to himself that she was some distinguished prince or other; and that caravan preferred for its march the forest road, which was much frequented by travellers, who avoided the other routes because of the heavy duties they had to pay. In a few days they reached the entrance of the forest, and while the caravan was encamped in the evening, a female jackal, like a messenger of death, uttered a terrific howl. Thereupon the merchants, who understood what that meant, became apprehensive of an attack by bandits, and the guards on every side took their arms in hand; and the darkness began to advance like the vanguard of the bandits; then Kírtisená, in man’s dress, beholding that, reflected, “Alas! the deeds of those who have sinned in a former life seem to propagate themselves with a brood of evils! Lo! the calamity which my mother-in-law brought upon me has borne fruit here also! First I was engulphed by the wrath of my mother-in-law as if by the mouth of death, then I entered the cellar like a second prison of the womb. By good fortune, I escaped thence, being, as it were, born a second time, and having come here, I have again run a risk of my life. If I am slain here by bandits, my mother-in-law, who hates me, will surely say to my husband, ‘She ran off somewhere being attached to another man.’ But if some one tears off my clothes and recognises me [263]for a woman, then again I run a risk of outrage, and death is better than that. So I must deliver myself, and disregard this merchant my friend. For good women must regard the duty of virtuous wives, not friends and things of that kind.” Thus she determined, and searching about, found a hollow like a house in the middle of a tree, as it were, an opening made for her by the earth out of pity. There she entered and covered her body with leaves and such like things; and remained supported by the hope of reunion with her husband. Then, in the dead of night, a large force of bandits suddenly fell upon the caravan with uplifted weapons, and surrounded it on all sides. And there followed a storm of fight, with howling bandits for thunder-clouds, and the gleam of weapons for long-continued lightning-flashes, and a rain of blood. At last the bandits, being more powerful, slew the merchant-prince Samudrasena and his followers, and went off with all his wealth.

In the meanwhile Kírtisená was listening to the tumult, and that she was not forcibly robbed of breath is to be ascribed to fate only. Then the night departed, and the keen-rayed sun arose, and she went out from that hollow in the middle of the tree. Surely the gods themselves preserve in misfortune good women exclusively devoted to their husbands, and of unfailing virtue; for not only did a lion beholding her in the lonely wood spare her, but a hermit that had come from somewhere or other, when she asked him for information, comforted her and gave her a drink of water from his vessel, and then disappeared in some direction or other, after telling her the road to take. Then satisfied as if with nectar, free from hunger and thirst, that woman, devoted to her husband, set out by the road indicated by the hermit. Then she saw the sun mounted on the western mountain, stretching forth his rays like fingers, as if saying—“Wait patiently one night”—and so she entered an opening in the root of a forest tree which looked like a house, and closed its mouth with another tree. And in the evening she saw through the opening of a chink in the door of her retreat a terrible Rákshasí approaching, accompanied by her young sons. She was terrified, thinking to herself—“Lo! I shall be devoured by this Rákshasí after escaping all my other misfortunes”—and in the meanwhile the Rákshasí ascended that tree. And her sons ascended after her, and immediately said to that Rákshasí,9—“Mother, give us something to eat.” Then the Rákshasí said to her children,—“To-day, my children, I went to a great cemetery, but I did not obtain any food, and though I entreated the congregation of witches, they [264]gave me no portion; then grieved thereat I appealed to Śiva in his terrific form and asked him for food. And the god asked me my name and lineage, and then said to me—‘Terrible one, thou art of high birth as belonging to the race of Khara and Dúshaṇa;10 so go to the city of Vasudatta, not far from here. In that city there lives a great king named Vasudatta addicted to virtue; he defends this whole forest, dwelling on its border, and himself takes duties and chastises robbers. Now, one day, while the king was sleeping in the forest, fatigued with hunting, a centipede quickly entered his ear unobserved. And in course of time it gave birth to many others inside his head. That produced an illness which now dries up all his sinews. And the physicians do not know what is the cause of his disease, but if some one does not find out, he will die in a few days. When he is dead, eat his flesh; for by eating it, you will, thanks to your magic power, remain satiated for six months!’ In these words Śiva promised me a meal, that is attended with uncertainty, and cannot be obtained for a long time, so what must I do, my children?” When the Rákshasí said this to her children, they asked her, “If the disease is discovered and removed, will that king live, mother? And tell us how such a disease can be cured in him?” When the children said this, the Rákshasí solemnly said to them, “If the disease is discovered and removed, the king will certainly live. And hear how his great disease may be taken away. First his head must be anointed by rubbing warm butter on it, and then it must be placed for a long time in the heat of the sun intensified by noonday. And a hollow cane-tube must be inserted into the aperture of his ear, which must communicate with a hole in a plate, and this plate must be placed above a pitcher of cool water. Accordingly the centipedes will be annoyed by heat and perspiration, and will come out of his head, and will enter that cane-tube from the aperture of the ear, and desiring coolness will fall into the pitcher. In this way the king may be freed from that great disease.” Thus spake the Rákshasí to her sons on the tree, and then ceased; and Kírtisená, who was in the trunk of the tree, heard it. And hearing it, she said to herself, “If ever I get safe away from here, I will go and employ this artifice to save the life of that king. For he takes but small duties, and dwells on the outskirts of this forest; and so all the merchants come this way because it is more convenient. This is what the merchant, Samudrasena, who is gone to heaven, told me; accordingly that husband of mine will be sure to return by this very path. So I will go to the city of Vasudatta, which is on the borders of the forest, and I will deliver the king from his sickness, and there await the arrival of my husband.” Thus reflecting, she managed, though with difficulty, to get through the night: [265]in the morning, the Rákshasas having disappeared, she went out from the trunk of the tree.

Then she travelled along slowly in the dress of a man, and in the afternoon she saw a good cowherd. He was moved to compassion by seeing her delicate beauty, and that she had accomplished a long journey, and then she approached him, and said—“What country is this, please tell me?” The cowherd said—“This city in front of you is the city of Vasudatta, belonging to the king Vasudatta: as for the king, he lies there at the point of death with illness.” When Kírtisená heard that, she said to the cowherd, “If any one will conduct me into the presence of that king, I know how to remove his disease.” When the cowherd heard that, he said, “I am going to that very city, so come with me, that I may point it out to you.” Kírtisená answered—“So be it,” and immediately that herdsman conducted her to the city of Vasudatta, wearing her male dress. And telling the circumstances exactly as they were, he immediately commended that lady with auspicious marks to the afflicted warder. And the warder, having informed the king, by his orders introduced the blameless lady into his presence. The king Vasudatta, though tortured with his disease, was comforted the moment he beheld that lady of wonderful beauty; the soul is able to distinguish friends from enemies. And he said to the lady who was disguised as a man, “Auspicious sir, if you remove this disease, I will give you half my kingdom; I remember a lady stripped off from me in my dream a black blanket, so you will certainly remove this my disease.” When Kírtisená heard that, she said—“This day is at an end, O king; to-morrow I will take away your disease; do not be impatient.” Having said this, she rubbed cow’s butter on the king’s head; that made sleep come to him, and the excessive pain disappeared. And then all there praised Kírtisená, saying—“This is some god come to us in the disguise of a physician, thanks to our merits in a previous state of existence.” And the queen waited on her with various attentions, and appointed for her a house in which to rest at night, with female attendants. Then on the next day, at noon, before the eyes of the ministers and ladies of the harem, Kírtisená extracted from the head of that king, through the aperture of the ear, one hundred and fifty centipedes, by employing the wonderful artifice previously described by the Rákshasí. And after getting the centipedes into the pitcher, she comforted the king by fomenting him with milk and melted butter. The king having gradually recovered, and being free from disease, everybody there was astonished at beholding those creatures in the pitcher. And the king, on beholding these harmful insects that had been extracted from his head, was terrified, puzzled and delighted, and considered himself born again. And he made high feast, and honoured Kírtisená, who did not care for half the kingdom, [266]with villages, elephants, horses, and gold. And the queens and the ministers loaded her with gold and garments, saying that they ought to honour the physician who had saved the life of their sovereign. But she deposited for the present that wealth in the hand of the king, waiting for her husband, and saying—“I am under a vow for a certain time.”

So Kírtisená remained there some days in man’s clothes, honoured by all men, and in the meanwhile she heard from the people that her own husband, the great merchant Devasena, had come that way from Vallabhí. Then, as soon as she knew that that caravan had arrived in the city, she went to it, and saw that husband of hers as a peahen beholds the new cloud. And she fell at his feet, and her heart, weeping from the pain of long separation, made her bestow on him the argha11 with her tears of joy. Her husband, for his part, after he had examined her, who was concealed by her disguise, like the form of the moon invisible in the day on account of the rays of the sun, recognised her. It was wonderful that the heart of Devasena, who was handsome as the moon, did not dissolve like the moonstone,12 on beholding the moon of her countenance.

Then, Kírtisená having thus revealed herself, and her husband remaining in a state of wonder, marvelling what it could mean, and the company of merchants being astonished, the king Vasudatta, hearing of it, came there full of amazement. And Kírtisená, being questioned by him, told in the presence of her husband her whole adventure, that was due to the wickedness of her mother-in-law. And her husband Devasena, hearing it, conceived an aversion to his mother, and was affected at the same time by anger, forbearance, astonishment, and joy. And all the people present there, having heard that wonderful adventure of Kírtisená, exclaimed joyfully—“Chaste women, mounted on the chariot of conjugal affection, protected by the armour of modesty, and armed with the weapon of intellect, are victorious in the struggle.” The king too said—“This lady, who has endured affliction for the sake of her husband, has surpassed even queen Sítá, who shared the hardships of Ráma. So she is henceforth my sister in the faith, as well as the saviour of my life.” When the king said that, Kírtisená answered him—“O king, let your gift of affection which I deposited in your care, consisting of villages, elephants, and horses, be made over to my husband.” When she said this to the king, he bestowed on her husband Devasena the villages and other presents, and being pleased gave him a turban of honour. Then Devasena, having his purse suddenly filled with stores of wealth, part of which was given by the king, and part acquired by his own trading, avoiding [267]his mother, and praising Kírtisená, remained dwelling in that town. And Kírtisená having found a happy lot, from which her wicked mother-in-law was removed, and having obtained glory by her unparalleled adventures, dwelt there in the enjoyment of all luxury and power, like all the rich fruit of her husband’s good deeds incarnate in a body.

“Thus chaste women, enduring the dispensations of hostile fate, but preserving in misfortunes the treasure of their virtue, and protected by the great power of their goodness, procure good fortune for their husbands and themselves. And thus, O daughter of a king, many misfortunes befall wives, inflicted by mothers-in-law and sisters-in-law, therefore I desire for you a husband’s house of such a kind, that in it there shall be no mother-in-law and no cruel sister-in-law.”

Hearing this delightful and marvellous story from the mouth of the Asura princess Somaprabhá, the mortal princess Kalingasená was highly delighted. Then the sun, seeing that these tales, the matter of which was so various, had come to an end, proceeded to set, and Somaprabhá, having embraced the regretful Kalingasená, went to her own palace.

Once on a time there lived in Ujjayiní a king named Vikramasena, and he had a daughter named Tejasvatí, matchless in beauty. And she disapproved of every king who sued for her hand. But one day, while she [271]was on the roof of her palace, she saw a man, and as fate would have it, she felt a desire to meet him as he was very handsome, and she sent her confidante to him, to communicate to him her desire. The confidante went and entreated the man, who shrank from such an audacious step, and at last with much difficulty she made him against his will agree to an assignation, saying, “Await, good sir, the arrival of the princess at night in this retired temple which you see here.” After saying this, she took leave of him, and went and told the princess Tejasvatí, who for her part remained watching the sun. But that man, though he had consented, fled somewhere else out of fear; a frog is not capable of relishing the fibres of a bed of red lotuses.

In the meanwhile a certain prince of high lineage came, as his father was dead, to visit the king who had been his father’s friend. And that handsome young prince, named Somadatta, whose kingdom and wealth had been taken by pretenders, arriving at night, entered by accident, to pass the night there, that very temple in which the confidante of the princess had arranged a meeting with the man. While he was there, the princess, blind with passion, approached him, without distinguishing who he was, and made him her self-chosen husband. The wise prince gladly received in silence the bride offered him by fate, who foreshadowed his union with the future Fortune of Royalty. And the princess soon perceived that he was very charming, and considered that she had not been deceived by the Creator. Immediately they conversed together, and the two separated according to agreement; the princess went to her own palace, while the king spent the rest of the night there. In the morning the prince went and announced his name by the mouth of the warder, and being recognised, entered into the presence of the king. There he told his sorrow on account of his kingdom having been taken away, and other insults, and the king agreed to assist him in overthrowing his enemies. And he determined to give him the daughter he had long desired to give away, and then and there told his intention to the ministers. Then the queen told the king his daughter’s adventure, having been informed of it before by herself, through the mouths of trusty confidantes. Then the king was astonished at finding that calamity had been averted and his desire attained by mere chance, as in the fable of the crow and the palm,1 and thereupon one of the ministers said to the king, “Fate watches to ensure the objects of auspicious persons, as good servants of their masters, when the latter are not on the look-out. And to illustrate this, I will tell you the following tale: listen!” [272]

There was a certain Bráhman in a certain village, named Hariśarman.2 He was poor and foolish and in evil ease for want of employment, and he had very many children, that he might reap the fruit of his misdeeds in a former life. He wandered about begging with his family, and at last he reached a certain city, and entered the service of a rich householder called Sthúladatta. He made his sons keepers of this householder’s cows and other possessions, and his wife a servant to him, and he himself lived near his house, performing the duty of an attendant. One day there was a feast on account of the marriage of the daughter of Sthúladatta, largely attended by many friends of the bridegroom, and merry-makers. And then Hariśarman entertained a hope that he would be able to fill himself up to the throat with ghee and flesh and other dainties, together with his family, in the house of his patron. While he was anxiously expecting that occasion, no one thought of him. Then he was distressed at getting nothing to eat, and he said to his wife at night; “It is owing to my poverty and stupidity that I am treated with such disrespect here: so I will display by means of an artifice an assumed knowledge, in order that I may become an object of respect to this Sthúladatta, and when you get an opportunity, tell him that I possess supernatural knowledge.” He said this to her, and after turning the matter over in his mind, while people were asleep he took away from the house of Sthúladatta a horse on which his son-in-law rode. He placed it in concealment at some distance, and in the morning the friends of the bridegroom could not find the horse, though they searched in every direction. Then, while Sthúladatta was distressed at the evil omen, and searching for the thieves who had carried off the horse, the wife of Hariśarman came and said to him—“My husband is a wise man, skilled in astrology and sciences of that kind; and he will procure for you the horse; why do you not ask him?” When Sthúladatta heard that, he called that Hariśarman, who said, “Yesterday I was forgotten, but to-day, now the horse is stolen, I am called to mind,” and Sthúladatta then propitiated the Bráhman with these words—“I forgot you, forgive me”—and asked him to tell him who had taken away their horse? Then Hariśarman drew all kinds of pretended diagrams and said,—“The horse has been placed by thieves on the boundary line south from this place. It is concealed there, and before it is carried off to a distance, as it will be at close of day, quickly go and bring it.” When they heard that, many men ran and brought the horse quickly, praising the discernment of Hariśarman. Then Hariśarman was honoured by all men as a sage, and dwelt there in happiness, honoured by Sthúladatta. Then, as days went on, much [273]wealth consisting of gold and jewels was carried off by a thief from the palace of the king. As the thief was not known, the king quickly summoned Hariśarman on account of his reputation for supernatural knowledge. And he, when summoned, tried to gain time, and said “I will tell you to-morrow,” and then he was placed in a chamber by the king, and carefully guarded. And he was despondent about his pretended knowledge.3 Now in that palace there was a maid named Jihvá,4 who, with the assistance of her brother had carried off that wealth from the interior of the palace: she, being alarmed at Hariśarman’s knowledge, went at night and applied her ear to the door of that chamber in order to find out what he was about. And Hariśarman, who was alone inside, was at that very moment blaming his own tongue, that had made a vain assumption of knowledge. He said—“O Tongue, what is this that you have done, through desire of enjoyment? Ill-conducted one, endure now punishment in this place.” When Jihvá heard this, she thought in her terror, that she had been discovered by this wise man, and by an artifice she managed to get in where he was, and falling at his feet, she said to that supposed sage;—“Bráhman, here I am, that Jihvá whom you have discovered to be the thief of the wealth, and after I took it, I buried it in the earth in a garden behind the palace, under a pomegranate tree. So spare me, and receive the small quantity of gold which is in my possession.” When Hariśarman heard that, he said to her proudly, “Depart, I know all this; I know the past, present and future: but I will not denounce you, being a miserable creature that has implored my protection. But whatever gold is in your possession you must give back to me.” When he said this to the maid, she consented and departed quickly. But Hariśarman reflected in his astonishment; “Fate, if propitious, brings about, as if in sport, a thing that cannot be accomplished, for in this matter when calamity was near, success has unexpectedly been attained by me. While I was blaming my tongue (jihvá), the thief Jihvá suddenly flung herself at my feet. Secret crimes I see, manifest themselves by means of fear.” In these reflections he passed the night happily in the chamber. And in the morning he brought the king by some skilful parade of pretended knowledge into the garden, and led him up to the treasure, which was buried there and he said that the thief had escaped with a part of it. Then the king was pleased and proceeded to give him villages. But the minister, named Devajnánin, whispered in the king’s ear, “How can a man possess such knowledge unattainable by men, without having studied treatises; so [274]you may be certain that this is a specimen of the way he makes a dishonest livelihood, by having a secret intelligence with thieves. So it will be better to test him by some new artifice.” Then the king of his own accord brought a new covered pitcher into which he had thrown a frog, and said to that Hariśarman—“Bráhman, if you can guess what there is in this pitcher, I will do you great honour to-day.” When the Bráhman Hariśarman heard that, he thought that his last hour had come, and he called to mind the pet name of frog which his father had given him in his childhood in sport, and impelled by the deity he apostrophized himself by it, lamenting his hard fate, and suddenly exclaimed there—“This is a fine pitcher for you, frog, since suddenly it has become the swift destroyer of your helpless self in this place.” The people there, when they heard that, made a tumult of applause, because his speech chimed in so well with the object presented to him, and murmured,—“Ah! a great sage, he knows even about the frog!” Then the king, thinking that this was all due to knowledge of divination, was highly delighted, and gave Hariśarman villages with gold, umbrella, and vehicles of all kinds. And immediately Hariśarman became like a feudal chief.

“Thus good objects are brought about by fate for those whose actions in a former life have been good. Accordingly fate made that daughter of yours, Tejasvatí, approach Somadatta a man of equal birth, and kept away one who was unsuited to her.” Hearing this from the mouth of his minister, the king Vikramasena gave his daughter to that prince as if she were the goddess of fortune. Then the prince went and overcame his enemies by the help of his father-in-law’s host, and being established in his own kingdom, lived happily in the company of his wife.

“So true is it that all this happens by the special favour of fate; who on earth would be able to join you, lovely as you are, with the king of Vatsa, though a suitable match for you, without the help of fate? What can I do in this matter, friend Kalingasená?” Kalingasená, hearing this story in private from the mouth of Somaprabhá, became eager in her soul for union with the king of Vatsa, and, in her aspirations after him, began to feel in a less degree the fear of her relations and the warnings of modesty. Then, the sun, the great lamp of the three worlds, being about to set, Somaprabhá the daughter of the Asura Maya, having with difficulty taken leave, until her morning return, of her friend, whose mind was fixed upon her proposed attempt, went through the air to her own home.

The story of Hariśarman resembles closely that of Doctor Allwissend in Grimm’s Tales. It is shown by Benfey to exist in various forms in many countries. It is found in the Siddhikür, the Mongolian form of the Sanskrit Vetálapanchavinśati. In [275]this form of the story the incident of the frog in the pot is omitted, and the other incidents are considerably altered. Instead of the king’s treasure we find a magic gem, on which the prosperity of the country depends; it is not stolen but lost by the king’s daughter. Instead of the horse we have the cure of a sick Khán who had been driven mad by evil spirits. The folly of the man who represents the Bráhman consists in his choosing worthless presents for his reward. (The story is the IVth in Sagas from the Far East.) Benfey considers the fullest form of the story to be that in Schleicher’s Lithuanian Legends. In this form of the story we have the stealing of the horse. In other points it resembles the Mongolian version. The Bráhman is represented by a poor cottager, who puts up over his door a notice saying that he is a Doctor, who knows everything and can do everything. The third exploit of the cottager is the finding of a stolen treasure which is the second in the Indian story, but his second is a miraculous cure which is in accordance with the Siddikür. The latter is probably a late work; and we may presume that the Mongols brought the Indian story to Europe, in a form resembling that in the Kathá Sarit Ságara more nearly than the form in the Siddikür does. In the third exploit of the cottager in the Lithuanian tale, which corresponds to the second in the Indian, the treasure has been stolen by three servants. They listen outside while the Doctor is alone in his room. When the clock strikes one,—he says, “We have one.” When it strikes two, he says—“We have two.” When it strikes three, he says,—“We have now three.” In their terror they go to the doctor and beg him not to betray them. He is richly rewarded.

But after all, Grimm’s form of the tale is nearest to the Sanskrit. The dish with crabs in it, the contents of which the Doctor has to guess, makes him exclaim—”Ach ich armer Krebs.” This might almost have been translated from the Sanskrit; it is so similar in form. The guilty servants, who stole the gold are detected by the Doctor’s saying to his wife—“Margaret, that is the first”—meaning the first who waited at table, and so on.

The story is also found in the Facetiæ of Henricus Bebelius, 1506. Here a poor charcoal-burner represents the Bráhman. He asks three days to consider. The king gives him a good dinner, and while the first thief is standing at the window, he exclaims “Jam unus accessit” meaning “one day is at an end.” The next day the second thief comes to listen. The charcoal-burner exclaims “Secundus accessit” and so with the third, whereupon they all confess.

Benfey conceives himself to have found the incident of the horse in Poggii Facetiæ (LXXXVI ed. Cracov. 1592, p. 59). Here a doctor boasts a wonder-working pill. A man who has lost his ass takes one of these pills. It conducts him to a bed of reeds where he finds his ass. (The article from which I have taken these parallels is found in Benfey’s Orient und Occident, Vol. I, p. 371 and ff.) [276]

The Asura Báṇa had a daughter, famous under the name of Ushá. And she propitiated Gaurí, who granted her a boon in order that she might obtain a husband, saying to her, “He to whom you shall be united in a dream, shall be your husband.” Then she saw in a dream a certain man looking like a divine prince. She was married by him according to the Gándharva form of marriage, and after obtaining the joy of union with him, she woke up at the close of night. When she did not see the husband she had seen in her dream, but beheld the traces of his presence, she remembered the boon of Gaurí, and was full of disquietude, fear, and astonishment. And being miserable without the husband whom she had seen in her dream, she confessed all to her friend Chitralekhá, who questioned her. And Chitralekhá, being acquainted with magic, thus addressed that Ushá, who knew not the name of her lover nor any sign whereby to recognise him,—“My friend, this is the result of the boon of the goddess Gaurí, what doubt can we allege in this matter? But how are you to search for your lover as he is not to be recognised by any token? I will sketch for you the whole world, gods, Asuras, and men, in case you may be able to recognise him;1 and [277]point him out to me among them, in order that I may bring him.” Thus spoke Chitralekhá, and when Ushá answered “By all means!” she painted for her with coloured pencils the whole world in order. Thereupon Ushá exclaimed joyfully, “There he is,” and pointed out with trembling finger Aniruddha in Dváravatí of the race of Yadu. Then Chitralekhá said—“My friend, you are fortunate, in that you have obtained for a husband Aniruddha the grandson of the adorable Vishṇu. But he lives sixty thousand yojanas from here.” When Ushá heard that, she said to her, overpowered by excessive longing, “Friend, if I cannot to-day repair to his bosom cool as sandal wood, know that I am already dead, being burnt up with the uncontrollable fire of love.” When Chitralekhá heard this, she consoled her dear friend, and immediately flew up and went through the air to the city of Dváravatí; and she beheld it in the middle of the sea, producing with its vast and lofty palaces an appearance as if the peaks of the churning mountain2 had again been flung into the ocean. She found Aniruddha asleep in that city at night, and woke him up, and told him that Ushá had fallen in love with him on account of having seen him in a dream. And she took the prince, who was eager for the interview, looking exactly as he had before appeared in Ushá’s dream, and returned from Dváravatí in a moment by the might of her magic. And flying with him through the air, she introduced that lover secretly into the private apartments of Ushá, who was awaiting him. When Ushá beheld that Aniruddha arrived in bodily form, resembling the moon, there was a movement in her limbs resembling the tide of the sea.3 Then she remained there with that sweet-heart who had been given her by her friend, in perfect happiness, as if with Life embodied in visible form. But her father Báṇa, when he heard it, was angry; however Aniruddha conquered him by his own valour and the might of his grandfather. Then Ushá and Aniruddha returned to Dváravatí and became inseparable like Śiva and Párvatí.4

“Thus Chitralekhá united Ushá with her lover in one day, but I consider you, my friend, far more powerful than her. So bring me the king of Vatsa here, do not delay.” When Somaprabhá heard this from Kalingasená, she said—“Chitralekhá, a nymph of heaven, might take up a strange man and bring him, but what can one like myself do in the matter, who never touch any man but my husband? So I will take you, my friend, to the place where the king of Vatsa is, having first shewn you your suitor [278]Prasenajit.” When Somaprabhá made this proposal to Kalingasená, she consented, and immediately ascended with her the magic chariot prepared by her, and setting out through the air with her treasures and her retinue, she went off unknown to her parents. For women impelled by love regard neither height nor depth in front of them, as a horse urged on by his rider does not fear the keenest sword-edge.

First she came to Śrávastí, and beheld from a distance the king Prasenajit white with age, who had gone out to hunt, distinguished by a chouri frequently waved, which seemed at a distance to repel her as if saying—“Leave this old man.” And Somaprabhá pointed him out with a scornful laugh, saying—“Look! this is the man to whom your father wishes to give you.” Then she said to Somaprabhá—“Old age has chosen him for her own, what other female will choose him?” “So take me away from here quickly, my friend, to the king of Vatsa.” Immediately Kalingasená went with her to the city of Kauśámbí through the air. Then she beheld from a distance with eagerness that king of Vatsa, pointed out by her friend in a garden, as the female partridge beholds the nectar-rayed moon. With dilated eye, and hand placed on the heart, she seemed to say “He has entered my soul by this path.” Then she exclaimed, “Friend, procure me a meeting here with the king of Vatsa this very day; for having seen him I am not able to wait a moment.” But when she said this, her friend Somaprabhá answered her—“I have seen to-day an unfavourable omen, so remain, my friend, this day quiet and unobserved in this garden, do not, my friend, send go-betweens backwards and forwards. To-morrow I will come and devise some expedient for your meeting: at present, O thou whose home is in my heart, I desire to return to the home of my husband.” Having said this, Somaprabhá departed thence after leaving her there; and the king of Vatsa, leaving the garden, entered his palace. Then Kalingasená, remaining there, sent her chamberlain, giving him her message explicitly, to the king of Vatsa; and this she did, though previously forbidden by her friend, who understood omens. Love, when recently enthroned in the breasts of young women, is impatient of all restraint. And the chamberlain went and announced himself by the mouth of the warder, and immediately entering, thus addressed the king of Vatsa—“O king, the daughter of Kalingadatta the king who rules over Takshaśilá, Kalingasená by name, having heard that you are most handsome, has come here to choose you for a husband, abandoning her relatives, having accomplished the journey in a magic car that travels through the air, together with her attendants; and she has been conducted here by her confidante named Somaprabhá, who travels invisible, the daughter of the Asura Maya, the wife of Naḍakúvara. I have been sent by her to inform you; do you receive her; let there be union of you two [279]as of the moonlight and the moon.” When the king heard this from the chamberlain, he welcomed him, saying—“I consent,” and being delighted, he honoured him with gold and garments. And summoning his chief minister Yaugandharáyaṇa, he said to him, “The daughter of king Kalingadatta, who is called Kalingasená, and whose beauty is famed on the earth, has come of her own accord to choose me as a husband; so tell me quickly, when shall I marry her, for she is not to be rejected?” The minister Yaugandharáyaṇa, when the king of Vatsa said this to him, regarding what would be best for his master in the long run, reflected for a moment as follows:5 “Kalingasená is certainly famed for beauty in the three worlds, there is no other like her; even the gods are in love with her. If this king of Vatsa obtain her, he will abandon everything else, and then the queen Vásavadattá will lose her life, and then the prince Naraváhanadatta will perish, and Padmávatí out of love for him will find life hard to retain: and then Chaṇḍamahásena and Pradyota, the fathers of the two queens, will lose their lives or become hostile; and thus utter ruin will follow. On the other hand it will not do to forbid the match, since the vicious passion of this king will increase if he is thwarted. So I will put off the time of his marriage in order to attain a favourable issue.” Having thus reflected, Yaugandharáyaṇa said to the king of Vatsa, “O king, you are fortunate in that this Kalingasená has of her own accord come to your house, and the king, her father, has become your servant. So you must consult the astrologers, and marry her in accordance with good custom at an auspicious time, for she is the daughter of a great king. To-day give her a suitable palace to dwell in by herself, and send her male and female slaves, and robes and ornaments.” When his chief minister gave him this advice, the king of Vatsa approved it, and with glad heart performed it all with special attention. Then Kalingasená entered the palace assigned her for residence, and considering her desire attained, was exceedingly delighted.

The wise Yaugandharáyaṇa, for his part, immediately left the king’s court, went to his own house, and reflected—“Often procrastination serves to avert an inauspicious measure. For long ago, when Indra had fled on account of having caused the death of a Bráhman, and Nahusha obtained the sovereignty over the gods, he fell in love with Śachí,6 and she was saved by the preceptor of the gods7, to whom she had fled for refuge. For in order to gain time, he kept saying—‘She will come to you to-day or to-morrow,’—until Nahusha was destroyed by the curse of a Bráhman, uttered with an angry roar, and Indra regained the sovereignty [280]of the gods. In the same way I must keep putting off my master.” Having thus reflected, the minister secretly made an arrangement with the astrologers that they were to fix a distant date.

Then the queen Vásavadattá found out what had taken place, and summoned the prime-minister to her palace. When he entered and bowed before her, the queen said to him, weeping—“Noble sir, you said to me long ago, ‘Queen, as long as I remain where I am, you shall have no other rival but Padmávatí,’ and observe now, this Kalingasená is about to be married here: and she is beautiful, and my husband is attached to her, so you have proved a prophet of falsehood and I am now a dead woman.” When the minister Yaugandharáyaṇa heard this, he said to her—“Be composed, for how could this happen, queen, while I am alive? However, you must not oppose the king in this matter, but must on the contrary take refuge in self-restraint, and shew him all complaisance. The sick man is not induced to place himself in the physician’s hands by disagreeable speeches, but he is by agreeable speeches, if the physician does his work by a conciliatory method. If a man is dragged against the current, he will never escape from the stream of a river, or from a vicious tendency, but if he is carried with the current, he will escape from both. So when the king comes into your presence, receive him with all attentions, without anger, concealing your real feelings. Approve at present of his marrying Kalingasená, saying that his kingdom will be made more powerful by her father also becoming his ally. And if you do this, the king will perceive that you possess in a high degree the virtue of magnanimity, and his love and courtesy towards you will increase, and thinking that Kalingasená is within his reach, he will not be impatient, for the desire of a man for any object increases if he is restrained. And you must teach this lesson to Padmávatí also, O blameless one, and so that king may submit to our putting him off in this matter. And after this, I ween, you will behold my skill in stratagem. For the wise are tested in difficulty, even as heroes are tested in fight. So, queen, do not be despondent.” In these words Yaugandharáyaṇa admonished the queen, and, as she received his counsels with respect, he departed thence.8 But the king of Vatsa, throughout that day, neither in light nor darkness entered the private apartments of either of the two queens, for his mind was eager for a new well-matched union with Kalingasená, who had approached him in such an ardour of spontaneous choice. And then the queen and the prime-minister and the king and Kalingasená spent the night in wakefulness like that of a great feast, apart in their respective houses, the second couple through impatience for a rare delight, and the first through very profound anxiety. [281]

Long ago there lived in Antarvedi a Bráhman named Vasudatta, and he had a son born to him named Vishṇudatta. That Vishṇudatta, after he reached the age of sixteen years, set out for the city of Vallabhí in order to acquire learning. And there joined him seven other young Bráhmans his fellows, but those seven were fools, while he was wise and sprung from a good family. After they had taken an oath not to desert one another, Vishṇudatta set out with them at night without the knowledge of his parents. And after he had set forth, he saw an evil omen presenting itself in front of him, and he said to those friends of his who were travelling with him,—“Ha! Here is a bad omen! it is advisable to turn back now; we will set out again with good hope of success, when we have auspicious omens with us.” When those seven foolish companions heard that, they said, “Do not entertain groundless fear, for we are not afraid of the omen. If you are afraid, do not go, but we will start this moment; to-morrow morning our relations will abandon us, when they hear of our proceedings.” When those ignorant creatures said that, Vishṇudatta set out with them, urged on by his oath, but he first called to mind Hari, the [284]dispeller of sin. And at the end of the night he saw another evil omen, and again mentioned it, and he was rebuked by all those foolish friends of his in the following words; “This is our evil omen, you coward afraid to travel, that you have been brought by us, since you shudder at a crow at every step you take; we require no other evil omen.” Having reviled him in these words, they continued their journey and Vishṇudatta went with them, as he could not help it, but kept silence, reflecting—“One ought not to give advice to a fool bent on going his own crooked way, for it only entails ridicule, being like the beautifying of ordure. A single wise man fallen among many fools, like a lotus in the path of the waves, is surely overwhelmed. So I must not henceforth give these men either good or bad advice, but I must go on in silence; destiny will educe prosperity.” Engaged in these reflections, Vishṇudatta proceeded on the way with those fools, and at the end of the day he reached a Śavara village. There he wandered about in the night and reached a certain house inhabited by a young woman, and asked the woman for a lodging there. She gave him a room, and he entered it with his friends, and those seven in a moment went to sleep. He alone remained awake, as he had entered a house belonging to a savage. For the stupid sleep resolutely, how can the understanding sleep?

And in the meanwhile a certain young man secretly entered the inner apartment of the house, and went into the presence of that woman. And she remained in confidential conversation with him, and as fate would have it, they both fell asleep. And Vishṇudatta, perceiving it all through the half-open door by the light of a candle, reflected despondently, “Alas! have we entered the house of a profligate woman? Surely this is her paramour, and not the husband of her youth, for otherwise we should not have this timid secret proceeding; I saw at the first that she was of a flighty disposition; but we have entered here as mutual witnesses, for lack of others.” While he was thinking he heard outside a noise of men, and he saw entering a young chief of the Śavaras with a sword, looking about him, while his attendants remained in the sleeping apartment. When the chief said—“Who are you?” Vishṇudatta, supposing him to be the master of the house, said in his terror—“We are travellers.” But the Śavara entered, and seeing his wife in such a position, he cut off with his sword the head of her sleeping paramour. But he did not punish or even wake his wife; but placing his sword on the ground he went to sleep on another couch. Seeing that by the light of the candle, Vishṇudatta reflected—“He did right not to kill his wife, but to kill the adulterer; but that he should sleep here in confidence, after performing such a deed, is an act of surprising courage, characteristic of men of mighty minds.” While Vishṇudatta was thus reflecting, that wicked woman awoke and beheld her paramour [285]slain, and that husband of hers asleep. So she rose up, and took on her shoulder the body of her lover, and carrying his head in one hand, she went out. And going outside quickly, she threw into an ash-heap the trunk with the head, and came secretly back. And Vishṇudatta going out beheld it all from a distance, and again entering remained as he was, in the midst of his sleeping companions. But the wicked woman came back, and entering the room, cut off with that very sword the head of her sleeping husband. And going out she raised a cry so as to make all the servants hear, “Alas! I am ruined, my husband has been slain by these travellers.” Then the servants, hearing the cry, rushed forward and beholding their master slain, ran upon Vishṇudatta and his friends with uplifted weapons. And when those others, his companions, rose up in terror, as they were about to be slain, Vishṇudatta said quickly—“Cease your attempt to slay Bráhmans! We did not do this deed; this wicked woman herself did it, being in love with another man. But I saw the whole affair from the very beginning, through a half-open door; and I went out and observed what she did, and if you will have patience with me, I will tell you.” Vishṇudatta with these words restrained the Śavaras, and told them the whole affair from the beginning, and took them out and showed them the trunk with the head freshly severed and thrown by the woman on that heap of refuse. Then the woman confessed the truth by the paleness of her face, and all there reviled the wanton, and said—“Whom will not a wicked woman kill, when won over by another man, like a sword in an enemy’s hand, since enticed by love she commits reckless crime without being taught.” Having said this, they thereupon let Vishṇudatta and his companions go; and then the seven companions praised Vishṇudatta, saying, “You became to us, while we were asleep at night, a protecting jewel-lamp, through your kindness we escaped to-day from death produced by an evil omen.” In these words they praised Vishṇudatta, and ceased henceforth their reviling, and after bowing before him they set out in the morning on their errand, accompanied by him.

Having told this story to Kalingasená in their mutual conversation, Somaprabhá again said to that friend of hers in Kauśámbí.—“Thus, my friend, an evil omen presenting itself to people engaged in any undertaking, if not counteracted by delay and other methods, produces misfortune. And so people of dull intelligence, neglecting the advice of the wise, and acting impetuously, are afflicted in the end. Accordingly you did not act wisely in sending a messenger to the king of Vatsa, asking him to receive you, when there was an inauspicious omen. May Fate grant you to be married without any impediment, but you came from your house in an unlucky moment, therefore your marriage is far off. And the gods too are in love with you, so you must be on your guard against this. And you must think [286]of the minister Yaugandharáyaṇa, who is expert in politic wiles; he, fearing that the king may become engrossed in pleasure, may throw impediments in your way in this business; or he may even bring a charge against you after your marriage is celebrated: but no, being virtuous, he will not bring a false accusation; nevertheless, my friend, you must at all events be on your guard against your rival wife, I will tell you a story illustrative of this, listen.”

There is in this land a city named Ikshumatí, and by the side of it there runs a river called by the same name; both were created by Viśvámitra. And near it there is a great forest, and in it a hermit of the name of Mankaṇaka had made himself a hermitage and performed penance with his heels upwards. And while he was performing austerities, he saw an Apsaras of the name of Menaká coming through the air, with her clothes floating on the breeze. Then his mind was bewildered by Cupid, who had found his opportunity, and there was born to him a daughter named Kadalígarbhá,2 beautiful in every limb. And since she was born in the interior of a plantain, her father, the hermit Mankaṇaka, gave her the name of Kadalígarbhá. She grew up in his hermitage like Kṛipí the wife of Droṇa, who was born to Gautama on his beholding Rambhá. And once on a time Dṛiḍhavarman, a king born in Madhyadeśa,3 who in the excitement of the chase was carried away by his horse, entered that hermitage. He beheld Kadalígarbhá clothed in garments of bark, having her beauty exceedingly set off by the dress appropriate to the daughter of an ascetic. And she, when seen, captivated the heart of that king so completely, that she left no room in it for the women of his harem. While thinking to himself—“Shall I be able to obtain as a wife this daughter of some hermit or other, as Dushyanta obtained Śakuntalá the daughter of the hermit Kanva?”—the king beheld that hermit Mankaṇaka coming with fuel and kuśa-grass. And leaving his horse, he approached him and worshipped at his feet, and when questioned, discovered himself to that hermit. Then the hermit gave the following order to Kadalígarbhá—“My dear child, prepare the arghya4 for this king our guest.” She said—“I will do so”—and bowing, prepared the hospitable offering, and then the king said to the hermit—“Whence did you obtain this maiden who is so beautiful?”—Then the hermit told the king the story of her birth, and her name [287]Kadalígarbhá, which indicated the manner of it. Then the king, considering the maiden born from the hermit’s thinking on Menaká to be an Apsaras, earnestly craved her hand of her father. And the sage gave him that daughter named Kadalígarbhá, for the actions of the sages of old time, guided by divine insight, were without hesitation. And the nymphs of heaven, discovering the fact by their divine power, came there out of love for Menaká, and adorned her for the wedding. And on that very occasion they put mustard-seeds into her hand and said to her,—“As you are going along the path, sow them, in order that you may know it again. If, daughter, at any time your husband should scorn you, and you should wish to return here, then you will be able, as you come along, to recognise the path by these, which will have sprung up.” When they had said this to her, and her marriage had been celebrated, the king Dṛiḍhavarman placed Kadalígarbhá on his horse, and departed thence. His army came up and escorted him, and in company with that bride of his, who sowed the mustard-seeds all along the path, he reached his own palace. There he became averse to the society of his other wives, and dwelt with that Kadalígarbhá, after telling her story to his ministers.

Then his principal wife, being exceedingly afflicted, said to his minister in secret, after reminding him of the benefits she had conferred upon him: “The king is now exclusively attached to his new wife and has deserted me, so take steps to make this rival of mine depart.” When that minister heard that, he said—“Queen, it is not appropriate for people like me to destroy or banish their masters’ wives. This is the business of the wives of wandering religious mendicants, addicted to jugglery and such practices, associating with men like themselves. For those hypocritical female ascetics, creeping unforbidden into houses, skilled in deception, will stick at no deed whatever.” When he said this to her, the queen, as if abashed, said to him in affected shame—“Then I will have nothing to do with this proceeding disapproved of by the virtuous.” But she laid up his speech in her heart, and dismissing that minister, she summoned by the mouth of her maid a certain wandering female ascetic. And she told her all that desire of hers from the beginning, and promised to give her great wealth if the business were successfully accomplished. And the wicked female ascetic, from desire of gain, said to the afflicted queen—“Queen, this is an easy matter, I will accomplish it for you, for I know very many expedients of various kinds.” Having thus consoled the queen, that female ascetic departed; and after reaching her house, she reflected as one afraid, “Alas! whom will not excessive desire of gain delude, since I rashly made such a promise before the queen? But the fact is, I know no device of the kind, and it is not possible to carry on any deception in the palace, as I do in other places, for the authorities might perhaps find it out and [288]punish me. There may be one resource in this difficulty, for I have a friend, a barber, and as he is skilled in devices of the kind, all may yet go well, if he exert himself in the matter.” After thus reflecting, she went to the barber, and told him all her plan that was to bring her prosperity. Then the barber, who was old and cunning, reflected—“This is good luck, that an opportunity of making something has now presented itself to me. So we must not kill the king’s new wife, but we must preserve her alive, for her father has divine insight, and would reveal the whole transaction. But by separating her from the king we will now batten upon the queen, for great people become servants to a servant who shares their criminal secrets. And in due time I will re-unite her to the king, and tell him the whole story, in order that he and the sage’s daughter may become a source of subsistence to me. And thus I shall not have done anything very wrong, and I shall have a livelihood for a long time.” Having thus reflected, the barber said to the hypocritical female ascetic—“Mother, I will do all this, but it would not be proper to slay that new wife of the king’s by means of magic, for the king might some day find it out, and then he would destroy us all: besides we should incur the sin of woman-murder, and her father the sage would curse us. Therefore it is far better that she should be separated from the king by means of our ingenuity, in order that the queen may be happy, and we may obtain wealth [punctuation missing in scan] And this is an easy matter to me, for what can I not accomplish by force of intellect? Hear my ingenuity, I will relate a story which illustrates it.”

This king Dṛiḍhavarman had an immoral father. And I was then his servant, being engaged in the duties which belong to me. He, one day, as he was roaming about here, cast eyes on my wife; and as she was young and beautiful, his mind became attached to her. And when he asked his attendants who she was, they said—“The barber’s wife.” He thought—“What can the barber do?” So the wicked king entered my house, and after enjoying at will the society of my wife, departed. But, as it happened, I was away from my house that day, being absent somewhere or other. And the next day, when I entered, I saw that my wife’s manner had altered, and when I asked her the reason, she told me the whole story, being full of pride at what had occurred. And in that way the king went on puffing up my wife by continual visits, which I was powerless to prevent. A prince distracted by unholy passion makes no distinction between what is lawful and what is illicit. The forest is like straw to a sylvan fire fanned by the wind. So, not being in possession of any other expedient for restraining my sovereign, I reduced myself with spare diet, and took refuge in feigned sickness. And in this state I went into the presence of that king to perform my duties, sighing deeply, pale and [289]emaciated. Then the king, seeing that I seemed to be ill, asked me meaningly the following question—“Holla! tell me why you have become thus?” And after he had questioned me persistently, I answered the king in private, after imploring immunity from punishment—“King, my wife is a witch. And when I am asleep she extracts my entrails and sucks them, and then replaces them as before—This is how I have become lean. So how can continual refreshment and eating nourish me?” When I said this to the king, he became anxious and reflected—“Can she really be a witch? Why was I captivated by her? I wonder whether she will suck my entrails also, since I am well nourished with food. So I will myself contrive to test her this very night.” Having thus reflected, the king caused food to be given me on the spot. Then I went home and shed tears in the presence of my wife, and when she questioned me, I said to her—“My beloved, you must not reveal to any one what I am about to tell you. Listen! That king has teeth as sharp as the edge of a thunderbolt, where teeth are not usually found, and they broke my razor to-day while I was performing my duties. And in this way I shall break a razor every time. So how am I to be continually procuring fresh razors? This is why I weep, for the means of supporting myself in my home are destroyed.” When I had said this to my wife, she made up her mind to investigate the marvel of the concealed teeth while the king was asleep, since he was to visit her at night. But she did not perceive that such a thing had never been seen since the world was, and could not be true. Even clever women are deceived by the tales of an impostor.

So the king came at night and visited my wife at will, and as if fatigued, pretended to go to sleep, remembering what I had said. Then my wife, thinking he was asleep, slowly stretched out her hand to find his concealed teeth. And as soon as her hand reached him, the king exclaimed—“A witch! A witch!” and left the house in terror. Henceforth my wife, having been abandoned by the king out of fear, became satisfied with me and devoted to me exclusively. In this way I saved my wife on a former occasion from the king by my intelligence.

Having told this story to the female ascetic, the barber went on to say—“So, my good lady, this desire of yours must be accomplished by wisdom; and I will tell you, mother, how it is to be done, listen to me. Some old servant of the harem must be won over to say to this king in secret every day, ‘Your wife Kadalígarbhá is a witch.’ For she, being a forest maiden, has no attendants of her own, and what will not all alien servants do for gain, being easily corrupted? Accordingly, when the king becomes apprehensive on hearing what the old servant says, you must contrive to place at night hands and feet and other limbs in the chamber of Kadalígarbhá.5 Then the king will see them in the morning, and concluding that what the old [290]man says is true, will be afraid of Kadalígarbhá and desert her of his own accord. So the queen will be delighted at getting rid of a rival wife, and entertain a favourable opinion of you, and we shall gain some advantage.” When the barber said this to the female ascetic, she consented and went and told the whole matter to the king’s head queen. And the queen carried out her suggestions, and the king, who had been warned, saw the hands and feet in the morning with his own eyes, and abandoned Kadalígarbhá, thinking her to be wicked. So the female ascetic, together with the barber, enjoyed to the full the presents which the queen secretly gave to her, being pleased with her aid.

So Kadalígarbhá, being abandoned by Dṛiḍhavarman, went out from the palace, grieved because the king would be cursed. And she returned to the hermitage of her father by the same path by which she came, which she was able to recognise by the mustard-seeds she had sown, which had sprung up.6 Her father, the hermit Mankaṇaka, when he saw her suddenly arrived there, remained for some time suspecting immorality on her part. And then he perceived the whole occurrence by the power of contemplation, and after lovingly comforting her, departed thence with her. And he went and told the king, who bowed before him, the whole treacherous drama, which the head queen had got up out of hatred for her rival. At that moment the barber himself arrived, and related the whole occurrence to the king, and then proceeded to say this to him; “In this way, my sovereign, I sent away the lady Kadalígarbhá, and so delivered her from the danger of the incantations which would have been practised against her, since I satisfied the head queen by an artifice.” When the king heard that, he saw that the speech of the great hermit was certainly true, and he took back Kadalígarbhá, recovering his confidence in her. And after respectfully accompanying the departing hermit, he rewarded the barber with wealth, thinking that he was attached to his person: kings are the appointed prey of rogues. Then the king, being averse to the society of his queen, lived in great comfort with Kadalígarbhá.

“Many false accusations of this kind do rival wives bring, O Kalingasená of irreproachable beauty. And you are a maiden, the auspicious moment of whose marriage is fixed at a distant date, and even the gods, whose goings transcend our thought, are in love with you. So do you yourself preserve yourself now, as the one jewel of the world, dedicated to the king of Vatsa only, from all assaults, for your own [291]excellence brings you enmity. I indeed, my friend, shall never return to you, since you are now established in the palace of your husband: good women do not visit the house of a friend’s husband, O fair one! besides I have been forbidden by my own lord. And it is not possible for me to come here secretly, induced by my affection for you, inasmuch as my husband possesses divine insight and would find it out; with difficulty in truth did I obtain his permission to come here to-day. And since I can be of no use to you now, my friend, I will return home, but if my husband should give me permission, I will come here again, disregarding modesty.” Thus Somaprabhá, the daughter of the Asura king, spake weeping to Kalingasená, the daughter of the mortal king, whose face also was washed with tears, and after embracing her, departed swiftly to her own palace, as the day was passing away.

There lived long ago in the Dekhan, in a city called Gokarṇa, a king named Śrutasena, who was the ornament of his race, and possessed of learning. And this king, though his prosperity was complete, had yet one source of sorrow, that he had not as yet obtained a wife who was a suitable match for him. And once on a time the king, while brooding over that sorrow, began to talk about it, and was thus addressed by a Bráhman, named Agniśarman: “I have seen two wonders, O king, I will describe them to you: listen! Having gone on a pilgrimage to all the sacred bathing-places, I reached that Panchatírthí, in which five Apsarases were reduced to the condition of crocodiles by the curse of a holy sage, and were rescued from it by Arjuna, who had come there while going round the holy spots. There I bathed in the blessed water, which possesses the power of enabling those men, who bathe in it and fast for five nights, to become followers of Náráyaṇa. And while I was departing, I beheld a cultivator in the middle of a [293]field, who had furrowed the earth with his plough, singing. That cultivator was asked about the road by a certain wandering hermit, who had come that way, but did not hear what he said, being wholly occupied with his song. Then the hermit was angry with that cultivator, and began to talk in a distracted manner; and the cultivator, stopping his song, said to him—‘Alas! though you are a hermit, you will not learn even a fraction of virtue; even I, though a fool, have discovered what is the highest essence of virtue.’ When he heard that, the hermit asked him out of curiosity—‘What have you discovered?’ And the cultivator answered him—‘Sit here in the shade, and listen while I tell you a tale.’

In this land there were three Bráhman brothers, Brahmadatta, Somadatta, and Viśvadatta of holy deeds. Of these the two eldest possessed wives, but the youngest was unmarried; he remained as their servant without being angry, obeying their orders along with me; for I was their ploughman. And those elder brothers thought that he was soft, and devoid of intellect, good, not swerving from the right path, simple, and unenterprising. Then, once on a time, the youngest brother Viśvadatta was solicited by his two brothers’ wives who fell in love with him, but he rejected their advances as if each of them had been his mother. Then they both of them went and said falsely to their own husbands, “This younger brother of yours makes love to us in secret.” This speech made those two elder brothers cherish anger against him in their hearts, for men bewildered by the speeches of wicked women, do not know the difference between truth and falsehood. Then those brothers said once on a time to Viśvadatta—“Go and level that ant-hill in the middle of the field!” He said—“I will”—and went and proceeded to dig up the ant-hill with his spade, though I said to him, “Do not do it, a venomous snake lives there.” Though he heard what I said, he continued to dig at the ant-hill, exclaiming—“Let what will happen, happen,” for he would not disobey the order of his two elder brothers, though they wished him ill. Then, while he was digging it up, he got out of it a pitcher filled with gold, and not a venomous snake, for virtue is an auxiliary to the good. So he took that pitcher and gave it all to his elder brothers out of his constant affection for them, though I tried to dissuade him. But they sent assassins, hiring them with a portion of that gold, and had his hands and feet cut off, in their desire to seize his wealth. But he was free from anger, and in spite of that treatment, did not wax wroth with his brothers, and on account of that virtue of his, his hands and feet grew again.

‘After beholding that, I renounced from that time all anger, but you, though you are a hermit, have not even now renounced anger. The man who is free from anger has gained heaven, behold now a proof of this.’ [294]After saying this, the husbandman left his body and ascended to heaven. “This is one wonder which I have seen, hear a second, O king;”

After saying this to king Śrutasena, the Bráhman continued, “Then, as I was roaming about on the shore of the sea to visit sacred places, I reached the realm of king Vasantasena. There, as I was about to enter an almshouse where cooked food is distributed by the king, the Bráhmans said to me,—‘Bráhman, advance not in that direction, for there the king’s daughter is present, she is called Vidyuddyotá, and if even a hermit beholds her, he is pierced by the arrow of love, and becoming distracted ceases to live.’ Then I answered them—‘This is not wonderful to me, for I continually behold king Śrutasena, who is a second god of love. When he leaves his palace on an expedition, or for some other purpose, women of good family are removed by guards from any place whence they may possibly see him, for fear they should infringe chastity.’ When I said this, they knew I was a subject of your Majesty’s, and the superintendent of the house of entertainment and the king’s chaplain took me into the presence of the king, that I might share the feast. There I saw that princess Vidyuddyotá, looking like the incarnation of the magic art with which the god of love bewilders the world. After a long time I mastered my confusion at beholding her, and reflected—‘If this lady were to become the wife of our sovereign, he would forget his kingdom. Nevertheless I must tell this tale to my master, otherwise there might take place the incident of Devasena and Unmádiní.’

Once on a time, in the realm of king Devasena, there was a merchant’s daughter, a maiden that bewildered the world with her beauty. Her father told the king about her, but the king did not take her in marriage, for the Bráhmans, who wished to prevent his neglecting his duties, told him she had inauspicious marks. So she was married to his prime minister.1 And once on a time she showed herself to the king at a window. And the king, struck by her with a poisonous look from a distance, as if she had been a female snake,2 fainted again and again, enjoyed no pleasure, and took no food. And the righteous king, though entreated over and over again to marry her by the ministers, with her husband at their head, refused to do so, and devoted to her, yielded up his breath.

“Accordingly I have come to-day and told you this wonderful tale, thinking that if a similar distraction were to come upon you, I should be guilty of conspiring against your life.” [295]

When king Śrutasena heard from that Bráhman this speech, which was like the command of the god of love, he became ardently attached to Vidyuddyotá, so he immediately sent off the Bráhman and took steps to have her brought quickly and married her. Then the princess Vidyuddyotá became inseparable from the person of that king, as the daylight from the orb of the sun.

Then a maiden of the name of Mátṛidattá, the daughter of a very rich merchant, intoxicated with the pride of her beauty, came to select that king for her husband. Through fear of committing unrighteousness, the king married that merchant’s daughter; then Vidyuddyotá, coming to hear of it, died of a broken heart. And the king came and beheld that dearly loved wife lying dead, and took her up in his arms, and lamenting, died on the spot. Thereupon Mátṛidattá, the merchant’s daughter, entered the fire. And so the whole kingdom perished with the king.

“So you see, king, that the breaking off of long love is difficult to bear, especially would it be so to the proud queen Vásavadattá. Accordingly, if you were to marry this Kalingasená, the queen Vásavadattá would indubitably quit her life, and queen Padmávatí would do the same, for their life is one. And then how would your son Naraváhanadatta live? And, I know, the king’s heart would not be able to bear any misfortune happening to him. And so all this happiness would perish in a moment, O king. But as for the dignified reserve, which the queens displayed in their speeches, that sufficiently shews that their hearts are indifferent to all things, being firmly resolved on suicide. So you must guard your own interests, for even animals understand self-protection, much more wise men like yourself, O king.” The king of Vatsa, when he heard this at length from the excellent minister Yaugandharáyaṇa, having now become quite capable of wise discrimination, said—“It is so; there can be no doubt about it; all this fabric of my happiness would be overthrown. So what is the use of my marrying Kalingasená? Accordingly the astrologers did well in mentioning a distant hour as auspicious for the marriage: and there cannot after all be much sin in abandoning one who had come to select me as her husband.” When Yaugandharáyaṇa heard this, he reflected with joy, “Our business has almost turned out according to our wishes. Will not that same great plant of policy, watered with the streams of expedient, and nourished with due time and place, truly bring forth fruit?” Thus reflecting, and meditating upon fitting time and place, the minister Yaugandharáyaṇa went to his house, after taking a ceremonious farewell of the king.

The king too went to the queen Vásavadattá, who had assumed to welcome him a manner which concealed her real feelings, and thus spoke to her to console her: “Why do I speak? you know well, O gazelle-eyed [296]one, that your love is my life, even as the water is of the lotus. Could I bear even to mention the name of another woman? But Kalingasená came to my house of her own impetuous motion. And this is well known, that Rambhá, who came to visit Arjuna of her own impetuous will, having been rejected by him, as he was engaged in austerities, inflicted on him a curse which made him a eunuch. That curse was endured by him to the end, living in the house of the king of Viráṭa in the garb of a eunuch, though he displayed miraculous valour. So I did not reject this Kalingasená when she came, but I cannot bring myself to do anything without your wish.” Having comforted her in these words, and having perceived by the flush of wine which rose to her cheek, as if it were her glowing passionate heart, that her cruel design was a reality, the king of Vatsa spent that night with the queen Vásavadattá, delighted at the transcendent ability of his prime minister.

And in the meanwhile that Bráhman-Rákshasa, named Yogeśvara, who was a friend of Yaugandharáyaṇa, and whom he had commissioned beforehand to watch day and night the proceedings of Kalingasená, came that very night of his own accord and said to the prime minister: “I remain ever at Kalingasená’s house, either without it or within it, and I have never seen man or god come there. But to-day I suddenly heard an indistinct noise in the air, at the commencement of the night, as I was lying hid near the roof of the palace. Then my magic science was set in motion to ascertain the cause of the sound, but prevailed not; so I pondered over it, and came to this conclusion: ‘This must certainly be the voice of some being of divine power, enamoured of Kalingasená, who is roaming in the sky. Since my science does not succeed, I must look for some opening, for clever people who remain vigilant, find little difficulty in discovering holes in their opponents’ armour. And I know that the prime minister said—“Divine beings are in love with her”—moreover I overheard her friend Somaprabhá saying the same. After arriving at this conclusion I came here to make my report to you. This I have to ask you by the way, so tell me so much I pray you. By my magic power I heard, without being seen, what you said to the king, ‘Even animals understand self-protection.’ Now tell me, sagacious man, if there is any instance of this.”—When Yogeśvara asked him this question, Yaugandharáyaṇa answered. “There is, my friend, and to prove it, I will tell you this tale. Listen!”

Once on a time there was a large banyan tree outside the city of Vidiśá. In that vast tree dwelt four creatures, an ichneumon, an owl, a cat, and a mouse,3 and their habitations were apart. The ichneumon and [297]the mouse dwelt in separate holes in the root, the cat in a great hollow in the middle of the tree: but the owl dwelt in a bower of creepers on the top of it, which was inaccessible to the others. Among these the mouse was the natural prey of all three, three out of the four of the cat. The mouse, the ichneumon, and the owl ranged for food during the night, the two first through fear of the cat only, the owl partly because it was his nature to do so. But the cat fearlessly wandered night and day through the neighbouring barley-field, in order to catch the mouse, while the others went there by stealth at a suitable time out of desire for food. One day a certain hunter of the Chaṇḍála caste came there. He saw the track of the cat entering that field, and having set nooses all round the field in order to compass its death, departed. So the cat came there at night to slay the mouse, and entering the field was caught in one of the hunter’s nooses. The mouse, for his part, came there secretly in search of food, and seeing the cat caught in the noose, danced for joy. While it was entering the field, the owl and ichneumon came from afar by the same path, and seeing the cat fast in the noose, desired to capture the mouse. And the mouse, beholding them afar off, was terrified and reflected—“If I fly to the cat, which the owl and the ichneumon are afraid of, that enemy, though fast in the noose, may slay me with one blow, but if I keep at a distance from the cat, the owl and the ichneumon will be the death of me. So being compassed about with enemies, where shall I go, what shall I do? Ah! I will take refuge with the cat here, for it is in trouble, and may save me to preserve its own life, as I shall be of use to gnaw through the noose.” Thus reflecting the mouse slowly approached the cat, and said to it, “I am exceedingly grieved at your being caught, so I will gnaw through your noose; the upright come to love even their enemies by dwelling in their neighbourhood. But I do not feel confidence in you, as I do not know your intentions.” When the cat heard that, he said “Worthy mouse, be at rest, from this day forth you are my friend as giving me life.” The moment he heard this from the cat, he crept into his bosom; when the owl and ichneumon saw that, they went away hopeless. Then the cat, galled with the noose, said to the mouse, “My friend, the night is almost gone, so quickly gnaw through my bonds.” The mouse for its part, waiting for the arrival of the hunter, slowly nibbled the noose, and protracted the business, making a continual munching with its teeth, which was all pretence. Soon the night came to an end, and the hunter came near; then the mouse, at the request of the cat, quickly gnawed [298]through the noose which held it. So the cat’s noose was severed, and it ran away, afraid of the hunter; and the mouse, delivered from death, fled into its hole. But when called again by the cat, it reposed no confidence in him, but remarked, “The truth is, an enemy is occasionally made a friend by circumstances, but does not remain such for ever.”

“Thus the mouse, though an animal, saved its life from many foes, much more ought the same thing to take place among men. You heard that speech which I uttered to the king on that occasion, to the effect that by wisdom he should guard his own interests by preserving the life of the queen. And wisdom is in every exigency the best friend, not valour, Yogeśvara; in illustration of this hear the following story.”

There is a city named Śrávastí, and in it there lived in old time a king of the name of Prasenajit, and one day a strange Bráhman arrived in that city. A merchant, thinking he was virtuous, because he lived on rice in the husk, provided him a lodging there in the house of a Bráhman. There he was loaded by him every day with presents of unhusked rice and other gifts, and gradually by other great merchants also, who came to hear his story. In this way the miserly fellow gradually accumulated a thousand dínárs, and, going to the forest, he dug a hole and buried it in the ground,4 and he went every day and examined the spot. Now one day he saw that the hole, in which he had hidden his gold, had been re-opened, and that all the gold had gone. When he saw that hole empty, his soul was smitten, and not only was there a void in his heart, but the whole universe seemed to him to be void also. And then he came crying to the Bráhman, in whose house he lived, and when questioned, he told him his whole story: and he made up his mind to go to a holy bathing-place, and starve himself to death. Then the merchant, who supplied him with food, hearing of it, came there with others, and said to him, “Bráhman, why do you long to die for the loss of your wealth? Wealth, like an unseasonable cloud, suddenly comes and goes.” Though plied by him with these and similar arguments, he would not abandon his fixed determination to commit suicide, for wealth is dearer to the miser than life itself. But when the Bráhman was going to the holy place to commit suicide, the king Prasenajit himself, having heard of it, came to him and asked him, “Bráhman, do you know of any mark by which you can recognize the place where you buried your dínárs?” When the Bráhman heard that, he said: “There is a small tree in the wood there, I buried that wealth at its foot.” When the king heard that, he said, “I will find that wealth and give it back to you, or I will give it you from my own treasury, do not commit suicide, Bráhman.” After saying this, and so diverting the Bráhman from his intention of committing suicide, [299]the king entrusted him to the care of the merchant, and retired to his palace. There he pretended to have a headache, and sending out the door-keeper, he summoned all the physicians in the city by proclamation with beat of drum. And he took aside every single one of them and questioned him privately in the following words: “What patients have you here, and how many, and what medicine have you prescribed for each?” And they thereupon, one by one, answered all the king’s questions. Then one among the physicians, when his turn came to be questioned, said this, “The merchant Mátṛidatta has been out of sorts, O king, and this is the second day, that I have prescribed for him nágabalá.5 When the king heard that, he sent for the merchant, and said to him—“Tell me, who fetched you the nágabalá?” The merchant said—“My servant, your highness.” When the king got this answer from the merchant, he quickly summoned the servant and said to him—“Give up that treasure belonging to a Bráhman, consisting of a store of dínárs, which you found when you were digging at the foot of a tree for nágabalá.” When the king said this to him, the servant was frightened and confessed immediately, and bringing those dínárs left them there. So the king for his part summoned the Bráhman and gave him, who had been fasting in the meanwhile, his dínárs, lost and found again, like a second soul external to his body.

“Thus that king by his wisdom recovered for the Bráhman his wealth, which had been taken away from the root of the tree, knowing that that simple grew in such spots. So true is it, that intellect always obtains the supremacy, triumphing over valour, indeed in such cases what could courage accomplish? Accordingly, Yogeśvara, you ought to bring it to pass by your wisdom, that some peccadillo be discovered in Kalingasená. And it is true that the gods and Asuras are in love with her. This explains your hearing at night the sound of some being in the air. And if we could only obtain some pretext, calamity would fall upon her, not on us; the king would not marry her, and yet we should not have dealt unrighteously with her.” When the Bráhman-Rákshasa Yogeśvara heard all this from the sagacious Yaugandharáyaṇa, he was delighted and said to him—“Who except the god Vṛihaspati can match thee in policy? This counsel of thine waters with ambrosia the tree of empire. I, even I, will investigate with wisdom and might the proceedings of Kalingasená.” Having said this, Yogeśvara departed thence.

And at this time Kalingasená, while in her palace, was continually afflicted by beholding the king of Vatsa roaming about in his palace and its grounds. Thinking on him, she was inflamed with love, and though she [300]wore a bracelet and necklace of lotus fibres, she never obtained relief thereby, nor from sandal-ointment, or other remedies.

In the meanwhile the king of the Vidyádharas, named Madanavega, who had seen her before, remained wounded by the arrow of ardent love. Though he had performed a vow to obtain her, and had been granted a boon by Śiva, still she was not easy to gain, because she was living in the land of another, and attached to another, so the Vidyádhara prince was wandering about at night in the air over her palace, in order to obtain an opportunity. But, remembering the order of Śiva pleased with his asceticism, he assumed one night by his skill the form of the king of Vatsa. And in his shape he entered her palace, saluted with praises by the door-keepers, who said—“Unable to bear delay, the king has come here without the knowledge of his ministers.” And Kalingasená, on beholding him, rose up bewildered with agitation, though she was, so to speak, warned by her ornaments which jingled out the sounds—“This is not the man.” Then she by degrees gained confidence in him, and Madanavega, wearing the form of the king of Vatsa, made her his wife by the Gándharva rite. At that moment Yogeśvara entered, invisible by his magic, and, beholding the incident, was cast down, supposing that he saw the king of Vatsa before him. He went and told Yaugandharáyaṇa, who, on receiving his report, saw by his skill that the king was in the society of Vásavadattá. So by the order of the prime minister he returned delighted, to observe the shape of that secret paramour of Kalingasená, when asleep. And so he went and beheld that Madanavega asleep in his own form on the bed of the sleeping Kalingasená, a heavenly being, the dustless lotus of whose foot was marked with the umbrella and the banner; and who had lost his power of changing his form, because his science was suspended during sleep. Then Yogeśvara, full of delight, went and told what he had seen in a joyful mood to Yaugandharáyaṇa. He said—“One like me knows nothing, you know everything by the eye of policy; by your counsel this difficult result has been attained for your king. What is the sky without the sun? What is a tank without water? What is a realm without counsel? What is speech without truth?” When Yogeśvara said this, Yaugandharáyaṇa took leave of him, much pleased, and went in the morning to visit the king of Vatsa. He approached him with the usual reverence, and in course of conversation said to the king, who asked him what was to be done about Kalingasená—“She is unchaste, O king, and does not deserve to touch your hand. For she went of her own accord to visit Prasenajit. When she saw that he was old, she was disgusted, and came to visit you out of desire for your beauty, and now she even enjoys at her pleasure the society of another person.” When the king heard this, he said—“How could a lady of birth and rank do such a deed? Or who has power to [301]enter my harem?” When the king said this, the wise Yaugandharáyaṇa answered him, “I will prove it to you by ocular testimony this very night, my sovereign. For the divine Siddhas and other beings of the kind are in love with her. What can a man do against them? And who here can interfere with the movements of gods? So come and see it with your own eyes.” When the minister said this, the king determined to go there with him at night.

Then Yaugandharáyaṇa came to the queen, and said—“To-day, O queen, I have carried out what I promised, that the king should marry no other wife except queen Padmávatí, and thereupon he told her the whole story of Kalingasená. And the queen Vásavadattá congratulated him, bowing low and saying—“This is the fruit which I have reaped from following your instructions.”

Then, at night, when folk were asleep, the king of Vatsa went with Yaugandharáyaṇa to the palace of Kalingasená. And entering unperceived, he beheld Madanavega in his proper form, sleeping by the side of the sleeping Kalingasená. And when the king was minded to slay that audacious one, the Vidyádhara prince was roused by his own magic knowledge, and when awake, he went out, and immediately flew up into the heaven. And then Kalingasená awoke immediately. And seeing the bed empty, she said, “How is this, that the king of Vatsa wakes up before me, and departs, leaving me asleep?” When Yaugandharáyaṇa heard that, he said to the king of Vatsa—“Listen, she has been beguiled by that Vidyádhara wearing your form. He was found out by me by means of my magic power, and now I have exhibited him before your eyes, but you cannot kill him on account of his heavenly might.” After saying this, he and the king approached her, and Kalingasená, for her part, seeing them, stood in a respectful attitude. But when she began to say to the king—“Where, O king, did you go only a moment ago, so as to return with your minister?”—Yaugandharáyaṇa said to her—“Kalingasená, you have been married by some being, who beguiled you by assuming the shape of the king of Vatsa, and not by this lord of mine.”

When Kalingasená heard this, she was bewildered, and as if pierced through the heart by an arrow, she said to the king of Vatsa with tear-streaming eyes,—“Have you forgotten me, O king, after marrying me by the Gándharva rite, as Śakuntalá long ago was forgotten by Dushyanta?”6 When the king was thus addressed by her, he said with downcast face, “In truth you were not married by me, for I never came here till this moment.” [302]When the king of Vatsa had said this, the minister said to him—“Come along”—and conducted him at will to the palace.

When the king had departed thence with his minister, that lady Kalingasená, sojourning in a foreign country, like a doe that had strayed from the herd, having deserted her relations, with her face robbed of its painting by kissing, as a lotus is robbed of its leaves by cropping, having her braided tresses disordered, even as a bed of lotuses trampled by an elephant has its cluster of black bees dispersed; now that her maidenhood was gone for ever, not knowing what expedient to adopt or what course to pursue, looked up to heaven and spake as follows—“Whoever that was that assumed the shape of the king of Vatsa and married me, let him appear, for he is the husband of my youth.” When invoked in these words, that king of the Vidyádharas descended from heaven, of divine shape, adorned with necklace and bracelet. And when she asked him who he was, he answered her;—“I, fair one, am a prince of the Vidyádharas, named Madanavega. And long ago I beheld you in your father’s house, and by performing penance obtained a boon from Śiva, which conferred on me the attainment of you. So, as you were in love with the king of Vatsa, I assumed his form, and quickly married you by stealth, before your contract with him had been celebrated.” By the nectar of this speech of his, entering her ears, the lotus of her heart was a little revived. Then Madanavega comforted that fair one, and made her recover her composure, and bestowed on her a heap of gold, and when she had conceived in her heart affection for her excellent husband, as being well suited to her, he flew up into the heaven to return again. And Kalingasená, after obtaining permission from Madanavega, consented to dwell patiently where she was, reflecting that the heavenly home, the abode of her husband, could not be approached by a mortal, and that through passion she had left her father’s house.

There lived in old time in the land of Chedi a great king called Indradatta, he founded for his glory a great temple at the holy bathing-place of Pápaśodhana, desiring the body of good reputation, as he saw that our mortal body is perishable. And the king in the ardour of his devotion was continually going to visit it, and all kinds of people were continually coming there to bathe in the holy water. Now, one day the king saw a merchant’s wife, whose husband was travelling in foreign parts, who had come there to bathe in the holy water; she was steeped in the nectar of pure beauty, and adorned with various charms, like a splendid moving palace of the god of Love. She was embraced on both her feet by the radiance of the two quivers of the five-arrowed god,1 as if out of love, believing that with her he would conquer the world.2 The moment the king saw her, she captivated his soul so entirely that, unable to restrain himself, he found out her house and went there at night. And when he solicited her, she said to him—“You are a protector of the helpless, you ought not to touch another man’s wife. And if you lay violent hands on me, you will commit a great sin; and I will die immediately, I will not endure disgrace.” Though she said this to him, the king still endeavoured to use force to her, whereupon her heart broke in a moment through fear of losing her chastity. When the king saw that, he was at once abashed, and went back by the way that he came, and in a few days died out of remorse for that crime.

Having told this tale, Kalingasená bowed in timid modesty, and again said to the king of Vatsa—“Therefore, king, set not your heart on wickedness that would rob me of breath; since I have come here, allow me to dwell here; if not, I will depart to some other place.” Then the king of Vatsa, who knew what was right, hearing this from Kalingasená, after reflecting, desisted from his intention, and said to her—“Princess, [304]dwell here at will with this husband of yours; I will not say anything to you, henceforth fear not.” When the king had said this, he returned of his own accord to his house, and Madanavega, having heard the conversation, descended from heaven, and said—“My beloved, you have done well, if you had not acted thus, O fortunate one, good fortune would not have resulted, for I should not have tolerated your conduct.” When the Vidyádhara had said this, he comforted her, and passed the night there, and continued going to her house and returning again. And Kalingasená, having a king of the Vidyádharas for her husband, remained there, blessed even in her mortal state with the enjoyment of heavenly pleasures. As for the king of Vatsa, he ceased to think about her, and remembering the speech of his minister, he rejoiced, considering that he had saved his queens and kingdom and also his son. And the queen Vásavadattá and the minister Yaugandharáyaṇa were at ease, having reaped the fruit of the wishing-tree of policy.

Then, as days went on, Kalingasená had the lotus of her face a little pale, and was pregnant, having longing produced in her. Her lofty breasts, with extremities a little dark, appeared like the treasure-vessels of Love, marked with his seal of joy.3 Then her husband Madanavega came to her and said, “Kalingasená, we heavenly beings are subject to this law, that, when a mortal child is conceived we must abandon it, and go afar. Did not Menaká leave Śakuntalá in the hermitage of Kanva? And though you were formerly an Apsaras, you have now, goddess, become a mortal by the curse of Śiva, inflicted on account of your disobedience. Thus it has come to pass that, though chaste, you have incurred the reproach of unchastity; so guard your offspring, I will go to my own place. And whenever you think upon me, I will appear to you.” Thus the prince of the Vidyádharas spake to the weeping Kalingasená, and consoled her, and gave her a heap of valuable jewels, and departed with his mind fixed on her, drawn away by the law. Kalingasená, for her part, remained there; supported by the hope of offspring as by a friend, protected by the shade of the king of Vatsa’s arm.

In the meanwhile the husband of Ambiká4 gave the following order to Rati, the wife of the god of Love, who had performed penance in order to get back her husband with his body restored: “That husband of thine who was formerly consumed, has been born in the palace of the king of Vatsa, under the name of Naraváhanadatta, conceived in a mortal womb on account of disrespect shewn to me. But because thou hast propitiated me, thou shalt also be born in the world of mortals, without being conceived in a mortal womb; and then thou shalt be reunited to thy husband, once more possessing a body.” Having said this to Rati, Śiva then gave this command [305]to the Creator;5 “Kalingasená shall give birth to a son of divine origin. By thy power of illusion thou shalt remove her son, and substitute in his place this very Rati, who shall abandon her heavenly body, and be moulded by thee in the form of a mortal maiden.” The Creator, in obedience to the order of Śiva,6 went down to earth, and when the appointed time came, Kalingasená gave birth to a son. The Creator abstracted, by his divine power of illusion, her son, the moment he was born, and substituted Rati, whom he had turned into a girl, in his place, without the change being detected. And all present there saw that girl born, and she seemed like the streak of the new moon suddenly rising in broad daylight, for she illuminated with her splendour the lying-in chamber, and eclipsing the long row of flames of the jewel-lamps7 robbed them of lustre, and made them, as it were, abashed. Kalingasená, when she saw that incomparable daughter born, in her delight made greater rejoicing, than she would have made at the birth of a son.

Then the king of Vatsa, with his queen and his ministers, heard that such a lovely daughter had been born to Kalingasená. And when the king heard of it, he suddenly, under the impulsion of the god Śiva, said to the queen Vásavadattá, in the presence of Yaugandharáyaṇa; “I know, this Kalingasená is a heavenly nymph, who has fallen down to earth in consequence of a curse, and this daughter born to her will also be heavenly, and of wonderful beauty. So this girl, being equal in beauty to my son Naraváhanadatta, ought to be his head-queen.” When the queen Vásavadattá heard that, she said to the king—“Great king, why do you suddenly say this now? What similarity can there possibly be between this son of yours, of pure descent by both lines, and the daughter of Kalingasená, a girl whose mother is unchaste.” When the king heard that, he reflected, and said, “Truly, I do not say this of myself, but some god seems to have [306]entered into me, and to be forcing me to speak. And I seem to hear a voice uttering these words from heaven—‘This daughter of Kalingasená is the appointed wife of Naraváhanadatta.’ Moreover, that Kalingasená is a faithful wife, of good family; and her reproach of unchastity has arisen from the influence of her actions in a former birth.” When the king had said this, the minister Yaugandharáyaṇa spoke—“We hear, king, that when the god of Love was consumed, Rati performed asceticism. And Śiva granted to Rati, who wished to recover her husband, the following boon: ‘Thou shalt assume the condition of a mortal, and be reunited to thy husband, who has been born with a body in the world of mortals.’ Now, your son has long ago been declared by a heavenly voice to be an incarnation of Káma, and Rati by the order of Śiva has to become incarnate in mortal form. And the midwife said to me to-day—‘I inspected previously the fetus when contained in the uterus, and then I saw one quite different from what has now appeared. Having beheld this marvel I have come here to tell you.’ This is what that woman told me, and now this inspiration has come to you. So I am persuaded that the gods have stolen the real child of Kalingasená and substituted this daughter not born in the ordinary way, who is no other than Rati, ordained beforehand to be the wife of your son, who is an incarnation of Káma, O king. To illustrate this, hear the following story concerning a Yaksha.”

The god of wealth had for servant a Yaksha, named Virúpáksha, who had been appointed chief guardian of lacs of treasure.8 And he delegated a certain Yaksha to guard a treasure lying outside the town of Mathurá, posted there like an immovable pillar of marble. And once on a time a certain Bráhman, a votary of Paśupati, who made it his business to exhume treasures, went there in search of hidden wealth. While he was examining that place, with a candle made of human fat in his hand, the candle fell from his grasp. By that sign he knew that treasure was concealed there; and he attempted to dig it up with the help of some other Bráhmans his friends. Then the Yaksha, who was told off to guard that treasure, beholding that, came and related the whole circumstance to Virúpáksha. And Virúpáksha in his wrath gave the following command to the Yaksha—“Go and slay immediately those mean treasure-hunters.” Then the Yaksha went and slew by his power those Bráhmans, who were digging for treasure, before they had attained their object. Then the god of wealth came to hear of it, and being angry he said to Virúpáksha, [307]“Why did you, evil one, recklessly order the slaughter of a Bráhman? What will not poor people, who are struggling for a livelihood,9 do out of desire for gain? But they must be prevented by being terrified with various bug-bears, they must not be slain.” When the god of Wealth had said this, he cursed that Virúpáksha as follows—“Be born as a mortal on account of your wicked conduct.” Then that Virúpáksha, smitten with the curse, was born on the earth as the son of a certain Bráhman who lived on a royal grant. Then the Yakshiṇí his wife implored the lord of wealth, “O god, send me whither my husband has gone; be merciful to me, for I cannot live without him.” When the virtuous lady addressed this prayer to him, Vaiśravana said—“Thou shalt descend, without being born, into the house of a female slave of that very Bráhman, in whose house thy husband is born. There thou shalt be united to that husband of thine, and by thy power he shall surmount his curse and return to my service.” In accordance with this decree of Vaiśravana, that virtuous wife became a mortal maiden, and fell at the door of that Bráhman’s female slave’s house. And the slave suddenly saw that maiden of marvellous beauty, and took her and exhibited her to her master the Bráhman. And the Bráhman rejoiced, and said to the female slave—“This is without doubt some heavenly maiden not born in the ordinary way; so my soul tells me. Bring here this girl who has entered your house, for, I think, she deserves to be my son’s wife.” Then in course of time that girl and the son of the Bráhman, having grown up, were smitten with ardent reciprocal affection at the sight of one another. Then they were married by the Bráhman; and the couple, though they did not remember their previous births, felt as if a long separation had been brought to an end. Then at last the Yaksha died, and as his wife burnt herself with his mortal body, his sins were wiped away by her sufferings, and he regained his former rank.

“Thus, you see, heavenly beings, on account of certain causes, descend from heaven to the earth, by the appointment of fate, and, because they are free from sin, they are not born in the usual way. What does this girl’s family matter to you? So this daughter of Kalingasená is, as I said, the wife appointed for your son by destiny.” When Yaugandharáyaṇa had said this to the king of Vatsa and the queen Vásavadattá, they both consented in their hearts that it should be so. Then the prime minister returned to his house, and the king, in the company of his wife, spent the day happily, in drinking and other enjoyments.

Then, as time went on, that daughter of Kalingasená, who had lost her recollection of her former state through illusion, gradually grew up, and her dower of beauty grew with her; and her mother and her attendants gave her the name of Madanamanchuká, because she was the daughter of [308]Madanavega, saying, “Surely the beauty of all other lovely women has fled to her; else how could they have become ugly before her?” And the queen Vásavadattá, hearing she was beautiful, one day had her brought into her presence out of curiosity. Then the king and Yaugandharáyaṇa and his fellows beheld her clinging to the face of her nurse, as the candle-flame clings to the wick. And there was no one present, who did not think that she was an incarnation of Rati, when they beheld her matchless body, which was like nectar to their eyes. And then the queen Vásavadattá brought there her son Naraváhanadatta, who was a feast to the eyes of the world. He beheld, with the lotus of his face expanded, the gleaming Madanamanchuká, as the bed of water-lilies beholds the young splendour of the sun. The girl gazed with dilated countenance upon that gladdener of the eyes, and could not gaze enough, as the female partridge can never be sated with gazing on the moon. Henceforth these two children could not remain apart even for a moment, being, as it were, fastened together with the nooses of glances.

But, in course of time, the king of Vatsa came to the conclusion that that marriage was made in heaven,10 and turned his mind to the solemnization of the nuptials. When Kalingasená heard that, she rejoiced, and fixed her affection upon Naraváhanadatta out of love for her daughter’s future husband. And then the king of Vatsa, after deliberating with his ministers, had made for his son a separate palace like his own. Then that king, who could discern times and seasons, collected the necessary utensils, and anointed his son as crown-prince, since it was apparent that he possessed all praiseworthy qualities. First there fell on his head the water of his father’s tears, and then the water of holy bathing-places, purified by Vaidik spells of mickle might. When the lotus of his face was washed with the water of inauguration, wonderful to say, the faces of the cardinal points became also clear. When his mothers threw on him the flowers of the auspicious garlands, the heaven immediately shed a rain of many celestial wreaths. As if in emulation of the thunder of the drums of the gods, the echoes of the sound of the cymbals of rejoicing floated in the air. Every one there bowed before him, as soon as he was inaugurated as crown-prince; then by that alone he was exalted, without his own power.

Then the king of Vatsa summoned the good sons of the ministers, who were the playfellows of his son, and appointed them to their offices as servants to the crown-prince. He appointed to the office of prime minister Marubhúti the son of Yaugandharáyaṇa, and then Hariśikha the son of Rumaṇvat to the office of commander-in-chief, and he appointed Tapantaka the son of Vasantaka as the companion of his lighter hours, and Gomukha the son of Ityaka to the duty of chamberlain and warder, [309]and to the office of domestic chaplains the two sons of Pingaliká, Vaiśvánara and Śántisoma, the nephews of the king’s family priest. When these men had been appointed by the king servants to his son, there was heard from heaven a voice preceded by a rain of flowers: “These ministers shall accomplish all things prosperously for the prince, and Gomukha shall be his inseparable companion.” When the heavenly voice had said this, the delighted king of Vatsa honoured them all with clothes and ornaments; and while that king was showering wealth upon his dependents, none of them could claim the title of poor on account of the accumulation of riches. And the city was filled with dancing girls and minstrels, who seemed to be invited by the rows of silken streamers fanned and agitated by the wind.

Then Kalingasená came to the feast of her future son-in-law, looking like the Fortune of the Vidyádhara race which was to attend him, present in bodily form. Then Vásavadattá and Padmávatí and she danced, all three of them, for joy, like the three powers11 of a king united together. And all the trees there seemed to dance, as their creepers waved in the wind, much more did the creatures possessing sense.

Then the crown-prince Naraváhanadatta, having been inaugurated in his office, ascended an elephant of victory, and went forth. And he was sprinkled by the city wives with their upcast eyes, blue, white and red, resembling offerings of blue lotuses, parched grain and water-lilies. And after visiting the gods worshipped in that city, being praised by heralds and minstrels, he entered his palace with his ministers. Then Kalingasená gave him, to begin with, celestial viands and drinks far exceeding what his own magnificence could supply, and she presented to him and his ministers, friends and servants, beautiful robes and heavenly ornaments, for she was overpowered with love for her son-in-law. So the day passed in high festivity for all these, the king of Vatsa and the others, charming as the taste of nectar.

Then the night arrived, and Kalingasená pondering over her daughter’s marriage, called to mind her friend Somaprabhá. No sooner had she called to mind the daughter of the Asura Maya, than her husband, the much-knowing Naḍakúvara, thus addressed that noble lady, his wife—“Dear one, Kalingasená is now thinking on thee with longing, therefore go and make a heavenly garden for her daughter.” Having said this, and revealed the future and the past history of that maiden, her husband dismissed that instant his wife Somaprabhá. And when she arrived, her friend Kalingasená threw her arms around her neck, having missed her so long, and Somaprabhá, after asking after her health, said to her—“You have been married [310]by a Vidyádhara of great power, and your daughter is an incarnation of Rati by the favour of Śiva, and she has been brought into the world as the wife, in a previous state of existence, of an incarnation of Love, that has taken his birth from the king of Vatsa. He shall be emperor of the Vidyádharas for a kalpa of the gods; and she shall be honoured above his other wives. But you have descended into this world, being an Apsaras degraded by the curse of Indra, and after you have brought your duties to completion, you shall obtain deliverance from your curse. All this was told me, my friend, by my wise husband, so you must not be anxious; you will enjoy every prosperity. And I will now make here for your daughter a heavenly garden, the like of which does not exist on earth, in heaven, or in the nether regions.” Having said this, Somaprabhá made a heavenly garden by her magic power, and taking leave of the regretful Kalingasená, she departed. Then, at the dawn of day, people beheld that garden, looking like the garden of Nandana suddenly fallen down from heaven to earth. Then the king of Vatsa heard of it, and came there with his wives and his ministers, and Naraváhanadatta with his companions. And they beheld that garden, the trees of which bore both flowers and fruits all the year round,12 with many jewelled pillars, walls, lawns, and tanks; with birds of the colour of gold, with heavenly perfumed breezes, like a second Svarga descended to earth from the region of the gods. The lord of Vatsa, when he saw that wonderful sight, asked Kalingasená, who was intent on hospitality, what it was. And she thus answered the king in the hearing of all: “There is a great Asura, Maya by name, an incarnation of Viśvakarman, who made the assembly-hall of Yudhishṭhira, and the city of Indra: he has a daughter, Somaprabhá by name, who is a friend of mine. She came here at night to visit me, and out of love made this heavenly garden by her magic power, for the sake of my daughter.” After saying this, she told all the past and future fortunes of her daughter, which Somaprabhá had revealed to her, letting the king know that she had heard them from her friend. Then all there, perceiving that the speech of Kalingasená tallied with what they previously knew, dismissed their doubts and were exceedingly delighted. And the king of Vatsa, with his wives and his son, spent that day in the garden, being hospitably entertained by Kalingasená.

The next day, the king went to visit a god in a temple, and he saw many women well-clothed and with beautiful ornaments. And when he asked them who they were, they said to him—“We are the sciences, and these are the accomplishments; and we are come here on account of your son: we shall now go and enter into him.” Having said this they disappeared, and the king of Vatsa entered his house astonished. There he told [311]it to the queen Vásavadattá and to the circle of his ministers, and they rejoiced at that favour of the deity. Then Vásavadattá, by the direction of the king, took up a lyre as soon as Naraváhanadatta entered the room. And while his mother was playing, Naraváhanadatta said modestly to her, “This lyre is out of tune.” His father said, “Take it, and play on it,” whereupon he played upon the lyre so as to astonish even the Gandharvas. When he was thus tested by his father in all the sciences and the accomplishments, he became endowed with them all, and of himself knew all knowledge. When the king of Vatsa beheld his son endowed with all talents, he taught Madanamanchuká, the daughter of Kalingasená, dancing. As fast as she became perfect in accomplishments,13 the heart of the prince Naraváhanadatta was disturbed. So the sea is disturbed, as fast as the orb of the moon rounds off its digits. And he delighted in beholding her singing and dancing, accomplished in all the gestures of the body, so that she seemed to be reciting the decrees of Love. As for her, if she did not see for a moment that nectar-like lover, the tears rose to her eyes, and she was like a bed of white lotuses, wet with dew at the hour of dawn.14 And Naraváhanadatta, being unable to live without continually beholding her face, came to that garden of hers. There he remained, and Kalingasená out of affection did all she could to please him, bringing her daughter to him. And Gomukha, who saw into his master’s heart, and wished to bring about his long stay there, used to tell various tales to Kalingasená. The king was delighted by his friend’s penetrating his intentions, for seeing into one’s lord’s soul is the surest way of winning him. And Naraváhanadatta himself perfected Madanamanchuká in dancing and other accomplishments, giving her lessons in a concert-hall that stood in the garden, and while his beloved danced, he played on all instruments so as to put to the blush the most skilful minstrels. And he conquered also various professors that came from all quarters, and were skilful in managing elephants, horses, and chariots, in the use of hand-to-hand and missile weapons, in painting and modelling.15 In these amusements passed during childhood the days of Naraváhanadatta, who was the chosen bridegroom of Science.

Now, once on a time the prince, with his ministers, and accompanied by his beloved, went on a pilgrimage to a garden called Nágavana. There a certain merchant’s wife fell in love with Gomukha, and being repulsed, tried to kill him by offering to him a poisoned drink. But Gomukha came to hear of it from the lips of her confidante, and did not take that drink, but broke out into the following denunciation of women: “Alas! the [312]Creator first created recklessness, and then women in imitation of it; by nature nothing is too bad for them to do. Surely this being they call woman, is created of nectar and poison, for, when she is attached to one, she is nectar, and when estranged she is indeed poison. Who can see through a woman, with loving face secretly planning crime? A wicked woman is like a lotus-bed with its flowers expanded, and an alligator concealed in it. But now and then there falls from heaven, urging on a host of virtues, a good woman that brings praise to her husband, like the pure light of the sun. But another, of evil augury, attached to strangers, not free from inordinate desires, wicked, bearing the poison of aversion,16 slays her husband like a female snake.”

For instance, in a certain village there was a certain man named Śatrughna, and his wife was unchaste. He once saw in the evening his wife in the society of her lover, and he slew that lover of hers, when he was in the house, with the sword. And he remained at the door waiting for the night, keeping his wife inside, and at night-fall a traveller came there to ask for a lodging. He gave him refuge, and artfully carried away with his help the corpse of that adulterer at night, and went with it to the forest. And there, while he was throwing that corpse into a well, the mouth of which was overgrown with plants, his wife came behind him, and pushed him in also.

“What reckless crime of this kind will not a wicked wife commit?” In these words Gomukha, though still a boy, denounced the conduct of women.

Then Naraváhanadatta himself worshipped the snakes in that grove of snakes,17 and went back to his palace with his retinue.

While he was there, he desired one day to prove his ministers, Gomukha and the others, so he asked them, though he himself knew it well, for a summary of the policy of princes. They consulted among themselves, and said—“You know all things, nevertheless we will tell you this, now that you ask us,” and so they proceeded to relate the cream of political science.

“A king should first tame and mount the horses of the senses, and should conquer those internal foes, love, anger, avarice and delusion, and should subdue himself as a preparation for subduing other enemies, for how can a man, who has not conquered himself, being helpless, conquer others? Then he should procure ministers, who, among other good qualities, possess that of being natives of his own country, and a skilful family priest, knowing the Atharva Veda, gifted with asceticism. He should test his ministers [313]with respect to fear, avarice, virtue and passion, by ingenious artifices, and then he should appoint them to appropriate duties, discerning their hearts. He should try their speech, when they are deliberating with one another on affairs, to see if it is truthful, or inspired by malice, spoken out of affection, or connected with selfish objects. He should be pleased with truth, but should punish untruth as it deserves, and he should continually inquire into the conduct of each of them by means of spies. Thus he should look at business with unhooded eye, and by rooting up opponents,18 and acquiring a treasure, a force, and the other means of success, should establish himself firmly on the throne. Then, equipped with the three powers of courage, kingly authority, and counsel, he should be eager to conquer the territory of others, considering the difference between the power of himself and his foe. He should continually take counsel with advisers, who should be trusty, learned and wise, and should correct with his own intellect the policy determined on by them, in all its details. Being versed in the means of success,19 (conciliation, bribery and the others,) he should attain for himself security, and he should then employ the six proper courses, of which alliance and war are the chief.20 Thus a king acquires prosperity, and as long as he carefully considers his own realm and that of his rival, he is victorious but never vanquished. But an ignorant monarch, blind with passion and avarice, is plundered by wicked servants, who shew him the wrong path, and leading him astray, fling him into pits. On account of these rogues a servant of another kind is never admitted into the presence of the king, as a husbandman cannot get at a crop of rice enclosed with a palisade. For he is enslaved by those faithless servants, who penetrate into his secrets; and consequently Fortune in disgust flies from him, because he does not know the difference between man and man. Therefore a king should conquer himself, should inflict due chastisement, and know the difference of men’s characters, for in this way he will acquire his subjects’ love and become thereby a vessel of prosperity.”

In old time a king named Śúrasena, who relied implicitly upon his servants, was enslaved and plundered by his ministers, who had formed a coalition. Whoever was a faithful servant to the king, the ministers would not give even a straw to, though the king wished to bestow a reward upon him; but if any man was a faithful servant to them, they themselves gave [314]him presents, and by their representations induced the king to give to him, though he was undeserving. When the king saw that, he gradually came to be aware of that coalition of rogues, and set those ministers at variance with one another by a clever artifice. When they were estranged, and the clique was broken up, and they began to inform against one another, the king ruled the realm successfully, without being deceived by others.

And there was a king named Harisinha, of ordinary power but versed in the true science of policy, who had surrounded himself with devoted and wise ministers, possessed forts, and stores of wealth; he made his subjects devoted to him and conducted himself in such a way that, though attacked by an emperor, he was not defeated.

“Thus discernment and reflection are the main things in governing a kingdom; what is of more importance?” Having said this, each taking his part, Gomukha and his fellows ceased. Naraváhanadatta, approving that speech of theirs, though he knew that heroic action is to be thought upon,21 still placed his reliance upon destiny whose power surpasses all thought.

Then he rose up, and his ardour being kindled by delay, he went with them to visit his beloved Madanamanchuká; when he had reached her palace and was seated on a throne, Kalingasená, after performing the usual courtesies, said with astonishment to Gomukha,22 “Before the prince Naraváhanadatta arrived, Madanamanchuká, being impatient, went up to the top of the palace to watch him coming, accompanied by me, and while we were there, a man descended from heaven upon it, he was of divine appearance, wore a tiara, and a sword, and said to me ‘I am a king, a lord of the Vidyádharas named Mánasavega, and you are a heavenly nymph named Surabhidattá who by a curse have fallen down to earth, and this your daughter is of heavenly origin, this is known to me well. So give me this daughter of yours in marriage, for the connexion is a suitable one.’ When he said this, I suddenly burst out laughing, and said to him, ‘Naraváhanadatta has been appointed her husband by the gods, and he is to be the emperor of all you Vidyádharas.’ When I said this to him, the Vidyádhara flew up into the sky, like a sudden streak of lightning dazzling the eyes of my daughter.” When Gomukha heard that, he said, “The Vidyádharas found out that the prince was to be their future lord, from a speech in the air, by which the future birth of the prince was made known to the king in private, and they immediately desired to do him a mischief. What self-willed one would desire a mighty lord as his ruler and restrainer? For which reason [315]Śiva has made arrangements to ensure the safety of this prince, by commissioning his attendants to wait on him in actual presence. I heard this speech of Nárada’s being related by my father. So it comes to pass that the Vidyádharas are now hostile to us.” When Kalingasená heard this, she was terrified at the thought of what had happened to herself, and said, “Why does not the prince marry Madanamanchuká now, before she is deceived, like me, by delusion?” When Gomukha and the others heard this from Kalingasená, they said, “Do you stir up the king of Vatsa to this business.” Then Naraváhanadatta, with his heart fixed on Madanamanchuká only, amused himself by looking at her in the garden all that day, with her face like a full-blown lotus, with her eyes like opening blue water-lilies, with lips lovely as the bandhúka, with breasts like clusters of mandáras, with body delicate as the śirísha, like a matchless arrow, composed of five flowers, appointed by the god of love for the conquest of the world.

The next day Kalingasená went in person, and proffered her petition to the king for the marriage of her daughter. The king of Vatsa dismissed her, and summoning his ministers, said to them in the presence of the queen Vásavadattá, “Kalingasená is impatient for the marriage of her daughter: so how are we to manage it, for the people think that that excellent woman is unchaste? And we must certainly consider the people: did not Rámabhadra long ago desert queen Sítá, though she was chaste, on account of the slander of the multitude? Was not Ambá, though carried off with great effort by Bhíshma for the sake of his brother, reluctantly abandoned, because she had previously chosen another husband? In the same way this Kalingasená, after spontaneously choosing me, was married by Madanavega; for this reason the people blame her. Therefore let this Naraváhanadatta himself marry by the Gándharva ceremony her daughter, who will be a suitable wife for him.” When the king of Vatsa said this, Yaugandharáyaṇa answered, “My lord, how could Kalingasená consent to this impropriety? For I have often observed that she, as well as her daughter, is a divine being, no ordinary woman, and this was told me by my wise friend the Bráhman-Rákshasa.” While they were debating with one another in this style, the voice of Śiva was heard from heaven to the following effect: “The god of love, after having been consumed by the fire of my eye, has been created again in the form of Naraváhanadatta, and having been pleased with the asceticism of Rati I have created her as his wife in the form of Madanamanchuká. And dwelling with her, as his head-wife, he shall exercise supreme sovereignty over the Vidyádharas for a kalpa of the gods, after conquering his enemies by my favour.” After saying this the voice ceased.

When he heard this speech of the adorable Śiva, the king of Vatsa, [316]with his retinue, worshipped him, and joyfully made up his mind to celebrate the marriage of his son. Then the king congratulated his prime minister, who had before discerned the truth, and summoned the astrologers, and asked them what would be a favourable moment, and they, after being honoured with presents, told him that a favourable moment would arrive within a few days. Again those astrologers said to him—“Your son will have to endure some separation for a short season from this wife of his; this we know, O lord of Vatsa, by our own scientific foresight.” Then the king proceeded to make the requisite preparations for the marriage of his son, in a style suited to his own magnificence, so that not only his own city, but the whole earth was made to tremble with the effort of it. Then, the day of marriage having arrived, Kalingasená adorned her daughter, to whom her father had sent his own heavenly ornaments, and Somaprabhá came in obedience to her husband’s order. Then Madanamanchuká, adorned with a heavenly marriage thread, looked still more lovely; is not the moon truly beautiful, when accompanied by Kártika? And heavenly nymphs, by the order of Śiva, sang auspicious strains in her honour: they were eclipsed by her beauty and remained hidden as if ashamed, but the sound of their songs was heard. They sang the following hymn in honour of Gaurí, blended with the minstrelsy of the matchless musicians of heaven, so as to make unequalled harmony—“Victory to thee, O daughter of the mountain, that hast mercy on thy faithful votaries, for thou hast thyself come to-day and blessed with success the asceticism of Rati.” Then Naraváhanadatta, resplendent with excellent marriage-thread, entered the wedding-pavilion full of various musical instruments. And the bride and bridegroom, after accomplishing the auspicious ceremony of marriage, with intent care, so that no rite was left out, ascended the altar-platform where a fire was burning, as if ascending the pure flame of jewels on the heads of kings. If the moon and the sun were to revolve at the same time round the mountain of gold,23 there would be an exact representation in the world of the appearance of those two, the bride and the bridegroom, when circumambulating the fire, keeping it on their right. Not only did the drums of the gods in the air drown the cymbal-clang in honour of the marriage festival, but the rain of flowers sent down by the gods overwhelmed the gilt grain thrown by the women. Then also the generous Kalingasená honoured her son-in-law with heaps of gold studded with jewels, so that the lord of Alaká was considered very poor compared with him, and much more so all miserable earthly monarchs. [317]And then the bride and bridegroom, now that the delightful ceremony of marriage was accomplished in accordance with their long-cherished wishes, entered the inner apartments crowded with women, adorned with pure and variegated decoration, even as they penetrated the heart of the people full of pure and various loyalty. Moreover, the city of the king of Vatsa was quickly filled with kings, surrounded with splendid armies, who, though their valour was worthy of the world’s admiration, had bent in submission, bringing in their hands valuable jewels by way of presents, as if with subject seas.24 On that high day of festival, the king distributed gold with such magnificence to his dependants, that the children in their mothers’ wombs were at any rate the only beings in his kingdom not made of gold.25 Then on account of the troops of excellent minstrels and dancing girls, that came from all quarters of the world, with hymns, music, dances and songs on all sides, the world seemed full of harmony. And at that festival the city of Kauśámbí seemed itself to be dancing, for the pennons agitated by the wind seemed like twining arms, and it was beautified with the toilettes of the city matrons, as if with ornaments. And thus waxing in mirth every day, that great festival continued for a long time, and all friends, relations and people generally were delighted by it, and had their wishes marvellously fulfilled. And that crown-prince Naraváhanadatta, accompanied by Madanamanchuká, enjoyed, though intent on glory, the long-desired pleasures of this world. [319]

There is a mountain-chain called Himavat, famous in the three worlds; it has many peaks, but one of its peaks is the mount of Śiva which is garlanded with the brightness of glittering jewels, and flashes with gleaming snow, and like the expanse of the heaven, cannot be measured. Its plateaux are the home of magic powers and of magic herbs, which dispel old age, death, and fear, and are to be obtained by the favour of Śiva. With its peaks yellow with the brightness of the bodies of many Vidyádharas, it transcends the glory of the peaks of Sumeru itself, the mighty hill of the immortals.

On it there is a golden city called Kánchanaśṛinga, which gleams refulgent with brightness, like the palace of the Sun. It extends many yojanas, and in it there lives a king of the Vidyádharas named Hemaprabha, who is a firm votary of the husband of Umá. And though he has many wives, he has only one queen, whom he loves dearly, named Alankáraprabhá, as dear to him as Rohiṇí to the moon. With her the virtuous king used to rise up in the morning and bathe, and worship duly Śiva and his wife Gaurí, and then he would descend to the world of men, and give to poor Bráhmans every day a thousand gold-pieces mixed with jewels. And then he returned from earth and attended to his kingly duties justly, and then he ate and drank, abiding by his vow like a hermit. While days elapsed in this way, melancholy arose once in the bosom of the king, caused by his childlessness, but suggested by a passing occasion. And his beloved queen Alankáraprabhá, seeing that he was in very low spirits, asked him the cause of his sadness. Then the king said to her—“I have all prosperity, but the one grief of childlessness afflicts me, O queen. And this melancholy has arisen in my breast on the occasion of calling to mind a tale, which I heard long ago, of a virtuous man who had no son.” Then the queen said to him, “Of what nature was that tale?” When asked this question, the king told her the tale briefly in the following words: [321]

In the town of Chitrakúṭa there was a king named Bráhmaṇavara, rightly named, for he was devoted to honouring Bráhmans. He had a victorious servant named Sattvaśíla who devoted himself exclusively to war, and every month Sattvaśíla received a hundred gold-pieces from that king. But as he was munificent, that gold was not enough for him, especially as his childlessness made the pleasure of giving the sole pleasure to which he was addicted. Sattvaśíla was continually reflecting—“The Disposer has not given me a son to gladden me, but he has given me the vice of generosity, and that too without wealth. It is better to be produced in the world as an old barren tree or a stone, than as a poor man altogether abandoned to the vice of giving away money.” But once on a time Sattvaśíla, while wandering in a garden, happened by luck to find a treasure: and with the help of his servants he quickly brought home that hoard, which gleamed with much gold and glittered with priceless stones. Out of that he provided himself with pleasures, and gave wealth to Bráhmans, slaves, and friends, and thus the virtuous man spent his life. Meanwhile his relations, beholding this, guessed the secret, and went to the king’s palace, and of their own accord informed the king that Sattvaśíla had found a treasure. Then Sattvaśíla was summoned by the king, and by order of the door-keeper remained standing for a moment in a lonely part of the king’s courtyard. There, as he was scratching the earth with the hilt of a lílávajra,4 that was in his hand, he found another large treasure in a copper vessel. It appeared like his own heart, displayed openly for him by Destiny pleased with his virtue, in order that he might propitiate the king with it. So he covered it up again with earth as it was before, and when summoned by the door-keeper, entered the king’s presence. When he had made his bow there, the king himself said, “I have come to learn that you have obtained a treasure, so surrender it to me.” And Sattvaśíla for his part answered him then and there, “O king, tell me: shall I give you the first treasure I found, or the one I found to-day.” The king said to him—“Give the one recently found.” And thereupon Sattvaśíla went to a corner of the king’s courtyard, and gave him up the treasure. Then the king, being pleased with the treasure, dismissed Sattvaśíla with these words—“Enjoy the first-found treasure as you please.” So Sattvaśíla returned to his house. There he remained increasing the propriety of his name with gifts and enjoyments, and so managing to dispel somehow or other the melancholy caused by the affliction of childlessness.

“Such is the story of Sattvaśíla, which I heard long ago, and because I have recalled it to mind, I remain sorrowful through thinking over the [322]fact that I have no son.” When the queen Alankáraprabhá was thus addressed by her husband Hemaprabha, the king of the Vidyádharas, she answered him, “It is true: Fortune does assist the brave in this way; did not Sattvaśíla, when in difficulties, obtain a second treasure? So you too will obtain your desire by the power of your courage, as an example of the truth of this, hear the story of Vikramatunga.”

There is a city called Páṭaliputra, the ornament of the earth, filled with various beautiful jewels, the colours of which are so disposed as to form a perfect scale of colour. In that city there dwelt long ago a brave king, named Vikramatunga, who in giving5 never turned his back on a suppliant, nor in fighting on an enemy. That king one day entered the forest to hunt, and saw there a Bráhman offering a sacrifice with vilva6 fruits. When he saw him, he was desirous to question him, but avoided going near him, and went off to a great distance with his army in his ardour for the chase. For a long time he sported with deer and lions, that rose up and fell slain by his hand, as if with foes, and then he returned and beheld the Bráhman still intent on his sacrifice as before, and going up to him he bowed before him, and asked him his name and the advantage he hoped to derive from offering the vilva fruits. Then the Bráhman blessed the king and said to him, “I am a Bráhman named Nágaśarman, and bear the fruit I hope from my sacrifice. When the god of Fire is pleased with this vilva sacrifice, then vilva fruits of gold will come out of the fire-cavity. Then the god of Fire will appear in bodily form and grant me a boon; and so I have spent much time in offering vilva fruits. But so little is my merit that even now the god of Fire is not propitiated.” When he said this, that king of resolute valour answered him—“Then give me one vilva fruit that I may offer it, and I will to-day, O Bráhman, render the god of Fire propitious to you.” Then the Bráhman said to the king, “How will you, unchastened and impure, propitiate that god of Fire, who is not satisfied with me, who remain thus faithful to my vow, and am chastened?” When the Bráhman said this to him, the king said to him again, “Never mind, give me a vilva fruit, and in a moment you shall behold a wonder.” Then the Bráhman, full of curiosity, gave a vilva fruit to the king, and he then and there meditated with soul of firm valour—“If thou art not satisfied with this vilva fruit, O god of Fire, then I will offer thee my own head,” and thereupon offered the fruit. And the seven-rayed god appeared from the sacrificial cavity, bringing the king a golden vilva fruit as the fruit of his tree of valour. And the Fire-god, present in visible form, said to that king—“I am pleased [323]with thy courage, so receive a boon, O king.” When the magnanimous king heard that, he bowed before him and said—“Grant this Bráhman his wish. What other boon do I require?” On hearing this speech of the king’s, the Fire-god was much pleased and said to him—“O king, this Bráhman shall become a great lord of wealth, and thou also by my favour shalt have the prosperity of thy treasury ever undiminished.” When the Fire-god had, in these words, bestowed the boon, the Bráhman asked him this question; “Thou hast appeared swiftly to a king that acts according to his own will, but not to me that am under vows: why is this, O revered one?” Then the Fire-god, the giver of boons, answered—“If I had not granted him an interview, this king of fierce courage would have offered his head in sacrifice to me. In this world successes quickly befall those of fierce spirit, but they come slowly, O Bráhman, to those of dull spirit like thee.” Thus spake the god of Fire, and vanished, and the Bráhman Nágaśarman took leave of the king and in course of time became very rich. But the king Vikramatunga, whose courage had been thus seen by his dependents, returned amid their plaudits to his town of Páṭaliputra.

When the king was dwelling there, the warder Śatrunjaya entered suddenly one day, and said secretly to him; “There is standing at the door, O king, a Bráhman lad, who says his name is Dattaśarman, he wishes to make a representation to you in private.” The king gave the order to introduce him, and the lad was introduced, and after blessing the king, he bowed before him, and sat down. And he made this representation—“King, by a certain device of powder I know how to make always excellent gold out of copper. For that device was shewn me by my spiritual teacher, and I saw with my own eyes that he made gold by that device.” When the lad said this, the king ordered copper to be brought, and when it was melted, the lad threw the powder upon it. But while the powder was being thrown, an invisible Yaksha carried it off, and the king alone saw him, having propitiated the god of Fire. And that copper did not turn into gold, as the powder did not reach it; thrice did the lad make the attempt and thrice his labour was in vain. Then the king, first of brave men, took the powder from the desponding lad, and himself threw it on the melted copper; when he threw the powder, the Yaksha did not intercept it, but went away smiling. Accordingly the copper became gold by contact with that powder. Then the boy, astonished, asked the king for an explanation, and the king told him the incident of the Yaksha, just as he had seen it. And having learned in this way the device of the powder from that lad, the king made him marry a wife, and gave him all he wished, and having his treasury prosperously filled by means of the gold produced by that device, he himself enjoyed great happiness together with his wives, and made Bráhmans rich. [324]

“Thus you see that the Lord grants their desires to men of fierce courage, seeming to be either terrified or pleased by them. And who, O king, is of more firm valour or more generous than you? So Śiva, when propitiated by you, will certainly give you a son; do not sorrow.” The king Hemaprabha, when he heard this noble speech from the mouth of queen Alankáraprabhá, believed it and was pleased. And he considered that his own heart, radiant with cheerfulness, indicated that he would certainly obtain a son by propitiating Śiva. The next day after this, he and his wife bathed and worshipped Śiva, and he gave 90 millions of gold-pieces to the Bráhmans, and without taking food he went through ascetic practices in front of Śiva, determined that he would either leave the body or propitiate the god, and continuing in asceticism, he praised the giver of boons, the husband of the daughter of the mountain,7 that lightly gave away the sea of milk to his votary Upamanyu, saying, “Honour to thee, O husband of Gaurí, who art the cause of the creation, preservation, and destruction of the world, who dost assume the eight special forms of ether and the rest.8 Honour to thee, who sleepest on the ever-expanded lotus of the heart, that art Śambhu, the swan dwelling in the pure Mánasa lake.9 Honour to thee, the exceeding marvellous Moon, of divine brightness, pure, of watery substance, to be beheld by those whose sins are put away; to thee whose beloved is half thy body,10 and who nevertheless art supremely chaste. Honour to thee who didst create the world by a wish, and art thyself the world.”

When the king had praised Śiva in these words and fasted for three nights, the god appeared to him in a dream, and spake as follows: “Rise up, O king, there shall be born to thee a heroic son that shall uphold thy race. And thou shalt also obtain by the favour of Gaurí, a glorious daughter who is destined to be the queen of that treasure-house of glory, Naraváhanadatta, your future emperor.” When Śiva had said this, he disappeared, and Hemaprabha woke up, delighted, at the close of night. And by telling his dream he gladdened his wife Alankáraprabhá, who had been told the same by Gaurí in a dream, and dwelt on the agreement of the two visions. And then the king rose up and bathed and worshipped Śiva, and after giving gifts, broke his fast, and kept high festival.

Then, after some days had passed, the queen Alankáraprabhá became pregnant by that king, and delighted her beloved by her face redolent of [325]honey, with wildly rolling eyes, so that it resembled a pale lotus with bees hovering round it. Then she gave birth in due time to a son, (whose noble lineage was proclaimed by the elevated longings of her pregnancy,) as the sky gives birth to the orb of day. As soon as he was born, the lying-in chamber was illuminated by his might, and so was made red as vermilion. And his father gave to that infant, that brought terror to the families of his enemies, the name of Vajraprabha, that had been appointed for him by a divine voice. Then the boy grew by degrees, being filled with accomplishments, and causing the exultation of his family, as the new moon fills out with digits,11 and causes the sea to rise.

Then, not long after, the queen of that king Hemaprabha again became pregnant. And when she was pregnant, she sat upon a golden throne, and became truly the jewel of the harem, adding special lustre to her settings. And in a chariot, in the shape of a beautiful lotus, manufactured by help of magic science, she roamed about in the sky, since her pregnant longings assumed that form. But when the due time came, a daughter was born to that queen, whose birth by the favour of Gaurí was a sufficient guarantee of her loveliness. And this voice was then heard from heaven—“She shall be the wife of Naraváhanadatta”—which agreed with the words of Śiva’s revelation. And the king was just as much delighted at her birth as he was at that of his son, and gave her the name of Ratnaprabhá. And Ratnaprabhá, adorned with her own science, grew up in the house of her father, producing illumination in all the quarters of the sky. Then the king made his son Vajraprabha, who had begun to wear armour, take a wife, and appointed him crown-prince. And he devolved on him the burden of the kingdom and remained at ease; but still one anxiety lingered in his heart, anxiety about the marriage of his daughter.

One day the king beheld that daughter, who was fit to be given away in marriage, sitting near him, and said to the queen Alankáraprabhá, who was in his presence; “Observe, queen, a daughter is a great misery in the three worlds, even though she is the ornament of her family, a misery, alas! even to the great. For this Ratnaprabhá, though modest, learned, young and beautiful, afflicts me because she has not obtained a husband.” The queen said to him—“She was proclaimed by the gods as the destined wife of Naraváhanadatta, our future emperor, why is she not given to him?” When the queen said this to him, the king answered: “In truth the maiden is fortunate, that shall obtain him for a bridegroom. For he is an incarnation of Káma upon earth, but he has not as yet attained his divine nature: therefore I am now waiting for his attainment of superhuman knowledge.”12 While he was thus speaking, Ratnaprabhá, by means of those [326]accents of her father, which entered her ear like the words of the bewildering spell of the god of love, became as if bewildered, as if possessed, as if asleep, as if in a picture, and her heart was captivated by that bridegroom. Then with difficulty she took a respectful leave of her parents, and went to her own private apartments, and managed at length to get to sleep at the end of the night. Then the goddess Gaurí, being full of pity for her, gave her this command in a dream; “To-morrow, my daughter, is an auspicious day; so thou must go to the city of Kauśámbí and see thy future husband, and thence thy father, O auspicious one, will himself bring thee and him into this his city, and celebrate your marriage.” So in the morning, when she woke up, she told that dream to her mother. Then her mother gave her leave to go, and she, knowing by her superhuman knowledge that her bridegroom was in the garden, set out from her own city to visit him.

“Thou knowest, O my husband, that I am that Ratnaprabhá, arrived to-day in a moment, full of impatience, and you all know the sequel.” When he heard this speech of hers, that in sweetness exceeded nectar, and beheld the body of the Vidyádharí that was ambrosia to the eyes, Naraváhanadatta in his heart blamed the Creator, saying to himself—“Why did he not make me all eye and ear?” And he said to her—“Fortunate am I; my birth and life has obtained its fruit, in that I, O beautiful one, have been thus visited by thee out of affection!” When they had thus exchanged the protestations of new love, suddenly the army of the Vidyádharas was beheld there in the heaven. Ratnaprabhá said immediately, “Here is my father come,” and the king Hemaprabha descended from heaven with his son. And with his son Vajraprabha he approached that Naraváhanadatta, who gave him a courteous welcome. And while they stood for a moment paying one another the customary compliments, the king of Vatsa, who had heard of it, came with his ministers. And then that Hemaprabha told the king, after he had performed towards him the rites of hospitality, the whole story exactly as it had been related by Ratnaprabhá, and said, “I knew by the power of my supernatural knowledge that my daughter had come here, and I am aware of all that has happened in this place.13

For he will afterwards possess such an imperial chariot. Pray consent, and then thou shalt behold in a short time thy son, the prince, returned here, united to his wife Ratnaprabhá.” After he had addressed this prayer to the king of Vatsa, and he had consented to his wish, that Hemaprabha, with his son, prepared that chariot by his own magic skill, and made Naraváhanadatta ascend it, together with Ratnaprabhá, whose face was cast down from modesty, followed by Gomukha and the others, and Yaugandharáyaṇa, who [327]was also deputed to accompany him by his father, and thus Hemaprabha took him to his own capital, Kánchanaśringaka.

And Naraváhanadatta, when he reached that city of his father-in-law, saw that it was all of gold, gleaming with golden ramparts, embraced, as it were, on all sides with rays issuing out like shoots, and so stretching forth innumerable arms in eagerness of love for that son-in-law. There the king Hemaprabha, of high emprise, gave Ratnaprabhá with due ceremonies to him, as the sea gave Lakshmí to Vishṇu. And he gave him glittering heaps of jewels, gleaming like innumerable wedding fires lighted.14 And in the city of that festive prince, who was showering wealth, even the houses, being draped with flags, appeared as if they had received changes of raiment. And Naraváhanadatta, having performed the auspicious ceremony of marriage, remained there enjoying heavenly pleasures with Ratnaprabhá. And he amused himself by looking in her company at beautiful temples of the gods in gardens and lakes, having ascended with her the heaven by the might of her science.

So, after he had lived some days with his wife in the city of the king of the Vidyádharas, the son of the king of Vatsa determined, in accordance with the advice of Yaugandharáyaṇa, to return to his own city. Then his mother-in-law performed for him the auspicious ceremonies previous to starting, and his father-in-law again honoured him and his minister, and then he set out with Hemaprabha and his son, accompanied by his beloved, having again ascended that chariot. He soon arrived, like a stream of nectar to the eyes of his mother, and entered his city with Hemaprabha and his son and his own followers, bringing with him his wife, who made the king of Vatsa rejoice exceedingly with delight at beholding her. The king of Vatsa of exalted fortune, with Vásavadattá, welcomed that son, who bowed at his feet with his wife, and honoured Hemaprabha his new connexion, as well as his son, in a manner conformable to his own dignity. Then, after that king of the Vidyádharas, Hemaprabha, had taken leave of the lord of Vatsa and his family, and had flown up into the heaven and gone to his own city, that Naraváhanadatta, together with Ratnaprabhá and Madanamanchuká, spent that day in happiness surrounded by his friends. [328]

There is here a great island in the midst of the sea, named Ratnakúṭa. In it there lived in old times a king of great courage, a devoted worshipper of Vishṇu, rightly named Ratnádhipati.1 That king, in order to obtain the conquest of the earth, and all kings’ daughters as his wives, went through a severe penance, to propitiate Vishṇu. The adorable one, pleased with his penance, appeared in bodily form, and thus commanded him—“Rise up, king, I am pleased with thee, so I tell thee this—listen! There is in the land of Kalinga a Gandharva, who has become a white elephant by the curse of a hermit, and is known by the name of Śvetaraśmi. On account of the asceticism he performed in a former life, and on account of his devotion to me, that elephant is supernaturally wise, and possesses the power of flying through the sky, and of remembering his former birth. And I have given an order to that great elephant, in accordance with which he will come of himself through the air, and become thy beast of burden. That white elephant thou must mount, as the wielder of the thunderbolt mounts the elephant of the gods,2 and whatever king thou shalt travel through the air to visit, in fear shall bestow on thee, who art of god-like presence, tribute in the form of a daughter, for I will [329]myself command him to do so in a dream. Thus thou shalt conquer the whole earth, and all zenanas, and thou shalt obtain eighty thousand princesses.” When Vishṇu had said this, he disappeared, and the king broke his fast, and the next day he beheld that elephant, which had come to him through the air. And when the elephant had thus placed himself at the king’s disposal, he mounted him, as he had been bidden to do by Vishṇu, and in this manner he conquered the earth, and carried off the daughters of kings. And then the king dwelt there in Ratnakúṭa with those wives, eighty thousand in number, amusing himself as he pleased. And in order to propitiate Śvetaraśmi, that celestial elephant, he fed every day five hundred Bráhmans.

Now once on a time the king Ratnádhipati mounted that elephant, and, after roaming through the other islands, returned to his own island. And as he was descending from the sky, it came to pass that a bird of the race of Garuḍa struck that excellent elephant with his beak. And the bird fled, when the king struck him with the sharp elephant-hook, but the elephant fell on the ground stunned by the blow of the bird’s beak. The king got off his back, but the elephant, though he recovered his senses, was not able to rise up in spite of the efforts made to raise him, and ceased eating. For five days the elephant remained in the same place, where it had fallen, and the king was grieved and took no food, and prayed as follows: “Oh guardians of the world, teach me some remedy in this difficulty; otherwise I will cut off my own head and offer it to you.” When he had said this, he drew his sword and was preparing to cut off his head, when immediately a bodiless voice thus addressed him from the sky—“O king do nothing rash; if some chaste woman touches this elephant with her hand, it will rise up, but not otherwise.” When the king heard that, he was glad, and summoned his own carefully guarded chief queen, Amṛitalatá. When the elephant did not rise up, though she touched it with her hand, the king had all his other wives summoned. But though they all touched the elephant in succession, he did not rise up; the fact was, not one among them was chaste. Then the king, having beheld all those eighty thousand wives openly humiliated in the presence of men, being himself abashed, summoned all the women of his capital, and made them touch the elephant one after another. And when in spite of it the elephant did not rise up, the king was ashamed, because there was not a single chaste woman in his city.

And in the meanwhile a merchant named Harshagupta, who had arrived from Támraliptí,3 having heard of that event, came there full of [330]curiosity. And in his train there came a servant of the name of Śílavatí, who was devoted to her husband; when she saw what had taken place, she said to him—“I will touch this elephant with my hand: and if I have not even thought in my mind of any other man than my husband, may it rise up.” No sooner had she said this, than she came up and touched the elephant with her hand, whereupon it rose up in sound health and began to eat.4 But when the people saw the elephant Śvetaraśmi rise up, they raised a shout and praised Śílavatí, saying—“Such are these chaste women, few and far between, who, like Śiva, are able to create, preserve and destroy this world.” The king Ratnádhipati also was pleased, and congratulated the chaste Śílavatí, and loaded her with innumerable jewels, and he also honoured her master, the merchant Harshagupta, and gave him a house near his own palace. And he determined to avoid all communication with his own wives, and ordered that henceforth they should have nothing but food and raiment.

Then the king, after he had taken his food, sent for the chaste Śílavatí, and said to her at a private interview in the presence of Harshagupta, “Śílavatí, if you have any maiden of your father’s family, give her to me, for I know she will certainly be like you.” When the king said this to her, Śílavatí answered—“I have a sister in Támraliptí named Rájadattá; marry her, O king, if you wish, for she is of distinguished beauty.” When she said this to the king, he consented and said, “So be it,” and having determined on taking this step, he mounted, with Śílavatí and Harshagupta, the elephant Śvetaraśmi, that could fly though the air, and going in person to Támraliptí, entered the house of that merchant Harshagupta. There he asked the astrologers that very day, what would be a favourable time for him to be married to Rájadattá, the sister of Śílavatí. And the astrologers, having enquired under what stars both of them were born, said, “A favourable conjuncture will come for you, O king, in three months from this time. But if you marry Rájadattá in the present position of the constellations, she will without fail prove unchaste.” Though the astrologers gave him this response, the king, being eager for a charming wife, and impatient of dwelling long alone, thus reflected—“Away with scruples! I will marry Rájadattá here this very day. For she is the sister of the blameless Śílavatí and will never prove unchaste. And I will place her in that uninhabited island in the middle of the sea, where there is one empty palace, and in that inaccessible spot I will [331]surround her with a guard of women; so how can she become unchaste, as she can never see men?” Having formed this determination, the king that very day rashly married that Rájadattá, whom Śílavatí bestowed upon him. And after he had married her, and had been received with the customary rites by Harshagupta, he took that wife, and with her and Śílavatí, he mounted Śvetaraśmi, and then in a moment went through the air to the land of Ratnakúṭa, where the people were anxiously expecting him. And he rewarded Śílavatí again so munificently, that she attained all her wishes, having reaped the fruit of her vow of chastity. Then he mounted his new wife Rájadattá on that same air-travelling elephant Śvetaraśmi, and conveyed her carefully, and placed her in the empty palace in the island in the midst of the sea, inaccessible to man, with a retinue of women only. And whatever article she required, he conveyed there through the air on that elephant, so great was his distrust. And being devotedly attached to her, he always spent the night there, but came to Ratnakúṭa in the day to transact his regal duties. Now one morning the king, in order to counteract an inauspicious dream, indulged with that Rájadattá in a drinking-bout for good luck. And though his wife, being intoxicated with that banquet, did not wish to let him go, he left her, and departed to Ratnakúṭa to transact his business, for the royal dignity is an ever-exacting wife. There he remained performing his duties with anxious mind, which seemed ever to ask him, why he left his wife there in a state of intoxication? And in the meanwhile Rájadattá, remaining alone in that inaccessible place, the female servants being occupied in culinary and other duties, saw a certain man come in at the door, like Fate determined to baffle all expedients for guarding her, and his arrival filled her with astonishment. And that intoxicated woman asked him when he approached her, “Who are you, and how have you come to this inaccessible place?” Then that man, who had endured many hardships, answered her—

Fair one, I am a merchant’s son of Mathurá named Yavanasena. And when my father died, I was left helpless, and my relations took from me my property, so I went to a foreign country, and resorted to the miserable condition of being servant to another man. Then I with difficulty scraped together a little wealth by trading, and as I was going to another land, I was plundered by robbers who met me on the way. Then I wandered about as a beggar, and, with some other men like myself, I went to a mine of jewels called Kanakakshetra. There I engaged to pay the king his share, and after digging up the earth in a trench for a whole year, I did not find a single jewel. So, while the other men my fellows were rejoicing over the jewels they had found, smitten with grief I retired to the shore of the sea, and began to collect fuel. [332]

And while I was constructing with the fuel a funeral pyre, in order that I might enter the flame, a certain merchant named Jívadatta happened to come there; that merciful man dissuaded me from suicide, and gave me food, and as he was preparing to go in a ship to Svarṇadvípa he took me on board with him. Then, as we were sailing along in the midst of the ocean, after five days had passed, we suddenly beheld a cloud. The cloud discharged its rain in large drops, and that vessel was whirled round by the wind like the head of a mast elephant. Immediately the ship sank, but as fate would have it, I caught hold of a plank, just as I was sinking. I mounted on it, and thereupon the thunder-cloud relaxed its fury, and, conducted by destiny, I reached this country; and have just landed in the forest. And seeing this palace, I entered, and I beheld here thee, O auspicious one, a rain of nectar to my eyes, dispelling pain.

When he had said this, Rájadattá maddened with love and wine, placed him on a couch and embraced him. Where there are these five fires, feminine nature, intoxication, privacy, the obtaining of a man, and absence of restraint, what chance for the stubble of character? So true is it, that a woman maddened by the god of Love is incapable of discrimination; since this queen became enamoured of that loathsome castaway. In the meanwhile the king Ratnádhipati, being anxious, came swiftly from Ratnakúṭa, borne along on the sky-going elephant; and entering his palace he beheld his wife Rájadattá in the arms of that creature. When the king saw the man, though he felt tempted to slay him, he slew him not, because he fell at his feet, and uttered piteous supplications. And beholding his wife terrified, and at the same time intoxicated, he reflected, “How can a woman that is addicted to wine, the chief ally of lust, be chaste? A lascivious woman cannot be restrained even by being guarded. Can one fetter a whirlwind with one’s arms? This is the fruit of my not heeding the prediction of the astrologers. To whom is not the scorning of wise words bitter in its after-taste? When I thought that she was the sister of Śílavatí, I forgot that the Kálakúṭa poison was twin-born with the amṛita.5 Or rather who is able, even by doing the utmost of a man, to overcome the incalculable freaks of marvellously working Destiny.” Thus reflecting, the king was not wroth with any one, and spared the merchant’s son, her paramour, after asking him the story of his life. The merchant’s son, when dismissed thence, seeing no other expedient, went out and beheld a ship coming, far off in the sea. Then he again mounted that plank, and drifting about in the sea, cried out, puffing and blowing, “Save me! Save me!” So a merchant, of the name of Krodhavarman, who was on that ship, drew that merchant’s son out of the water, and made him his companion. Whatever deed is appointed by the Disposer to be the destruction of any [333]man, dogs his steps whithersoever he runneth. For this fool, when on the ship, was discovered by his deliverer secretly associating with his wife, and thereupon was cast by him into the sea and perished.

In the meanwhile the king Ratnádhipati caused the queen Rájadattá with her retinue to mount Śvetaraśmi, without allowing himself to be angry, and he carried her to Ratnakúṭa, and delivered her to Śílavatí, and related that occurrence to her and his ministers. And he exclaimed, “Alas! How much pain have I endured, whose mind has been devoted to these unsubstantial insipid enjoyments. Therefore I will go to the forest, and take Hari as my refuge, in order that I may never again be a vessel of such woes.” Thus he spake, and though his sorrowing ministers and Śílavatí endeavoured to prevent him, he, being disgusted with the world, would not abandon his intention. Then, being indifferent to enjoyments, he first gave half of his treasure to the virtuous Śílavatí, and the other half to the Bráhmans, and then that king made over in the prescribed form his kingdom to a Bráhman of great excellence, named Pápabhanjana. And after he had given away his kingdom, he ordered Śvetaraśmi to be brought, with the object of retiring to a grove of asceticism, his subjects looking on with tearful eyes. No sooner was the elephant brought, than it left the body, and became a man of god-like appearance, adorned with necklace and bracelet. When the king asked him who he was, and what was the meaning of all this, he answered:

“We were two Gandharva brothers, living on the Malaya mountain: I was called Somaprabha, and the eldest was Devaprabha. And my brother had but one wife, but she was very dear to him. Her name was Rájavatí. One day he was wandering about with her in his arms, and happened to arrive, with me in his company, at a place called the dwelling of the Siddhas. There we both worshipped Vishṇu in his temple, and began all of us to sing before the adorable one. In the meanwhile a Siddha came there, and stood regarding with fixed gaze Rájavatí, who was singing songs well worth hearing. And my brother, who was jealous, said in his wrath to that Siddha; ‘Why dost thou, although a Siddha, cast a longing look at another’s wife?’ Then the Siddha was moved with anger, and said to him by way of a curse—‘Fool, I was looking at her out of interest in her song, not out of desire. So fall thou, jealous one, into a mortal womb together with her; and then behold with thy own eyes thy wife in the embraces of another.’ When he had said this, I, being enraged at the curse, struck him, out of childish recklessness, with a white toy elephant of clay, that I had in my hand. Then he cursed me in the following words—“Be born again on the earth as an elephant, like that with which you have just struck me.” Then being merciful, that Siddha allowed himself to be propitiated by that brother of mine Devaprabha, and appointed for us both [334]the following termination of the curse; “Though a mortal thou shalt become, by the favour of Vishṇu, the lord of an island, and shalt obtain as thy servant this thy younger brother, who will have become an elephant, a beast of burden fit for gods. Thou shalt obtain eighty thousand wives, and thou shalt come to learn the unchastity of them all in the presence of men. Then thou shalt marry this thy present wife, who will have become a woman, and shalt see her with thy own eyes embracing another. Then, thou shalt become sick in thy heart of the world, and shalt bestow thy realm on a Bráhman, but when after doing this thou shalt set out to go to a forest of ascetics, thy younger brother shall first be released from his elephant nature, and thou also with thy wife shalt be delivered from thy curse.’ This was the termination of the curse appointed for us by the Siddha, and we were accordingly born with different lots, on account of the difference of our actions in that previous state, and lo! the end of our curse has now arrived.” When Somaprabha had said this, that king Ratnádhipati remembered his former birth, and said—“True! I am that very Devaprabha; and this Rájadattá is my former wife Rájavatí.” Having said this, he, together with his wife, abandoned the body. In a moment they all became Gandharvas, and, in the sight of men, flew up into the air, and went to their own home, the Malaya mountain. Śílavatí too, through the nobleness of her character, obtained prosperity, and going to the city of Támraliptí, remained in the practice of virtue.

“So true is it, that in no case can any one guard a woman by force in this world, but the young woman of good family is ever protected by the pure restraint of her own chastity. And thus the passion of jealousy is merely a purposeless cause of suffering, annoying others, and so far from being a protection to women, it rather excites in them excessive longing.” When Naraváhanadatta had heard this tale full of good sense related by his wife, he and his ministers were highly pleased.

There is in this land a town of the name of Ujjayiní, famous throughout the world: in it there lived of old time a merchant’s son, named [335]Niśchayadatta. He was a gambler and had acquired money by gambling, and every day the generous man used to bathe in the water of the Siprá, and worship Mahákála:1 his custom was first to give money to the Bráhmans, the poor, and the helpless, and then to anoint himself and indulge in food and betel.

Every day, when he had finished his bathing and his worship, he used to go and anoint himself in a cemetery near the temple of Mahákála, with sandalwood and other things. And the young man placed the unguent on a stone pillar that stood there, and so anointed himself every day alone, rubbing his back against it. In that way the pillar eventually became very smooth and polished. Then there came that way a draughtsman with a sculptor; the first, seeing that the pillar was very smooth, drew on it a figure of Gaurí, and the sculptor with his chisel in pure sport carved it on the stone. Then, after they had departed, a certain daughter of the Vidyádharas came there to worship Mahákála, and saw that image of Gaurí on the stone. From the clearness of the image she inferred the proximity of the goddess, and, after worshipping, she entered that stone pillar to rest. In the meanwhile Niśchayadatta, the merchant’s son, came there, and to his astonishment beheld that figure of Umá carved on the stone. He first anointed his limbs, and then placing the unguent on another part of the stone, began to anoint his back by rubbing it against the stone. When the rolling-eyed Vidyádhara maiden inside the pillar saw that, her heart being captivated by his beauty, she reflected—“What! has this handsome man no one to anoint his back? Then I will now rub his back for him.” Thus the Vidyádharí reflected, and, stretching forth her hand from inside the pillar, she anointed his back then and there out of affection. Immediately the merchant’s son felt the touch, and heard the jingling of the bracelet, and caught hold of her hand with his. And the Vidyádharí, invisible as she was, said to him from the pillar—“Noble sir, what harm have I done you? let go my hand.” Then Niśchayadatta answered her—“Appear before me, and say who you are, then I will let go your hand.” Then the Vidyádharí affirmed with an oath—“I will appear before your eyes, and tell you all.” So he let go her hand. Then she came out visibly from the pillar, beautiful in every limb, and sitting down, with her eyes fixed on his face, said to him, “There is a city called Pushkarávatí2 on a peak of the Himálayas, in it there lives a king named Vindhyapara. I am his maiden daughter, named Anurágapará. I came to worship Mahákála, and rested here to-day. And thereupon you came here, and were beheld by me anointing your back on [336]this pillar, resembling the stupefying weapon of the god of love. Then first my heart was charmed with affection for you, and afterwards my hand was smeared with your unguent, as I rubbed your back.3 The sequel you know. So I will now go to my father’s house.”

When she said this to the merchant’s son, he answered—“Fair one, I have not recovered my soul which you have taken captive; how can you thus depart, without letting go the soul which you have taken possession of?” When he said this to her, she was immediately overcome with love, and said—“I will marry you, if you come to my city. It is not hard for you to reach; your endeavour will be sure to succeed. For nothing in this world is difficult to the enterprising.” Having said this, Anurágapará flew up into the air and departed; and Niśchayadatta returned home with mind fixed upon her. Recollecting the hand that was protruded from the pillar, like a shoot from the trunk of a tree, he thought—“Alas! though I seized her hand I did not win it for my own. Therefore I will go to the city of Pushkarávatí to visit her, and either I shall lose my life, or Fate will come to my aid.” So musing, he passed that day there in an agony of love, and he set out from that place early the next morning, making for the north. As he journeyed, three other merchants’ sons, who were travelling towards the north, associated themselves with him as companions. In company with them he travelled through cities, villages, forests, and rivers, and at last reached the northern region abounding in barbarians.

There he and his companions were found on the way by some Tájikas, who took them and sold them to another Tájika. He sent them in the care of his servants as a present to a Turushka, named Muravára. Then those servants took him and the other three, and hearing that Muravára was dead, they delivered them to his son. The son of Muravára thought—“These men have been sent me as a present by my father’s friend, so I must send them to him to-morrow by throwing them into his grave.”4 Accordingly the Turushka fettered Niśchayadatta and his three friends with strong chains, that they might be kept till the morning. Then, while they were remaining in chains at night, Niśchayadatta said to his three friends, the merchant’s sons, who were afflicted with dread of death—“What will you gain by despondency? Maintain steadfast resolution. For calamities depart far away from the resolute, as if terrified at them. Think on the peerless adorable Durgá, that deliverer from calamity.” [337]

Thus encouraging them, he devoutly worshipped that goddess Durgá: “Hail to thee, O goddess! I worship thy feet that are stained with a red dye, as if it were the clotted gore of the trampled Asura clinging to them. Thou, as the all-ruling power of Śiva, dost govern the three worlds, and inspired by thee they live and move. Thou didst deliver the worlds, O slayer of the Asura Mahisha. Deliver me that crave thy protection, O thou cherisher of thy votaries.” In these and similar words he and his companions duly worshipped the goddess, and then they all fell asleep, being weary. And the goddess Durgá in a dream commanded Niśchayadatta and his companions—“Rise up, my children, depart, for your fetters are loosed.” Then they woke up at night, and saw that their fetters had fallen off of themselves, and after relating to one another their dream, they departed thence delighted. And after they had gone a long journey, the night came to an end, and then those merchant’s sons, who had gone through such terrors, said to Niśchayadatta; “Enough of this quarter of the world infested with barbarians! We will go to the Deccan, friend, but do you do as you desire.”—When they said this to him, he dismissed them to go where they would, and set out alone vigorously on his journey, making towards that very northern quarter, drawn by the noose of love for Anurágapará, flinging aside fear. As he went along, he fell in, in course of time, with four Páśupata ascetics, and reached and crossed the river Vitastá. And after crossing it, he took food, and as the sun was kissing the western mountain, he entered with them a forest that lay in their path. And there some woodmen, that met them, said to them: “Whither are you going, now that the day is over. There is no village in front of you: but there is an empty temple of Śiva in this wood. Whoever remains there during the night inside or outside, falls a prey to a Yakshiṇí, who bewilders him, making horns grow on his forehead, and then treats him as a victim, and devours him.” Those four Páśupata ascetics, who were travelling together, though they heard this, said to Niśchayadatta, “Come along! what can that miserable Yakshiṇí do to us? For we have remained many nights in various cemeteries.” When they said this, he went with them, and finding an empty temple of Śiva, he entered it with them to pass the night there. In the court of that temple the bold Niśchayadatta and the Páśupata ascetics quickly made a great circle with ashes, and entering into it, they lighted a fire with fuel, and all remained there, muttering a charm to protect themselves.

Then at night there came there dancing the Yakshiṇí Śṛingotpádiní,5 playing from afar on her lute of bones, and when she came near, she fixed her eye on one of the four Páśupata ascetics, and recited a charm, as she [338]danced outside the circle. That charm produced horns on him,6 and bewildered he rose up, and danced till he fell into the blazing fire. And when he had fallen, the Yakshiṇí dragged him half-burnt out of the fire, and devoured him with delight. Then she fixed her eye on the second Páśupata ascetic, and in the same way recited the horn-producing charm and danced. The second one also had horns produced by that charm, and was made to dance, and falling into the fire, was dragged out and devoured before the eyes of the others. In this way the Yakshiṇí maddened one after another at night the four ascetics, and after horns had been produced on them, devoured them. But while she was devouring the fourth, it came to pass that, being intoxicated with flesh and blood, she laid her lute down on the ground. Thereupon the bold Niśchayadatta rose up quickly, and seized the lute, and began to play on it, and dancing round with a laugh, to recite that horn-producing charm, which he had learnt from hearing it often, fixing at the same time his eye on the face of the Yakshiṇí. By the operation of the charm she was confused, and dreading death, as horns were just about to sprout on her forehead, she flung herself prostrate, and thus entreated him; “Valiant man, do not slay me, a helpless woman. I now implore your protection, stop the recital of the charm, and the accompanying movements. Spare me! I know all your story, and will bring about your wish; I will carry you to the place, where Anurágapará is.” The bold Niśchayadatta, when thus confidingly addressed by her, consented, and stopped the recital of the charm, and the accompanying movements. Then, at the request of the Yakshiṇí, he mounted on her back, and being carried by her through the air, he went to find his beloved.7

And when the night came to an end, they had reached a mountain wood; there the Guhyakí bowing thus addressed Niśchayadatta; “Now that the sun has risen, I have no power to go upwards,8 so spend this day in this charming wood, my lord; eat sweet fruits and drink the clear water of the brooks. I go to my own place, and I will return at the approach of night; and then I will take you to the city of Pushkarávatí, [339]the crown of the Himálayas, and into the presence of Anurágapará.” Having said this, the Yakshiṇí with his permission set him down from her shoulder, and departed to return again according to her promise.

When she had gone, Niśchayadatta beheld a deep lake, transparent and cool, but tainted with poison, lit up by the sun, that stretching forth the fingers of its rays, revealed it as an example illustrative of the nature of the heart of a passionate woman. He knew by the smell that it was tainted with poison, and left it, after necessary ablutions, and being afflicted with thirst he roamed all over that heavenly mountain in search of water. And as he was wandering about, he saw on a lofty place what seemed to be two rubies glittering, and he dug up the ground there.

And after he had removed the earth, he saw there the head of a living monkey, and his eyes like two rubies. While he was indulging his wonder, thinking what this could be, that monkey thus addressed him with human voice; “I am a man, a Bráhman transformed into a monkey; release me, and then I will tell you all my story, excellent sir.” As soon as he heard this, he removed the earth, marvelling, and drew the ape out of the ground. When Niśchayadatta had drawn out the ape, it fell at his feet, and continued—“You have given me life by rescuing me from calamity. So come, since you are weary, take fruit and water, and by your favour I also will break my long fast. Having said this, the liberated monkey took him to the bank of a mountain-torrent some distance off, where there were delicious fruits, and shady trees. There he bathed and took fruit and water, and coming back, he said to the monkey who had broken his fast—“Tell me how you have become a monkey, being really a man.” Then that monkey said, “Listen, I will tell you now.”

In the city of Váráṇasí there is an excellent Bráhman named Chandrasvámin, I am his son by his virtuous wife, my friend. And my father gave me the name of Somasvámin. In course of time it came to pass that I mounted the fierce elephant of love, which infatuation makes uncontrollable. When I was at this stage of my life, the youthful Bandhudattá, the daughter of the merchant Śrígarbha, an inhabitant of that city, and the wife of the great merchant of Mathurá Varáhadatta, who was dwelling in her father’s house, beheld me one day, as she was looking out of the window. She was enamoured of me on beholding me, and after enquiring my name, she sent a confidential female friend to me, desiring an interview. Her friend came up secretly to me who was blind with love, and, after telling her friend’s desire, took me to her house. There she placed me, and then went and brought secretly Bandhudattá, whose eagerness made her disregard shame. And no sooner was she brought, than she threw her arms round my neck, for excessive love in women is your only hero for [340]daring. Thus every day Bandhudattá came at will from her father’s house, and sported with me in the house of her female friend.

Now one day the great merchant, her husband, came from Mathurá to take her back to his own house, as she had been long absent. Then Bandhudattá, as her father ordered her to go, and her husband was eager to take her away, secretly made a second request to her friend. She said “I am certainly going to be taken by my husband to the city of Mathurá, and I cannot live there separated from Somasvámin. So tell me what resource there is left to me in this matter.” When she said this, her friend Sukhaśayá, who was a witch, answered her, “I know two spells;9 by reciting one of them a man can be in a moment made an ape, if a string is fastened round his neck, and by the second, if the string is loosed, he will immediately become a man again; and while he is an ape his intelligence is not diminished. So if you like, fair one, you can keep your lover Somasvámin; for I will turn him into an ape on the spot, then take him with you to Mathurá as a pet animal. And I will shew you how to use the two spells, so that you can turn him, when near you, into the shape of a monkey, and when you are in a secret place, make him once more a beloved man.” When her friend had told her this, Bandhudattá consented, and sending for me in secret, told me that matter in the most loving tone. I consented, and immediately Sukhaśayá fastened a thread on my neck and recited the spell, and made me a young monkey. And in that shape Bandhudattá brought and shewed me to her husband, and she said—“A friend of mine gave me this animal to play with.” And he was delighted when he saw me in her arms as a plaything, and I, though a monkey, retained my intelligence, and the power of articulate speech. And I remained there, saying to myself with inward laughter—“Wonderful are the actions of women.” For whom does not love beguile? The next day Bandhudattá, having been taught that spell by her friend, set out from her father’s house to go to Mathurá with her husband. And the husband of Bandhudattá, wishing to please her, had me carried on the back of one of his servants during the journey. So the servant and I and the rest went along, and in two or three days reached a wood, that lay in our way, which was perilous from abounding in monkeys. Then the monkeys, beholding me, attacked me in troops on all sides, quickly calling to one another with shrill cries. And the irrepressible apes came and began to bite that merchant’s servant, on whose back I was sitting. He was terrified at that, and flung me off his back on to the ground, and fled for fear, so the monkeys got hold of me then and there. [341]And Bandhudattá, out of love for me, and her husband and his servants, attacked the apes with stones and sticks, but were not able to get the better of them. Then those monkeys, as if enraged with my evil actions, pulled off with their teeth and nails every hair from every one of my limbs, as I lay there bewildered. At last, by the virtue of the string on my neck, and by thinking on Śiva, I managed to recover my strength, and getting loose from them, I ran away. And entering into the depths of the wood, I got out of their sight, and gradually, roaming from forest to forest, I reached this wood. And while I was wandering about here in the rainy season, blind with the darkness of grief, saying to myself, “How is it that even in this life adultery has produced for thee the fruit of transformation into the shape of a monkey, and thou hast lost Bandhudattá?” Destiny, not yet sated with tormenting me, inflicted on me another woe, for a female elephant suddenly came upon me, and seizing me with her trunk flung me into the mud of an ant-hill that had been saturated with rain. I know it must have been some divinity instigated by Destiny, for, though I exerted myself to the utmost, I could not get out of that mud. And while it was drying up,10 not only did I not die, but knowledge was produced in me, while I thought continually upon Śiva. And all the while I never felt hunger nor thirst, my friend, until to-day you drew me out of this trap of dry mud. And though I have gained knowledge, I do not even now possess power sufficient to set myself free from this monkey nature. But when some witch unties the thread on my neck, reciting at the same time the appropriate spell, then I shall once more become a man.

“This is my story, but tell me now, my friend, how you came to this inaccessible wood, and why.” When Niśchayadatta was thus requested by the Bráhman Somasvámin, he told him his story, how he came from Ujjayiní on account of a Vidyádharí, and how he was conveyed at night by a Yakshiṇí, whom he had subdued by his presence of mind. Then the wise Somasvámin, who wore the form of a monkey, having heard that wonderful story, went on to say; “You, like myself, have suffered great woe for the sake of a female. But females, like prosperous circumstances, are never faithful to any one in this world. Like the evening, they display a short-lived glow of passion, their hearts are crooked like the channels of rivers, like snakes they are not to be relied on, like lightning they are fickle. So, that Anurágapará, though she may be enamoured of you for a time, when she finds a paramour of her own race, will be disgusted with you, who are only a mortal. So desist now from this effort for the sake of a female, which you will find like the fruit of the Colocynth, bitter in its [342]after-taste. Do not go, my friend, to Pushkarávatí, the city of the Vidyádharas, but ascend the back of the Yakshiṇí and return to your own Ujjayiní. Do what I tell you, my friend; formerly in my passion I did not heed the voice of a friend, and I am suffering for it at this very moment. For when I was in love with Bandhudattá, a Bráhman named Bhavaśarman, who was a very dear friend of mine, said this to me in order to dissuade me;—‘Do not put yourself in the power of a female, the heart of a female is a tangled maze; in proof of it I will tell you what happened to me—listen!’”

In this very country, in the city of Váráṇasí, there lived a young and beautiful Bráhman woman named Somadá, who was unchaste and secretly a witch. And as destiny would have it, I had secret interviews with her, and in the course of our intimacy my love for her increased. One day I wilfully struck her in the fury of jealousy, and the cruel woman bore it patiently, concealing her anger for the time. The next day she fastened a string round my neck, as if in loving sport, and I was immediately turned into a domesticated ox. Then I, thus transformed into an ox, was sold by her, on receiving the required price, to a man who lived by keeping domesticated camels. When he placed a load upon me, a witch there, named Bandhamochaniká, beholding me sore burdened, was filled with pity.11 She knew by her supernatural knowledge that I had been made an animal by Somadá, and when my proprietor was not looking, she loosed the string from my neck. So I returned to the form of a man, and that master of mine immediately looked round, and thinking that I had escaped, wandered all about the country in search of me. And as I was going away from that place with Bandhamochiní, it happened that Somadá came that way and beheld me at a distance. She, burning with rage, said to Bandhamochiní, who possessed supernatural knowledge,—“Why did you deliver this villain from his bestial transformation? Curses on you! wicked woman, you shall reap the fruit of this evil deed. To-morrow morning I will slay you, together with this villain.” When she had gone after saying this, that skilful sorceress Bandhamochiní, in order to repel her assault, gave me the following instructions—“She will come to-morrow morning in the form of a black mare to slay me, and I shall then assume the form of a bay mare. And when we have begun to fight, you must come behind this Somadá, sword in hand, and resolutely strike her. In this way we will slay her; so come to-morrow morning to my house.” After saying this, she pointed out to me her house. When she had entered it, [343]I went home, having endured more than one birth in this very life. And in the morning I went to the house of Bandhamochiní, sword in hand. Then Somadá came there, in the form of a black mare.12 And Bandhamochiní, for her part, assumed the form of a bay mare; and then they fought with their teeth and heels, biting and kicking. Then I struck that vile witch Somadá a blow with my sword, and she was slain by Bandhamochiní. Then I was freed from fear, and having escaped the calamity of bestial transformation, I never again allowed my mind to entertain the idea of associating with wicked women. Women generally have these three faults, terrible to the three worlds, flightiness, recklessness, and a love for the congregation of witches.13 So why do you run after Bandhudattá, who is a friend of witches? Since she does not love her husband, how is it possible that she can love you?

“Though my friend Bhavaśarman gave me this advice, I did not do what he told me; and so I am reduced to this state. So I give you this counsel; do not suffer hardship to win Anurágapará, for when she obtains a lover of her own race, she will of a surety desert you. A woman ever desires fresh men, as a female humble bee wanders from flower to flower; so you will suffer regret some day, like me, my friend.” This speech of Somasvámin, who had been transformed into a monkey, did not penetrate the heart of Niśchayadatta, for it was full of passion. And he said to that monkey; “She will not be unfaithful to me, for she is born of the pure race of the Vidyádharas.” Whilst they were thus conversing, the sun, red with the hues of evening, went to the mountain of setting, as if wishing to please Niśchayadatta. Then the night arrived, as the harbinger of the Yakshiṇí Śṛingotpádiní, and she herself came soon afterwards. And Niśchayadatta mounted on her back, and went off to go to his beloved, taking leave of the ape, who begged that he might ever be remembered by him. And at midnight he reached that city of Pushkarávatí, which was situated on the Himálayas, and belonged to the king of the Vidyádharas, the father of Anurágapará. At that very moment Anurágapará, having known by her power of his arrival, came out from that city to meet him. Then the Yakshiṇí put down Niśchayadatta from her shoulder, and pointing out to him Anurágapará, said—“Here comes your beloved, like a second moon giving a feast to your eyes in the night, so now I will depart,” and bowing before him, she went her way. Then Anurágapará, full of the excitement produced by expectation, went up to her beloved, and welcomed him with embraces and other signs of [344]love. He too embraced her, and now that he had obtained the joy of meeting her after enduring many hardships, he could not be contained in his own body, and as it were entered hers. So Anurágapará was made his wife by the Gándharva ceremony of marriage, and she immediately by her magic skill created a city. In that city, which was outside the metropolis, he dwelt with her, without her parents suspecting it, as their eyes were blinded by her skill. And when, on her questioning him, he told her those strange and painful adventures of his journey, she respected him much, and bestowed on him all the enjoyments that heart could wish.

Then Niśchayadatta told that Vidyádharí the strange story of Somasvámin, who had been transformed into a monkey, and said to her, “If this friend of mine could by any endeavour on your part be freed from his monkey condition, then my beloved, you would have done a good deed.” When he told her this, Anurágapará said to him—“This is in the way of witches’ spells, but it is not our province. Nevertheless I will accomplish this desire of yours, by asking a friend of mine, a skilful witch named Bhadrarúpá. When the merchant’s son heard that, he was delighted, and said to that beloved of his—“So come and see my friend, let us go to visit him.” She consented, and the next day, carried in her lap, Niśchayadatta went through the air to the wood, which was the residence of his friend. When he saw his friend there in monkey form, he went up to him with his wife, who bowed before him, and asked after his welfare. And the monkey Somasvámin welcomed him, saying—“It is well with me to-day, in that I have beheld you united to Anurágapará,” and he gave his blessing to Niśchayadatta’s wife. Then all three sat down on a charming slab of rock there, and held a conversation14 about his story, the various adventures of that ape, previously discussed by Niśchayadatta with his beloved. Then Niśchayadatta took leave of that monkey, and went to the house of his beloved, flying up into the air, carried by her in her arms.

And the next day he again said to that Anurágapará, “Come, let us go for a moment to visit that ape our friend;” then she said to him—“Go to-day yourself, receive from me the science of flying up, and also that of descending.” When she had said this to him, he took those two sciences, and flew through the air to his friend the ape. And as he remained long conversing with him, Anurágapará went out of the house into the garden. While she was seated there, a certain Vidyádhara youth, who was wandering at will through the air, came there. The Vidyádhara, knowing by his art that she was a Vidyádharí who had a mortal husband, the moment he beheld her, was overpowered with a paroxysm of love, and approached her. And she, with face bent on the ground, beheld that he was handsome and [345]attractive, and slowly asked him out of curiosity, who he was and whence he came. Then he answered her, “Know, fair one, that I am a Vidyádhara, by name Rágabhanjana, distinguished for my knowledge of the sciences of the Vidyádharas. The moment I beheld you, O gazelle-eyed one, I was suddenly overpowered by love, and made your slave, so cease to honour, O goddess, a mortal, whose abode is the earth, and favour me, your equal, before your father finds out your intrigue.” When he said this, the fickle-hearted one, looking timidly at him with a sidelong glance, thought—“Here is a fit match for me.” When he had thus ascertained her wishes, he made her his wife: when two are of one mind, what more does secret love require?

Then Niśchayadatta arrived from the presence of Somasvámin, after that Vidyádhara had departed. And when he came, Anurágapará, having lost her love for him, did not embrace him, giving as an excuse that she had a headache. But the simple-minded man, bewildered by love, not seeing through her excuse, thought that her pain was due to illness and spent the day in that belief. But the next day, he again went in low spirits to see his friend the ape, flying through the air by the force of the two sciences he possessed. When he had gone, Anurágapará’s Vidyádhara lover returned to her, having spent a sleepless night without her. And embracing round the neck her, who was eager for his arrival owing to having been separated during the night, he was at length overcome by sleep. She by the power of her science concealed her lover, who lay asleep in her lap, and weary with having kept awake all night, went to sleep herself. In the meanwhile Niśchayadatta came to the ape, and his friend, welcoming him, asked him—“Why do I seem to see you in low spirits to-day? Tell me.” Then Niśchayadatta said to that ape, “Anurágapará is exceedingly ill, my friend; for that reason I am grieved, for she is dearer to me than life.” Then that ape, who possessed supernatural knowledge, said to him—“Go, take her in your arms asleep as she is, and flying through the air by the help of the science she bestowed, bring her to me, in order that I may this very day shew you a great marvel.” When Niśchayadatta heard this, he went through the air and lightly took up that sleeping fair, but he did not see that Vidyádhara, who was asleep in her lap, and had been previously made invisible by the power of her science. And flying up into the air, he quickly brought Anurágapará to that ape. That ape, who possessed divine insight, immediately shewed him a charm, by which he was able to behold the Vidyádhara clinging to her neck. When he saw this, he exclaimed—“Alas! what does this mean?” And the ape, who was able to discern the truth, told him the whole story. Then Niśchayadatta fell into a passion, and the Vidyádhara, who was the lover of his wife, woke up, and flying up into the air, disappeared. Then Anurágapará woke up, and seeing [346]that her secret was revealed, stood with face cast down through shame. Then Niśchayadatta said to her with eyes gushing with tears—“Wicked female, how could you thus deceive me who reposed confidence in you? Although a device is known in this world for fixing that exceedingly fickle metal quicksilver, no expedient is known for fixing the heart of a woman.” While he was saying this, Anurágapará, at a loss for an answer, and weeping, slowly soared up into the air, and went to her own home.

Then Niśchayadatta’s friend, the ape, said to him—“That you are grieved is the fruit of the fierce fire of passion, in that you ran after this fair one, though I tried to dissuade you. For what reliance can be placed on fickle fortunes and fickle women? So cease your regret. Be patient now. For even the Disposer himself cannot o’erstep destiny.” When Niśchayadatta heard this speech from the ape, he flung aside that delusion of grief, and abandoning passion, fled to Śiva as his refuge. Then, as he was remaining in that wood with his friend the ape, it happened that a female hermit of the name of Mokshadá came near him. She seeing him bowing before her, proceeded to ask him—“How comes this strange thing to pass that, though a man, you have struck up a friendship with this ape?” Then he related to her his own melancholy story and afterwards the sad tale of his friend, and thereupon thus said to her; “If you, reverend lady, know any incantation or spell by which it can be done, immediately release this excellent Bráhman, my friend, from his ape-transformation.” When she heard that, she consented, and employing a spell, she loosed the string from his neck, and Somasvámin abandoned that monkey form and became a man as before. Then she disappeared like lightning, clothed with celestial brightness, and in time Niśchayadatta and the Bráhman Somasvámin, having performed many austerities, attained final beatitude.

“Thus fair ones, naturally fickle, bring about a series of evil actions which produce true discernment, and aversion to the world. But here and there you will find a virtuous one among them, who adorns a glorious family, as the streak of the moon the broad sky.”

When Naraváhanadatta, accompanied by Ratnaprabhá, heard this wonderful tale from the mouth of Gomukha, he was highly pleased.

There was in Páṭaliputra a king named Vikramáditya; he had two cherished friends the king Hayapati,1 and the king Gajapati,2 who had large armies of horse and elephants. And that proud sovereign had a mighty enemy named Narasinha3 the lord of Pratishṭhána, a king who had a large force of infantry. Being angry with that enemy, and puffed up on account of the power of his allies, Vikramáditya rashly made this vow—“I will so completely conquer that king, the lord of men, that the heralds and bards shall proclaim him at the door as my slave.” Having made this vow, he summoned those allies, Hayapati and Gajapati, and accompanied with a large force, shaking the earth with elephants and horses, marched with them to make a fierce attack on the lord of men, Narasinha. When he arrived near Pratishṭhána, Narasinha, the lord of men, put on his armour and went out to meet him. Then there took place between the two kings a battle that excited wonder, in which footmen fought with elephants and horses. And at last the army of Vikramáditya was routed by the forces of Narasinha, the lord of men, which contained many crores of footmen. And Vikramáditya, being routed, fled to his city Páṭaliputra, and his two allies fled to their own countries. And Narasinha, the lord of men, entered his own city Pratishṭhána, accompanied by heralds who praised his might.

Then Vikramáditya, not having gained his end, thought—“Well! as that enemy is not to be conquered by arms, I will conquer him by policy; let some blame me if they like, but let not my oath be made void.” Thus reflecting, he entrusted his kingdom to suitable ministers, and secretly went out of the city with one chief minister, named Buddhivara, and with five hundred well-born and brave Rájpúts and in the disguise of a candidate for service,4 went to Pratishṭhána, the city of his enemy. There he entered the splendid mansion of a beautiful hetæra named Madanamálá, that resembled the palace of a king. It seemed to invite him with the silk of its banners, hoisted on the pinnacles of high ramparts, the points of which waved to and fro in the soft breeze. It was guarded at the principal entrance, the east door, day and night, by twenty thousand footmen, equipped with all kinds of weapons. At each of the other three doors, looking towards the other cardinal points, it was defended by ten thousand [348]warriors ever on the qui vive. In such guise the king entered, proclaimed by the warders, the enclosure of the palace, which was divided into seven zones. In one zone it was adorned with many long lines of horses. In another the path was impeded by dense troops of elephants. In another it was surrounded with an imposing array of dense weapons. In another it was resplendent with many treasure-houses, that gleamed with the flash of jewels. In another a circle was always formed by a dense crowd of attendants. In another it was full of the noise of many bards reciting aloud, and in another resounding with the sound of drums beaten in concert. Beholding all these sights the king at last reached, with his retinue, the splendid edifice in which Madanamálá dwelt. She having heard with great interest from her attendants that, as he passed through the zones, the horses and other creatures were cured of their wounds,5 thought that he must be some great one in disguise, and so she went to meet him, and bowed before him with love and curiosity, and bringing him in, seated him on a throne fit for a king. The king’s heart was ravished by her beauty, gracefulness and courtesy, and he saluted her without revealing who he was. Then Madanamálá honoured that king with costly baths, flowers, perfumes, garments and ornaments. And she gave daily subsistence to those followers of his, and feasted him and his minister with all kinds of viands. And she spent the day with him in drinking, and other diversions, and surrendered herself to him, having fallen in love with him at first sight. Vikramáditya, being thus entertained by her, day by day, continued, though in disguise, to live in a style suited to an emperor. And whatever and howmuchsoever wealth he was in the habit of giving to suppliants, Madanamálá gladly furnished him with from her own store. And she thought her body and wealth well employed, while enjoyed by him, and she remained averse to gain and to other men. For out of love to him she even kept off by stratagems Narasinha, the king of that land, who came there being enamoured of her.

While the king was being waited on in this fashion by Madanamálá, he one day said in secret to his minister Buddhivara, who accompanied him, “A hetæra desires wealth, and not even if she feels love, does she become attached without it, for when Providence framed suitors, he bestowed greed on these women. But this Madanamálá, though her wealth is being consumed by me, through her great love is not estranged from me, on the contrary she delights in me. So how can I now make her a recompense, in order that my vow may in course of time be fully accomplished?” When [349]the minister Buddhivara heard this, he said to the king; “If this be so, give her some of those priceless jewels which the mendicant Prapanchabuddhi gave you.” When the king heard that, he answered him, “If I were to give them all to her, I should not have made her a recompense worth speaking of; but I can free myself from obligation in another way, which is connected also with the story of that mendicant.” When the minister heard this, he said—“King, why did that mendicant court you? Tell me his story.” When his minister Buddhivara proffered this request, the king said, “Listen: I will tell you his story.”

Long ago a mendicant named Prapanchabuddhi used to enter my hall of audience in Páṭaliputra every day and give me a box. For a whole year I gave these boxes, just as they were, unopened into the hand of my treasurer. One day, one of those boxes presented by the mendicant by chance fell from my hand on to the ground, and burst open. And a great jewel fell out of it, glittering like fire, and it appeared as if it were the mendicant’s heart which I had not discerned before, revealed by him. When I saw that, I took it, and I had those other boxes brought which he had presented to me, and opened them, and took a jewel out of every one of them. Then in astonishment I asked Prapanchabuddhi—“Why do you court me with such splendid jewels?” Then that mendicant took me aside, and said to me—“On the fourteenth day of the black fortnight now approaching I have to perform a certain incantation at night-fall, in a cemetery outside this town. I desire you, my hero, to come and take part in that enterprise, for success is easily obtained, when the obstacles to it are swept away by the aid of a hero.” When the mendicant said this to me, I agreed. So he went off delighted, and in a few days the fourteenth night of the black fortnight came, and I remembered the speech of that ascetic.6 Then I performed my daily observances, and waited for the night, and after I had recited the evening prayer, it happened that I rapidly fell asleep. Then the adorable Hari, who is compassionate to his votaries, appeared to me in a dream, mounted on Garuḍa, with his breast marked with a lotus, and thus commanded me—“My son, this Prapanchabuddhi7 is rightly named, for he will inveigle you into the cemetery to take part in the incantation of the circle,8 and will offer you up as a victim. So do not do what he [350]tells you to do with the object of slaying you, but say to him—‘You do it first, and when I have learned the way, I will do it.’ Then, as he is shewing you the way, take advantage of the opportunity, and slay him immediately, and you will acquire the power that he desires to obtain.” When Vishṇu had said this, he disappeared, and I woke up and thought—“By the favour of Hari I have detected that magician, and this day I must slay him.” Having thus reflected, when the first watch of the night was gone, I went, sword in hand, alone to that cemetery. There I beheld that mendicant, who had performed the ceremony of the circle incantation, and when the treacherous fellow saw me, he welcomed me, and said, “King, close your eyes, and fall at full length on the ground with your face downwards, and in this way both of us will attain our ends.” Then I answered him—“Do it yourself first. Shew me how to do it, and, after I have learned, I will do precisely as you do.” When the mendicant heard that, like a fool, he fell on the earth, and I cut off his head with a stroke of my sword.9 Then a voice was heard from the air—“Bravo, king! By offering up to-day this rascally mendicant thou hast obtained the power of going through the air, which he wished to obtain. I, the god of wealth, that move about at will, am pleased with thy courage. So, ask me for another boon, whatever thou mayest desire.” After saying this, he manifested himself, and I, bowing before him, said,—“When I shall supplicate thee, adorable one, thou shalt appear on my thinking of thee, and grant me a suitable boon.” The god of wealth said—“So be it”—and disappeared. And having obtained magic power, I went back quickly to my own palace. Thus I have told you my adventure, so by means of that boon of Kuvera I must now recompense Madanamálá. And you must now go back to Páṭaliputra, taking with you my disguised Rájpút retinue, and I, as soon as I have in a novel way recompensed my beloved, will immediately go there, with the intention of returning here.” Having said this, and having performed his daily duties, the king dismissed his minister with his retinue. He said, “So be it” and departed, and the king spent that night with Madanamálá, anxious about his approaching separation. She too, embracing him frequently, because her heart seemed to tell her that he was going to a distance, did not sleep all that night.

In the morning the king, having performed all his necessary duties, entered a chapel for the daily worship of the gods, on the pretence of repeating prayers. And there the god of wealth appeared before him on his thinking of him, and bowing before him the king craved that boon formerly promised, in the following words—“O god, give me here to-day in accordance with that boon, which you promised me, five great indestructible golden figures of men, such that, though their limbs may be continually cut off for any desired use, those very limbs will grow again, exactly as [351]before.” The god of wealth said, “Even so; be there unto thee five such figures as thou desirest!” Having said this, he immediately disappeared. And the king immediately beheld those five great golden figures of men suddenly standing in the chapel; then he went out delighted, and not forgetting his promise, he flew up into the air and went to his city of Páṭaliputra. There he was welcomed by his ministers, and the citizens and his wives, and he remained engaged in his kingly duties, while his heart was far away in Pratishṭhána. In the meanwhile, in Pratishṭhána, that beloved of his entered that chapel to see her love, who had entered it long before. And when she entered, she did not perceive that beloved king anywhere, but she beheld five gigantic golden figures of men. When she saw them, and did not find him, she reflected in her grief—“Surely that love of mine was some Vidyádhara or Gandharva, who bestowed upon me these men and flew away up to heaven.

“So what am I to do with these figures, which are all a mere burden, now that I am deprived of him?” Thus reflecting she asked her servants over and over again for news of him, and went out and roamed all about her domain. And she found no satisfaction anywhere, either in the palaces, the gardens, the chambers or other places, but she kept lamenting, grieved at being separated from her lover, ready to abandon the body.

Her attendants tried to comfort her, saying, “Do not despair, mistress, for he is some god roaming about at will, and when he pleases, he will return to you, fair one.” With such hope-inspiring words did they at length so far console her that she made this vow—“If in six months he does not grant me to behold him, I will give away all my property and enter the fire.” With this promise she fortified herself, and remained every day giving alms, thinking on that beloved of hers. And one day, she cut off both the arms of one of those golden men, and gave them to the Bráhmans, being intent on charity only. And the next day she perceived with astonishment that both arms had grown again, exactly as they were before. Then she proceeded to cut off the arms of the others, to give them away, and the arms of all of them grew again as they were before. Then she saw that they were indestructible, and every day she cut off the arms of the figures and gave them to studious Bráhmans, according to the number of the Vedas they had read.

And in a few days a Bráhman, named Sangrámadatta, having heard the fame of her bounty, which was spread abroad in every direction, came from Páṭaliputra. He being poor, but acquainted with four Vedas, and endowed with virtues, entered into her presence desiring a gift, being announced by the door-keepers. She gave him as many arms of the golden figures as he knew Vedas, after bowing before him with limbs emaciated with her vow and pale with separation from her beloved. Then the Bráhman, having [352]heard from her sorrow-stricken attendants the whole of her story, ending in that very terrible vow, was delighted, but at the same time despondent, and loading two camels with those golden arms went to his native city, Páṭaliputra. Then that Bráhman, thinking that his gold would not be safe there, unless guarded by the king, entered the king’s presence and said to him, while he was sitting in the hall of judgment; “Here I am, O great king, a Bráhman who am an inhabitant of thy town. I, being poor, and desiring wealth, went to the southern clime, and arrived at a city named Pratishṭhána, belonging to king Narasinha. There, being desirous of a donation, I went to the house of Madanamálá, a hetæra of distinguished fame. For with her there lived long some divine being, who departed somewhere or other, after giving her five indestructible figures of men. Then the high-spirited woman became afflicted at his departure, and considering life to be poison-agony, and the body, that fruitless accumulation of delusion, to be merely a punishment for thieving, lost her patience, and being with difficulty consoled by her attendants made this vow—“If in the space of six months he does not visit me, I must enter the fire, my soul being smitten by adversity.” Having made this vow she, being resolved on death, and desiring to perform good actions, gives away every day very large gifts. And I beheld her, king, with tottering feet, conspicuous for the beauty of her person, though it was thin from fasting; with hand moistened with the water of giving, surrounded with maids like clustering bees, sorely afflicted, looking like the incarnation of the mast condition of the elephant of love.10 And I think that lover who deserts her, and causes by his absence that fair one to abandon the body, deserves blame, indeed deserves death. She to-day gave to me, who know the four Vedas, four golden arms of human figures, according to right usage, proportioning her gift to the number of my Vedas. So I wish to purify my house with sacrifice, and to follow a life of religion here; therefore let the king grant me protection.”

The king Vikramáditya, hearing these tidings of his beloved from the mouth of the Bráhman, had his mind suddenly turned towards her. And he commanded his door-keeper to do what the Bráhman wished, and thinking how constant was the affection of his mistress, who valued her life as stubble, and in his impatience supposing that she would be able to assist him in accomplishing his vow, and remembering that the time fixed for her abandoning the body had almost arrived, he quickly committed his kingdom to the care of his ministers, and flying through the air reached Pratishṭhána, [353]and entered the house of his beloved. There he beheld his beloved, with raiment pellucid like the moonlight, having given her wealth away to Paṇḍits,11 attenuated like a digit of the moon at the time of its change. Madanamálá, for her part, on beholding him arrived unexpectedly, the quintessence of nectar to her eyes, was for a moment like one amazed. Then she embraced him, and threw round his neck the noose of her arms, as if fearing that he would escape again. And she said to him with a voice, the accents of which were choked with tears, “Cruel one, why did you depart and forsake my innocent self?” The king said, “Come, I will tell you in private,” and went inside with her, welcomed by her attendants. There he revealed to her who he was, and described his circumstances, how he came there to conquer king Narasinha by an artifice, and how, after slaying Prapanchabuddhi, he acquired the power of flying in the air, and how he was enabled to reward her by a boon that he obtained from the lord of wealth, and how, hearing tidings of her from a Bráhman, he had returned there. Having told the whole story beginning with the subject of his vow, he again said to her—“So my beloved, that king Narasinha, being very mighty, is not to be conquered by armies, and he contended with me in single combat, but I did not slay him, for I possess the power of flying in the air, and he can only go on the earth, for who, that is a true Kshatriya, would desire to conquer in an unfair combat? The object of my vow is, that that king may be announced by the heralds as waiting at the door; do you assist me in that?”

When the hetæra heard this, she said, “I am honoured by your request,” and summoning her heralds she said to them—“When the king Narasinha shall come to my house, you must stand near the door with attentive eyes, and while he is entering, you must say again and again—“King, prince Narasinha is loyal and devoted to thee.” And when he looks up and asks—“Who is here?”—you must immediately say to him—“Vikramáditya is here.” After giving them these orders, she dismissed them, and then she said to the female warder—“You must not prevent king Narasinha from entering here.” After issuing these orders, Madanamálá remained in a state of supreme felicity, having regained the lord of her life, and gave away her wealth fearlessly.

Then king Narasinha, having heard of that profuse liberality of hers, which was due to her possession of the golden figures, though he had given her up, came to visit her house. And while he entered, not being forbidden by the warder, all the heralds shouted in a loud voice, beginning at the outer door, “King, prince Narasinha is submissive and devoted.” When that sovereign heard that, he was angry and alarmed, and when he asked who was there, and found out that king Vikramáditya was there, he waited [354]a moment and went through the following reflections; “So this king has forced his way into my kingdom, and carried out the vow he made long ago, that I should be announced at his door. In truth this king is a man of might, since he has thus beaten me to-day. And I must not slay him by force, since he has come alone to a house in my dominions. So I had better enter now.” Having thus reflected, king Narasinha entered, announced by all the heralds. And king Vikramáditya, on beholding him enter with a smile on his face, rose up also with smiling countenance and embraced him. Then those two kings sat down and enquired after one another’s welfare, while Madanamálá stood by their side.

And in the course of conversation Narasinha asked Vikramáditya where he had obtained those golden figures. Then Vikramáditya told him the whole of that strange adventure of his, how he had slain the base ascetic, and acquired the power of flying through the air, and how, by virtue of the boon of the god of wealth, he had obtained five indestructible gigantic golden figures. Then king Narasinha chose that king for his friend, discovering that he was of great might, that he possessed the power of flying, and that he had a good heart. And having made him his friend, he welcomed him with the prescribed rites of hospitality, and taking him to his own palace, he entertained him with all the attentions paid to himself. And king Vikramáditya, after having been thus honoured, was dismissed by him, and returned to the house of Madanamálá. Then Vikramáditya, having accomplished his difficult vow by his courage and intelligence, determined to go to his own city. And Madanamálá, being unable to remain separated from him, was eager to accompany him, and with the intention of abandoning her native land, she bestowed her dwelling upon the Bráhmans. Then Vikramáditya, the moon of kings, went with her, whose mind was exclusively fixed on him, to his own city of Páṭaliputra, followed by her elephants, horses, and footmen. There he remained in happiness, (accompanied by Madanamálá, who had abandoned her own country for his love,) having formed an alliance with king Narasinha.

“Thus, king, even hetæræ are occasionally of noble character and as faithful to kings as their own wives, much more then matrons of high birth.” On hearing this noble tale from the mouth of Marubhúti, the king Naraváhanadatta, and his new wife Ratnaprabhá sprung from the glorious race of the Vidyádharas, were much delighted. [355]

There is a city on the earth named Vardhamána, and in it there dwelt a king named Vírabhuja, chief of righteous men. And though he had a hundred wives, one queen of the name of Guṇavará was dearer to him than his life. And in spite of his hundred wives, it happened, as Fate would have it, that not one of them bore him a son. So he asked a physician named Śrutavardhana—“Is there any medicine able to bring about the birth of a son?” When the physician heard that, he said—“King, I can prepare such a medicine,1 but the king must procure for me a wild goat.” When he heard this speech of the physician’s, the king gave an order to the warder, and had a goat brought for him from the forest. The physician handed over the goat to the king’s cooks, and with its flesh prepared a sovereign elixir for the queens. The king went off to worship his god, after ordering the queens to assemble in one place. And ninety-nine of those queens did assemble in one place, but the queen Guṇavará alone was not present there, for she was at that time near the king, who was engaged in praying to his god. And when they had assembled, the physician gave them the whole of the elixir to drink mixed with powder, not perceiving the absence of Guṇavará. Immediately the king returned with his beloved, having performed his devotions, and perceiving that that drug was completely finished, he said to the physician—“What! did you not keep any for Guṇavará? You have forgotten the principal object with which this was undertaken.” After saying this to the abashed physician, the king said to the cooks—“Is there any of the flesh of that goat left?” The cooks said, “The horns only remain.” Then the physician said, “Bravo! I can make an admirable elixir out of the centre of the horns.” After saying this, the physician had an elixir prepared from the fleshy part of the horns, and gave it to queen Guṇavará mixed with powder. [356]Then the ninety-nine wives of the king became pregnant, and all in time brought forth sons. But the head queen Guṇavará conceived last of all, and afterwards gave birth to a son with more auspicious marks than the sons of all the others. And as he was sprung from the juice of the fleshy part of the horns, his father, the king, gave him the name of Śṛingabhuja, and rejoiced greatly at his birth. He grew up with those other brothers, and though in age he was the youngest of all, he was superior to all in good qualities. And in course of time that prince became like the god of Love in beauty, and like Arjuna in his skill in archery, and like Bhíma in strength. Accordingly the other queens, seeing that queen Guṇavará, now that she had this son, was more than ever dear to king Vírabhuja, became jealous of her.

Then an evil-minded queen among them, named Ayaśolekhá, deliberated with all the others and entered into a conspiracy; and when the king came home one day, she exhibited an assumed sadness in her face. The king asked her the reason, and she said with apparent reluctance—“My husband, why do you endure patiently the disgrace of your house? you avert disgrace from others, why do you not avert it from yourself? You know the young superintendent of the women’s apartments named Surakshita; your queen Guṇavará is secretly devoted to him. Since no man but he can penetrate into the women’s apartments, which are strictly watched by guards, she associates with him. And this is a well-known subject of gossip in the whole harem.” When she said this to the king, he pondered and reflected; and went and asked the other queens one after another in private, and they were faithful to their treacherous plot, and told him the same story. Then that wise king conquered his anger, and reflected—“This accusation against these two is improbable, and yet such is the gossip. So I must not without reflecting reveal the matter to any one; but they must by an artifice be separated now, to enable me to see the termination of the whole matter.” Having determined on this, next day he summoned Surakshita, the superintendent of the womens’ apartments, into his judgment-hall, and with assumed anger, said to him—“I have learned, villain, that you have slain a Bráhman, so I cannot endure to see your face until you have made a pilgrimage to holy places.” When he heard that, he was amazed and began to murmur—“How can I have slain a Bráhman, my sovereign?” But the king went on to say; “Do not attempt to brazen it out, but go to Káśmír to wash away your sin, (where are those holy fields, Vijayakshetra, and Nandikshetra the purifying, and the kshetra2 of the Boar), the land which was hallowed by Vishṇu the bow-handed god, where the stream of the Ganges bears the name of Vitastá, where is the [357]famous Maṇḍapakshetra, and where is Uttaramánasa; when your sin has been washed away by a pilgrimage to these holy places, you shall behold my face again, but not till then.”

With this speech the king Vírabhuja dismissed the helpless Surakshita, sending him to a distance on the pretence of a pilgrimage to holy places. Then the king went into the presence of that queen Guṇavará, full of love and anger and sober reflection. Then she, seeing that his mind was troubled, asked him anxiously, “My husband, why are you seized to-day with a sudden fit of despondency?” When the king heard that, he gave her this feigned answer—“To-day, queen, a great astrologer came to me and said—‘King, you must place the queen Guṇavará for some time in a dungeon, and you must yourself live a life of chastity, otherwise your kingdom will certainly be overthrown, and she will surely die.’ Having said this, the astrologer departed; hence my present despondency.” When the king said this, the queen Guṇavará, who was devoted to her husband, distracted with fear and love, said to him—“Why do you not cast me this very day into a dungeon, my husband? I am highly favoured, if I can benefit you even at the sacrifice of my life. Let me die, but let not my lord have misfortune. For a husband is the chief refuge of wives in this world and in the next.” Having heard this speech of hers, the king said to himself with tears in his eyes; “I think there is no guilt in her, nor in that Surakshita, for I saw that the colour of his face did not change, and he seemed without fear. Alas! nevertheless I must ascertain the truth of that rumour.” After reflecting thus, the king in his grief said to the queen—“Then it is best that a dungeon should be made here, queen!” She replied—“Very good”—so the king had a dungeon easy of access made in the women’s apartments, and placed the queen in it. And he comforted her son Śṛingabhuja, (who was in despair and asked the reason,) by telling him exactly what he told the queen. And she, for her part, thought the dungeon heaven, because it was all for the king’s good. For good women have no pleasure of their own; to them their husbands’ pleasure is pleasure.3

When this had been done, that other wife of the king’s, named Ayaśolekhá, said of her own accord to her son, who was named Nirvásabhuja,—“So, our enemy Guṇavará has been thrown into a dungeon, and it would be a good thing if her son were banished from this country. So, my boy, devise a scheme with the help of your other brothers by which Śṛingabhuja may be quickly banished from the country.” Having been addressed in this language by his mother, the jealous Nirvásabhuja told his other brothers, and continued to ponder over a scheme. [358]

And one day, as the king’s sons were practising with their weapons of war, they all saw an enormous crane in front of the palace. And while they were looking with astonishment at that misshapen bird, a Buddhist mendicant, who possessed supernatural knowledge, came that way and said to them—“Princes, this is not a crane, it is a Rákshasa named Agniśikha, who wanders about in an assumed shape destroying towns. So pierce him with an arrow, that being smitten he may depart hence.” When they heard this speech of the mendicant’s, the ninety-nine elder brothers shot their arrows, but not one struck the crane. Then that naked mendicant again said to them—“This younger brother of yours, named Śṛingabhuja, is able to strike this crane, so let him take a bow suitable for the purpose.” When Nirvásabhuja heard that, the treacherous one remembered the injunction of his mother, an opportunity for carrying out which had now arrived, and reflected—“This will be a means of getting Śṛingabhuja out of the country.4 So let us give him the bow and arrow belonging to our father. If the crane is pierced and goes off with our father’s golden arrow sticking in it, Śṛingabhuja will follow it, while we are searching for the arrow. And when he does not find, in spite of his search, that Rákshasa transformed into a crane, he will continue to roam about hither and thither, he will not come back without the arrow.” Thus reflecting, the treacherous one gave to Śṛingabhuja his father’s bow with the arrow, in order that he might smite the crane. The mighty prince took it and drew it, and pierced that crane with the golden arrow, the notch of which was made of a jewel. The crane, as soon as it was pierced, went off with the arrow sticking in its body, and flying away departed with drops of blood falling from the wound. Then the treacherous Nirvásabhuja and the other brothers, instigated by his hints, said to the brave Śṛingabhuja—“Give us back the golden arrow that belongs to our father, otherwise we will abandon our bodies before your eyes. For unless we produce it, our father will banish us from this country, and its fellow is not to be made or obtained.” When Śṛingabhuja heard that, he said to those crafty ones—“Be of good cheer! Do not be afraid—Abandon your terror! I will go and slay that miserable Rákshasa and bring back the arrow.” Having said this, Śṛingabhuja took his own bow and arrows, and went in the same direction in which the Rákshasa had gone, quickly following up the track of the drops of blood, that had fallen on the ground. The other sons returned delighted to their mothers, and Śṛingabhuja, as he went on step by step, at last reached a distant forest. Seeking about in it, he found in the wood a great city, like the fruit of his own tree of merit fallen to him in due time for enjoyment. [359]There he sat down at the root of a tree to rest, and as if in a moment beheld a maiden of wonderful beauty coming there, appearing to have been made by the Creator in some strange way of ambrosia and poison; since by her absence she deprived of life, and by her presence she bestowed it. And when the maiden slowly approached him, and looked at him with an eye raining love, the prince fell in love with her and said to her—“Gazelle-eyed one, what is the name of this city, and to whom does it belong? Who are you, and why have you come here? tell me.” Then the pearly-toothed maid turned her face sideways, and fixed her eye on the ground, and spake to him with sweet and loving voice—“This city is Dhúmapura, the home of all felicity; in it lives a mighty Rákshasa by name Agniśikha; know that I am his matchless daughter, Rúpaśikhá by name, who have come here with mind captivated by your unparalleled beauty. Now you must tell me who you are, and why you have come here.” When she said this, he told her who he was, and of what king he was the son, and how he had come to Dhúmapura for the sake of an arrow. Then Rúpaśikhá, having heard the whole story, said—“There is no archer like you in the three worlds, since you pierced even my father with a great arrow, when he was in the form of a crane. And I took that golden arrow for my own, by way of a plaything. But my father’s wound was at once healed by the minister Mahádanshṭra, who excels all men in knowledge of potent drugs for curing wounds. So I will go to my father, and after I have explained the whole matter, I will quickly introduce you into his presence, my husband; so I call you, for my heart is now fully set upon you.”

Having said this, Rúpaśikhá left Śṛingabhuja there, and immediately went into the presence of her father Agniśikha, and said—“Father, there has come here a wonderful prince named Śṛingabhuja, matchless for gifts of beauty, birth, character and age. I feel certain that he is not a man, he is some portion of a god incarnate here below, so, if he does not become my husband, I will certainly abandon my life.” When she said this to him, her father the Rákshasa said to her—“My daughter, men are our appropriate food, nevertheless, if your heart is set upon it, let it be so; bring your prince here, and shew him to me.” When Rúpaśikhá heard that, she went to Śṛingabhuja, and after telling him what she had done, she took him into the presence of her father. He prostrated himself, and Agniśikha, the father of the maiden, after saluting him courteously, said to him—“Prince, I will give you my daughter Rúpaśikhá, if you never disobey my orders.” When he said this, Śṛingabhuja, bending low, answered him—“Good! I will never disobey your orders.” When Śṛingabhuja said this to him, Agniśikha was pleased and answered—“Rise up! Go and bathe, and return here from the bath-room.” After saying this to him, [360]he said to his daughter—“Go and bring all your sisters here quickly.” When Agniśikha had given these orders to Śṛingabhuja and Rúpaśikhá, they both of them went out, after promising to obey them.

Then the wise Rúpaśikhá said to Śṛingabhuja—“My husband, I have a hundred sisters, who are princesses, and we are all exactly alike, with similar ornaments and dresses, and all of us have similar necklaces upon our necks. So our father will assemble us in one place, and in order to bewilder you, will say ‘Choose your own love out of the midst of these.’ For I know that such is his treacherous intention, otherwise why is he assembling all of us here. So when we are assembled, I will put my necklace on my head instead of my neck, by that sign you will recognise me; then throw over my neck the garland of forest flowers. And this father of mine is somewhat silly, he has not a discerning intellect; besides what is the use against me of those powers which he possesses by being a Rákshasa? So, whatever he says to entrap you, you must agree to, and must tell it to me, and I shall know well enough what further steps to take.” Having said this, Rúpaśikhá went to her sisters, and Śṛingabhuja, having agreed to do what she said, went to bathe. Then Rúpaśikhá came with her sisters into the presence of her father, and Śṛingabhuja returned, after he had been washed by a female servant. Then Agniśikha gave a garland of forest flowers to Śṛingabhuja, saying, “Give this to that one of these ladies, who is your own love.” He took the garland and threw it round the neck of Rúpaśikhá,5 who had previously placed the necklace on her head by way of token. Then Agniśikha said to Rúpaśikhá and Śṛingabhuja,—“I will celebrate your marriage ceremony to-morrow morning.”

Having said this, he dismissed those two lovers and his other daughters to their apartments, and in a short time he summoned Śṛingabhuja and said this to him; “Take this yoke of oxen, and go outside this town, and sow in the earth the hundred khárís6 of sesame-seed which are piled there in a heap.” When Śṛingabhuja heard that, he was troubled, and he went and told it to Rúpaśikhá, and she answered him as follows—“My husband, you need not be in the least despondent about this, go there at once; I will easily perform this by my magic power.” [361]When he heard this, the prince went there, and, seeing the sesame-seeds in a heap, despondently began to plough the land and sow them, but while he was beginning, he saw the land ploughed and all the seeds sown in due course by the might of his lady-love’s magic power, and he was much astonished.

So he went to Agniśikha, and told him that this task was accomplished; then that treacherous Rákshasa again said to him—“I do not want the seeds sown, go and pile them up again in a heap.” When he heard that, he again went and told Rúpaśikhá. She sent him to that field, and created innumerable ants,7 and by her magic power made them gather together the sesame-seeds. When Śṛingabhuja saw that, he went and told Agniśikha that the seeds had been piled up again in a heap.

Then the cunning but stupid Agniśikha said to him—“Only two yojanas from this place, in a southerly direction, there is an empty temple of Śiva in a wood. In it lives my dear brother Dhúmaśikha—go there at once, and say this in front of the temple, ‘Dhúmaśikha, I am sent by Agniśikha as a messenger to invite you and your retinue: come quickly, for to-morrow the ceremony of Rúpaśikhá’s marriage is to take place.’ Having said this, come back here to-day with speed, and to-morrow marry my daughter Rúpaśikhá.” When Śṛingabhuja was thus addressed by the rascal, he said—“So be it”—and went and recounted the whole to Rúpaśikhá. The good girl gave him some earth, some water, some thorns, and some fire, and her own fleet horse, and said to him—“Mount this horse and go to that temple, and quickly repeat that invitation to Dhúmaśikha as it was told to you, and then you must at once return on this horse at full gallop, and you must often turn your head and look round; and if you see Dhúmaśikha coming after you, you must throw this earth behind you in his way; if in spite of that, Dhúmaśikha pursues you, you must in the same manner fling the water behind you in his path; if in spite of that he comes on, you must in like manner throw these thorns in his way. If in spite of [362]them he pursues, throw this fire in his way; and if you do this, you will return here without the Daitya; so do not hesitate—go, you shall to-day behold the power of my magic.”—When she said this to him, Śṛingabhuja took the earth and the other things and said, “I will do so,” and mounting her horse went to the temple in the wood. There he saw an image of Śiva, with one of Párvatí on his left and one of Gaṇeśa on his right, and, after bowing before the Lord of the Universe,8 he quickly addressed to Dhúmaśikha the form of invitation told him by Agniśikha, and fled from the place at full speed, urging on his horse. And he soon turned his head and looked round, and he beheld Dhúmaśikha coming after him. And he quickly threw that earth behind him in his way, and the earth, so flung, immediately produced a great mountain. When he saw that the Rákshasa had, though with difficulty, climbed over that mountain, and was coming on, the prince in the same way threw the water behind him. That produced a great river in his path with rolling waves: the Rákshasa with difficulty got across it and was coming on, when Śṛingabhuja quickly strewed those thorns behind him. They produced a dense thorny wood in Dhúmaśikha’s path. When the Rákshasa emerged from it, the prince threw the fire behind him, which set on fire the path with the herbs and the trees. When Dhúmaśikha saw that the fire was hard to cross, like Kháṇḍava,9 he returned home, tired and terrified. For on that occasion the Rákshasa was so bewildered by the magic of Rúpaśikhá that he went and returned on his feet, he did not think of flying through the air.

Then Śṛingabhuja returned to Dhúmapura, free from fear, commending in his heart that display of his love’s magic power. He gave up the horse to the delighted Rúpaśikhá, and related his adventure, and then went in to the presence of Agniśikha. He said, “I went and invited your brother Dhúmaśikha.” When he said this, Agniśikha being perplexed, said to him—“If you really went there, mention some peculiarity of the place.” When the crafty Rákshasa said this to Śṛingabhuja, he answered him—“Listen, I will tell you a token: in that temple there is a figure of Párvatí on the left side of Śiva, and of Gaṇeśa on his right.” When Agniśikha heard that, he was astonished and thought for a moment—“What! did he go there, and was my brother not able to devour him? Then he cannot be a mere man, he must be a god, so let him marry my daughter, as he is a fitting match for her.” After thus reflecting, he sent Śṛingabhuja as a successful suitor to Rúpaśikhá, but he never suspected that there was a traitor in his own family. So Śṛingabhuja went, eager for his marriage, and after eating and drinking with her, managed somehow to get through [363]the night. And the next morning Agniśikha gave to him Rúpaśikhá with all the magnificence appropriate to his magic power, according to due form, in the presence of the fire. Little in common have Rákshasas’ daughters and princes, and strange the union of such! Wonderful indeed are the results of our deeds in a previous state of existence! The prince, after he had obtained that beloved daughter of the Rákshasa, seemed like a swan who had got hold of a soft lotus, sprung from mud. And he remained there with her, who was devoted to him alone, enjoying various dainty delights provided by the magic power of the Rákshasa.

When some days had passed there, he said in secret to the Rákshasa’s daughter, “Come, my beloved, let us return to the city of Vardhamána. For that is my capital city, and I cannot endure to be banished from my capital city by my enemies, for people like myself hold honour dear as life. So leave for my sake the land of your birth, though it is hard to leave; inform your father, and bring that golden arrow in your hand.” When Śṛingabhuja said this to Rúpaśikhá, she answered—“I must immediately obey your command. I care not for the land of my birth, nor for my relatives, you are all those to me.10 Good women have no other refuge than their husbands. But it will never do to communicate our intention to my father, for he would not let us go. So we must depart without that hot-tempered father of mine knowing of it. And if he hears from the attendants and comes after us, I will bewilder him by my knowledge, for he is senseless and like an idiot.” When he heard this speech of hers, he set out delighted on the next day, with her who gave him the half of her kingdom, and filled a casket with priceless jewels, and brought that golden arrow; and they both mounted her splendid horse Śaravega,11 having deceived the attendants by representing that they were going for a pleasure excursion in the park, and journeyed towards Vardhamána.

When the couple had gone a long distance, the Rákshasa Agniśikha found it out, and in wrath pursued after them through the air. And hearing afar off the noise produced by the speed of his flight, Rúpaśikhá said to Śṛingabhuja on the road, “My husband, my father has come to make us turn back, so remain here without fear: see how I will deceive him. For he shall neither see you nor the horse, since I shall conceal both by my deluding power.” After saying this, she got down from the horse and assumed by her deluding power the form of a man.12 And she said to a woodcutter, who had come to the forest to cut wood—“A great Rákshasa [364]is coming here, so remain quiet for a moment.” Then she continued to cut wood with his axe. And Śṛingabhuja looked on with a smile on his face. In the meanwhile that foolish Rákshasa arrived there, and lighted down from the air, on beholding his daughter in the shape of a woodcutter, and asked her whether she had seen a man and woman pass that way.13 Then his daughter, who had assumed the form of a man, said with great effort as if tired, “We two have not seen any couple, as our eyes are fatigued with toil, for we two woodcutters have been occupied here in cutting a great quantity of wood to burn Agniśikha the king of the Rákshasas, who is dead.” When that silly Rákshasa heard that, he thought, “What! am I dead? What then does that daughter matter to me? I will go and ask my own attendants at home whether I am dead or not.”14 Thus reflecting, Agniśikha went quickly home, and his daughter set out with her husband as before, laughing as she went.

And soon the Rákshasa returned in high spirits, for he had asked his attendants, who could not help laughing in their sleeves, whether he was alive, and had learned that he was. Then Rúpaśikhá, knowing from the terrible noise that he was coming again, though as yet far off, got down from the horse and concealed her husband as before by her deluding power, and taking letters from the hand of a letter-carrier, who was coming along the road, she again assumed the form of a man.

And so the Rákshasa arrived as before, and asked his daughter, who was disguised as a man—“Did you see a man and a woman on the road?” Then she, disguised as a man, answered him with a sigh,—“I beheld no such person, for my mind was absorbed with my haste, for Agniśikha, who was to-day mortally wounded in battle, and has only a little breath left in his body, and is in his capital desiring to make over his kingdom, has despatched me as a messenger to summon to his presence his brother Dhúmaśikha, who is living an independent life.” When Agniśikha heard that, he said, “What! am I mortally wounded by my enemies?” And in his perplexity he returned again home to get information on the point. But it never occurred to him to say to himself—“Who is mortally wounded? Here I am safe and sound.” Strange are the fools that the Creator produces, and wonderfully obscured with the quality of darkness! [365]And when he arrived at home and found that the tale was false, he would not expose himself again to the laughter of the people, tired of being imposed upon, and forgetting his daughter. And Rúpaśikhá, after deluding him, returned to her husband as before, for virtuous women know of no other good than the good of their husbands. Then Śṛingabhuja, mounted on the wonderful horse, again proceeded rapidly with his wife towards the city of Vardhamána. Then his father Vírabhuja, having heard that he was returning in company with her, went out much pleased to meet him. The king, when he saw him adorned with that wife, like Kṛishṇa with Bhámá, considered that he had gained afresh the bliss of sovereign sway. And when his son got down from his horse, and clung to his feet with his beloved, he raised him up and embraced him, and with his eye, in which stood the water of joyful tears, performed in noble wise the auspicious ceremony that put an end to his own despondency, and then conducted him into his palace, making high festival. And when he asked his son where he had been, Śṛingabhuja told him his whole history from the beginning. And after summoning his brothers, Nirvásabhuja and all, into his father’s presence, he gave them the golden arrow. Then the king Vírabhuja, after what he had heard and seen, was displeased with those other sons, and considered Śṛingabhuja his only true son.

Then that wise king drew this true conclusion—“I suspect that, as this son of mine out of spite was banished by these enemies, brothers only in name, though he was all the while innocent, so his mother Guṇavará, whom I love so well, was falsely accused by their mothers, and was all the while innocent. So what is the use of delay? I will find out the truth of it immediately.”15 After these reflections, the king spent that day in performing his duties, and went at night to sift his other wife Ayaśolekhá. She was delighted to see him, and he made her drink a great quantity of wine, and she in her sleep murmured out, while the king was awake—“If we had not falsely slandered Guṇavará, would the king ever have visited me here?”16 When the king heard this speech of the wicked queen uttered in her sleep, he felt he had attained certainty, and rose up in wrath and went out; and going to his own chamber, he had the eunuchs summoned, and said to them; “Take that Guṇavará out of the dungeon, and after she has bathed bring her quickly; for the present moment was appointed by the astrologer as the limit of her stay in the dungeon for the purpose of averting the evil omens.” When they heard that, they said, “So be it,” and they went and quickly brought the queen Guṇavará into the presence of the king, bathed and adorned. Then that wedded pair, happy in having crossed the [366]sea of separation, spent that night unsated with mutual embraces. Then the king related to the queen with delight that adventure of Śṛingabhuja’s, and told his son the circumstances of his mother’s imprisonment and release. In the meanwhile Ayaśolekhá, waking up, found out that the king was gone, and guessing that he had entrapped her with his conversation, fell into deep despondency. And in the morning the king Vírabhuja conducted his son Śṛingabhuja, with his wife Rúpaśikhá, into the presence of Guṇavará. He came, and was delighted to behold his mother emerged from the dungeon, and with his new wife he worshipped the feet of his parents. Guṇavará, embracing her son, who had returned from his journey, and her daughter-in-law, obtained in the way above related, went from joy to joy. Then by the order of his father, Śṛingabhuja related to her at length his own adventure, and what Rúpaśikhá did. Then queen Guṇavará delighted, said to him, “My son, what has not that Rúpaśikhá done for you? For she, a heroine of wonderful exploits, has given up and sacrificed for you her life, her family, her native land, these three. She must be some goddess, become incarnate for your sake by the appointment of Destiny. For she has placed her foot on the head of all women that are devoted to their husbands.” When the queen had said this, the king applauded her speech, and so did Rúpaśikhá with head modestly bent. Just at that moment the superintendent of the womens’ apartments, Surakshita, who had been long ago slandered by that Ayaśolekhá, returned from visiting all the holy bathing places. He was announced by the door-keeper, and bowed delighted at the king’s foot, and then the king, who now knew the facts, honoured him exceedingly. And by his mouth he summoned the other queens who were wicked, and said to him—“Go! fling all these into the dungeon.” When the queen Guṇavará heard that, and the terrified women were thrown into the dungeon, she said out of compassion to the king, clinging to his feet, “King, do not keep them for a long time in the dungeon! Have mercy, for I cannot bear to see them terrified.” By thus entreating the king she prevented their imprisonment, for the only vengeance that the great make use of against their enemies is compassion. Then those queens, dismissed by the king, went ashamed to their houses, and would even have preferred to have been in the embrace of death. And the king thought highly of the great-hearted Guṇavará, and considered, because he possessed that wife, that he must have accomplished virtuous acts in a former state of existence. Then the king, determining to banish his other sons by an artifice, had them summoned, and spake to them this feigned speech—“I have heard that you villains have slain a Bráhman traveller, so go and visit all the holy bathing-places in succession, do not remain here.” When the sons heard that, they were not able to persuade the king of the truth, for when a ruler is bent on violence, who [367]can convince him? Then Śṛingabhuja, beholding those brothers departing, with his eyes full of tears produced by pity, thus addressed his father. “Father, pity their one fault, have mercy upon them.” Having said this, he fell at the feet of that king. And the king, thinking that that son was able to bear the burden of sovereignty, being even in his youth like an incarnation of Vishṇu, full of glory and compassion, hiding his real sentiments and cherishing his anger against them, nevertheless did what Śṛingabhuja asked. And all those brothers considered their younger brother as the saviour of their lives. And all the subjects, beholding the exceeding virtue of Śṛingabhuja, became attached to him.

Then the next day, his father, king Vírabhuja, anointed as crown-prince Śṛingabhuja, who was the oldest in virtue of them all, though he had elder brothers. And then Śṛingabhuja, having been anointed and having obtained the leave of his father, went with all his forces to conquer the world. And having brought back the wealth of numerous kings, whom he overcame by the might of his arm, he returned, having diffused the splendour of his glory through all the earth. Then bearing the weight of the realm with his submissive brothers, the successful prince Śṛingabhuja, giving pleasure to his parents, who remained in the enjoyment of comfort free from anxiety, and bestowing gifts on Bráhmans, dwelt at ease with Rúpaśikhá as if with incarnate success.

“Thus virtuous women serve their husbands in every way, devoted to them alone, like Guṇavará, and Rúpaśikhá, the mother-in-law and daughter-in-law.”

When Naraváhanadatta, in the society of Ratnaprabhá, heard this story from the lips of Hariśikha, he was much delighted and exclaimed, “Bravo!” Then he rose up, and quickly performed the religious ceremony for the day, and went with his wife into the presence of his father, the king of Vatsa, and after eating, and whiling away the afternoon with singing and playing, he spent the night with his beloved in his own private apartments.

In a Norwegian tale, called “The Widow’s Son,” page 295 of Thorpe’s Yule-Tide Stories, will be found an incident closely resembling the pursuit of Śṛingabhuja by Dhúmaśikha. The widow’s son has, contrary to the orders of a Troll, in whose house he found himself, entered several chambers, in one of which he found a thorn-whip, in another a huge stone, and a water-bottle. In the third he found a boiling copper kettle, with which he scalded his finger, but the Troll cured it with a pot of ointment. In the fourth room he found a black horse in a stall, with a trough of burning embers at its head, and a basket of hay at its tail. The youth thought this cruel, so he changed their position. The horse, to reward him, informed him that the [368]Troll on his return would certainly kill him, and then continued, “Lay the saddle on me, put on the armour, and take the whip of thorn, the stone, and the water-flask and the pot of ointment, and then we will set out.” When the youth mounted the horse, it set off at a rapid rate. After riding some time, the horse said—“I think I hear a noise; look round, can you see anything?” “A great many are coming after us, certainly a score at least,” answered the youth. “Ah! that is the Troll,” said the horse, “he is coming with all his companions.” They travelled for a time until their pursuers were gaining on them. “Throw now the thorn whip over your shoulder,” said the horse,—“but throw it far away from me.” The youth did so, and at the same moment there sprang up a large thick wood of briars. The youth now rode on a long way, while the Troll had to go home to fetch something wherewith to hew a road through the wood. After some time the horse again said, “Look back, can you see anything now?” “Yes, a whole multitude of people” said the youth, “like a church congregation.” “That is the Troll, now he has got more with him, throw out now the large stone, but throw it far from me.” When the youth had done what the horse desired, there arose a large stone mountain behind them. So the Troll was obliged to go home after something with which to bore through the mountain; and while he was thus employed, the youth rode on a considerable way. But now the horse bade him again look back; he then saw a multitude like a whole army, they were so bright, that they glittered in the sun. “Well that is the Troll with all his friends,” said the horse. “Now throw the water-bottle behind you, but take good care to spill none on me.” The youth did so, but notwithstanding his caution he happened to spill a drop on the horse’s loins. Immediately there arose a vast lake, and the spilling of a few drops caused the horse to stand far out in the water; nevertheless he at last swam to the shore. When the Trolls came to the water, they lay down to drink it all up, and they gulped and gulped it down till they burst. (Folk-lore demons experience great difficulty in crossing water.) “Now we are quit of them,” said the horse.

In Laura von Gonzenbach’s Sicilianische Märchen, Vol. II, p. 57, we find a similar incident. In the story of Fata Morgana, a prince, who carries off a bottle filled with her perspiration, but imprudently wakes her by kissing her, is pursued by her with two lions. He throws three pomegranates behind him: the first produces a river of blood, the second a thorny mountain, the third a volcano. This he does by the advice of his horse, who is really Fata Morgana’s brother transformed by magic: see also Vol. I, p. 343; cp. also the 79th tale in Grimm’s Kinder- und Hausmärchen (sixteenth edition in one volume) Die Wassernixe.

In Orient und Occident, Vol. II, p. 113, Dr. Reinhold Köhler, in his remarks on the West Highland Stories collected by J. F. Campbell, compares the story of Agniśikha with the second story in Campbell’s collection, entitled: “The Battle of the Birds.” In this a king’s son wishes to marry the youngest daughter of a giant. The giant sets him three tasks to do; to clean out a stable, to thatch it with feathers, and to fetch eggs from a magpie’s nest in the top of a tree more than five hundred feet high. All these tasks he accomplishes by the help of the young lady herself. In the last task she makes a ladder of her fingers for him to ascend the tree by, but in so doing she loses her little finger. The giant requires the prince to choose his wife from among three sisters similarly dressed. He recognizes her by the loss of the little finger. When bed-time came, the giant’s daughter told the prince that they must fly, or the giant would kill him. They mounted on the gray filly in the stable. But before starting [369]the daughter cut an apple into nine shares; she put two at the head of the bed, two at the foot, two at the door of the kitchen, two at the house-door, and one outside the house. The giant awoke and called “Are you asleep?” several times, and the shares answered “No.” At last he went and found the bed empty and cold, and pursued the fugitive couple. At the break of day the giant’s daughter felt her father’s breath burning her back. She told the prince to put his hand in the horse’s ear, and fling what he found behind him. He found a sprig of sloe, flung it behind him, and produced a wood twenty miles long. The giant had to go back for his axe and wood-knife. In the middle of the day the prince finds in the ear of the filly a piece of gray stone. This produces twenty miles of gray rock behind them. The giant has to go back for his lever and mattock. The next thing, that the prince finds and flings behind him, is a bladder of water. This produces a fresh-water loch twenty miles broad. In it the giant is happily drowned. The rest of the story has no bearing upon the tale of Śṛingabhuja. Köhler compares a story in William Carleton’s stories of the Irish peasantry. Here there is a sprig, a pebble and a drop of water producing a wood, a rock and a lake. He compares also a Norwegian story, Ashbjörnsen, No. 46, and some Swedish stories collected by Hylten Cavallius and G. Stephens. The three tasks are very different in the different forms of the tale. The ladder of fingers is only found in the Celtic form.

It is only in the Gaelic and Irish forms that the objects thrown behind to check pursuit are found in the ear of the horse.

In the latter form of the story of the Mermaid, Thorpe’s Yule-Tide Stories, p. 205, we have the pursuit with much the same incidents as in our text. See also Ralston’s remarks on the story in our text at pp. 132 and 143 of his Russian Folk-Tales. Cp. also Veckenstedt’s Wendische Sagen, p. 216. An Indian parallel will be found in Miss Frere’s Old Deccan Days, pp. 62 and 63. A Modern Greek one in Bernhard Schmidt’s Griechische Märchen, pp. 76–79.

Cp. also for the tasks the story of Bisara in Kaden’s Unter den Olivenbäumen, and that of Die schöne Fiorita. Herr Kaden aptly compares the story of Jason and Medea. Another excellent parallel is furnished by the story of Schneeweiss-Feuerroth in the same collection, where we have the pursuit much as in our text.

The pursuit and the tasks are found in the tale called La Montagne Noire, on p. 448 of Melusine, a periodical which appeared in the year 1878, and in Branca-flor, No. XIV in Coelho’s Contos Populares Portuguezes, and in Gaal’s Märchen der Magyaren, p. 60. The tasks are found in the Pentamerone of Basile, Vol. I, p. 226, and in Vol. II, p. 186; in Gaal, Märchen der Magyaren, p. 182, (the title of the tale is Die dankbaren Thiere; some grateful ants are found at page 339;) in Grössler’s Sagen aus der Grafschaft Mansfeld, pp. 60 and 61; in Waldau’s Böhmische Märchen, pp. 18, 142, 262; in Kuhn’s Westfälische Märchen, Vol. II. p. 249, frogs, ants, and wasps help the hero. Cp. for the pursuit Liebrecht’s translation of the Pentamerone of Basile, Vol. I, pp. 74–76 and 160.

There lived in Pratishṭhána a Bráhman of the name of Tapodatta. He, though his father kept worrying him, would not learn the sciences in his boyhood. Subsequently he found himself censured by all, and being filled with regret, he went to the bank of the Ganges, in order to perform asceticism for the acquisition of knowledge.3 There he betook himself to severe mortification of the flesh, and while he was thus engaged, Indra, who had beheld him with astonishment, came to him to prevent him, disguised as a Bráhman. And when he had come near him, he kept taking grains of sand from the bank, and throwing them into the billowy water of the Ganges. When Tapodatta saw that, he broke his silence, and asked him out of curiosity—“Bráhman, why do you do this unceasingly?” And Indra, disguised as a Bráhman, when he had been persistently questioned by him, said, “I am making a bridge over the Ganges for man and beast to cross by.” Then Tapodatta said, “You fool, is it possible to make a bridge over the Ganges with sand, which will be carried away at some future time by the current?” When Indra, disguised as a Bráhman, heard that, he said to him—“If you know this truth, why do you attempt to acquire knowledge by vows and fasting, without reading or hearing lectures? The horn of a hare4 may really exist, and the sky may be adorned with painting, and writing may be performed without letters, if learning may be acquired without study. If it could be so acquired, no one in this world would study at all.” When Indra, disguised as a Bráhman, had said this to Tapodatta, Tapodatta reflected, and thinking that he had spoken truth, put a stop to his self-mortification, and went home. [371]

“So, you see, a wise man is easily made to listen to reason, but the foolish Marubhúti cannot be induced to listen to reason, but when you admonish him, he flies into a passion.” When Gomukha said this, Hariśikha said before the company—“It is true, O king, that the wise are easily induced to listen to reason.”

For instance, there lived of old time in Benares a certain excellent Bráhman, named Virúpaśarman, who was deformed and poor. And he, being despondent about his misshapen form and his poverty, went to the grove of ascetics there, and began to practise severe mortification of the flesh, through desire for beauty and wealth. Then the king of the gods5 assumed the vile shape of a deformed jackal with a diseased body, and went and stood in front of him. When he saw that unfortunate6 creature with its body covered with flies, Virúpaśarman slowly reflected in his mind,—“Such creatures are born into the world on account of actions done in a former life, so is it a small thing for me that I was not made thus by the Creator? Who can overstep the lot prescribed by destiny?” When Virúpaśarman perceived this, he brought his self-mortification to an end and went home.

“So true is it, O king, that a wise man is instructed with little effort, but one, whose mind is void of discernment, is not instructed even with great exertion.” Thus spoke Hariśikha, and Gomukha assented, but Marubhúti, who was drunk and did not understand a joke, said in great anger, “There is power in the speech of Gomukha, but there is no might in the arms of men like you. A garrulous, quarrelsome, effeminate person makes heroes blush.” When Marubhúti said this, being eager for a fight, king Naraváhanadatta, with a smile on his face, himself tried to appease him, and after dismissing him to his house, the king, who loved the friends of his youth, performed the duties of the day, and so spent it in great comfort. And the next day, when all these ministers came, and among them Marubhúti bowed down with shame, his beloved Ratnaprabhá spake thus to the prince: “You, my husband, are very fortunate in that you have these pure-hearted ministers bound to you by the fetters of a love dating from early childhood, and they are happy in possessing such an affectionate master; you have been gained by one another through actions in a former state of existence; of that there can be no doubt.” When the queen said this, Tapantaka the son of Vasantaka, the companion in amusements of Naraváhanadatta, remarked—“It is true; our master has been gained by our actions in a former life. For every thing depends upon the power of actions in a former life—Hear in illustration of it the following tale.” [372]

There dwelt in a city named Vilásapura, the home of Śiva, a king rightly named Vilásaśíla.7 He had a queen named Kamalaprabhá, whom he valued as his life, and he long remained with her addicted to pleasure only. Then in course of time there came upon the king old age, the thief of beauty, and when he beheld it, he was sorely grieved. He thought to himself—“How can I shew to the queen my face marred with grey hairs like a snow-smitten lotus? Alas! it is better that I should die.” Busied with reflections like these, the king summoned into his hall of audience a physician named Taruṇachandra8 and thus spake to him respectfully—“My good man, because you are clever and devoted to me, I ask you whether there is any artifice by which this old age can be averted.” When Taruṇachandra, who was rightly named as being only of the magnitude of one digit, and desiring to become a full moon, heard that, the cunning fellow reflected—“I must make my profit out of this blockhead of a king, and I shall soon discover the means of doing it.” Having thus reflected, the physician said to the king: “If you will remain in an underground chamber alone, O king, for eight months, and take this medicine, I engage to remove your old age.”9 When the king heard this, he had such an underground chamber prepared, for fools intent on objects of sense cannot endure reflection. But the ministers used arguments like the following with him—“O king, by the goodness and asceticism and self-denial of men of old time, and by the virtue of the age, elixirs were produced. But these forest remedies,10 which we hear of now, O king, owing to the want of proper materials, produce the opposite effect to that which is intended, and this is quite in accordance with the treatises; for rogues do in this way make sport with fools. Does time past ever return, O king?”—Still these arguments did not penetrate into his soul, for it was encased in the thick armour of violent sensual desire. And in accordance with the advice of that physician, he entered that underground chamber alone, excluding the numerous retinue that usually waits upon a king. And alone with one servant belonging to that physician, he made himself a slave to the taking of drugs and the rest of the treatment. And the king remained there in that dark subterranean den, which seemed as if it were the overflowing, through abundance, of the ignorance of his heart. And after the king had spent six months in that underground chamber, that wicked physician, seeing that his senility had increased, brought a certain young [373]man who resembled him in appearance, with whom he had agreed that he would make him king. Then he dug a tunnel into that underground chamber from a distance, and after killing the king in his sleep, he brought his corpse out by the underground passage, and threw it into a dark well. All this was done at night. And by the same tunnel he introduced that young man into the underground chamber, and closed that tunnel. What audacious wickedness will not a low fellow, who is held in check by no restraints, commit, when he gets a favourable chance of practising upon fools? Then, the next day, the physician said to all the subjects,—“This king has been made young again by me in six months, and in two months his form will be changed again—So show yourselves to him now at a little distance.” Thus he spake, and brought them all to the door of the underground chamber, and shewed them to the young man, telling him at the same time their names and occupations. By this artifice he kept instructing that young man in the underground chamber in the names of all the subjects every day for two months, not excepting even the inhabitants of the harem.

And when a fitting time came, he brought the young man, after he had been well fed,11 out of the subterranean chamber, saying, “This king has become young again.” And then the young man was surrounded by the delighted subjects, who exclaimed “This is our own king restored by drugs.” Then the young man, having thus obtained the kingdom, bathed, and performed with much pleasure by the help of his ministers the kingly duties. And from that time forth he lived in much felicity, transacting regal business, and sporting with the ladies of the harem, having obtained the name of Ajara.12 And all the subjects considered that he was their former king transformed by drugs, not guessing the truth, and not suspecting the proceedings of the physician. And king Ajara, having gained over the subjects and the queen Kamalaprabhá by kind treatment, enjoyed the royal fortune together with his friends. Then he summoned a friend called Bheshajachandra and another called Padmadarśana, and made both of them like himself, satisfying them with gifts of elephants, horses, and villages. And he honoured the physician Taruṇachandra on account of the advancement he had conferred on him, but he did not repose confidence in him because his soul had fallen from truth and virtue.

And once on a time the physician of his own motion said to the king, “Why do you make me of no account and act independently? Have you forgotten the occasion on which I made you king?” When king [374]Ajara heard that, he said to the physician, “Ha! you are a fool: what man does anything for any one, or gives anything to any one? My friend, it is our deeds in a former state of existence that give and do. Therefore do not boast yourself, for this elevation I attained by asceticism: and I will soon shew you this by ocular proof.” When he said this to the physician, the latter reflected as one terrified—“This man is not to be intimidated and speaks like a resolute sage. It is better to overawe that master, the secret of whose character is instability, but that cannot be done with this man, so I must submit to him. In the meanwhile let me wait and see what he will shew me so manifestly.” Thus reflecting, the physician said, “It is true,” and held his peace.

And the next day king Ajara went out to roam about and amuse himself with his friends, waited on by Taruṇachandra and others. And as he was strolling, he reached the bank of a river, and in it he saw five golden lotuses come floating down the current. And he made his servants bring them, and taking them and looking at them, he said to the physician Taruṇachandra, who was standing near him, “Go up along the bank of this river, and look for the place where these lotuses are produced: and when you have seen it, return, for I feel great curiosity about these wonderful lotuses, and you are my skilful friend.” When he was thus commissioned by the king, the physician, not being able to help himself, said, “So be it,” and went the way he was ordered. And the king returned to his capital, but the physician travelled on, and in course of time reached a temple of Śiva that stood on the bank of that river. And in front of it, on the shore of a holy bathing-place in that stream, he beheld a great banyan-tree, and a man’s skeleton suspended on it. And while, fatigued with his journey, he was resting after bathing and worshipping the god, a cloud came there and rained. And from that human skeleton, hanging on the branches of the banyan-tree, when rained upon by the cloud, there fell drops of water.13 And when they fell into the water of the bathing-place in that river, the physician observed that those golden lotuses were immediately produced from them. The physician said to himself, “Ha! what is this wonder? Whom can I ask in the uninhabited wood? Or rather who knows the creation of Destiny that is full of so many marvels? I have beheld this mine of golden lotuses; so I will throw this human skeleton into the sacred water. Let right be done, and let golden lotuses grow from its back.” After these reflections, he flung the skeleton down from the top of that tree: and after spending the day there, the physician set out the next day for his own country, having accomplished the object for which he was sent. And in a few days he reached Vilásapura, and went, emaciated and soiled with his journey, to the court of king [375]Ajara. The door-keeper announced him, and he went in and prostrated himself at the feet of the king; the king asked him how he was, and while he was relating his adventure, the king put every one else out of the hall, and himself said; “So you have seen, my friend, the place where the golden lotuses are produced, that most holy sanctuary of Śiva; and you saw there a skeleton on a banyan-tree; know that that is my former body. I hung there in old time by my feet; and in that way performed asceticism, until I dried up my body and abandoned it. And owing to the nobility of my penance, from the drops of rain-water, that fall from that skeleton of mine, are produced golden lotuses. And in that you threw my skeleton into the water of that holy bathing-place, you did what was right, for you were my friend in a former birth. And this Bheshajachandra and this Padmadarśana, they also were friends, who associated with me in a former birth. So it is owing to the might of that asceticism, my friend, that recollection of my former birth, and knowledge and empire have been bestowed on me. By an artifice I have given you ocular proof of this, and you have described it with a token, telling how you flung down the skeleton; so you must not boast to me, saying, that you gave me the kingdom, and you must not allow your mind to be discontented, for no one gives anything to any one without the help of actions in a former life. From his birth a man eats the fruit of the tree of his former actions.” When the king said this to the physician, he saw that it was true, and he remained satisfied with the king’s service, and was never afterwards discontented. And that noble-minded king Ajara, who remembered his former birth, honoured the physician becomingly with gifts of wealth, and lived comfortably with his wives and friends, enjoying the earth conquered by his policy, and originally obtained by his good actions, without an opponent.

“Thus in this world all the good and bad fortune, that befalls all men at all times, is earned by actions in a former life. For this reason I think we must have earned you for our lord in a former birth, otherwise how could you be so kind to us, while there are other men in existence?” Then Naraváhanadatta, having heard in the company of his beloved from the mouth of Tapantaka this strangely pleasing and entertaining tale, rose up to bathe. And after he had bathed, he went into the presence of his father the king of Vatsa, frequently raining nectar into the eyes of his mother, and after taking food, he spent that day and that night in drinking and other pleasures with his parents, and his wife, and his ministers. [376]

In the city of Chiráyus there was in old time a king, named Chiráyus,1 who was indeed long-lived, and the home of all good fortune. He had a compassionate, generous and gifted minister, named Nágárjuna, who was sprung from a portion of a Bodhisattva, who knew the use of all drugs, and by making an elixir he rendered himself and that king free from old age, and long-lived. One day an infant son of that minister Nágárjuna, whom he loved more than any of his other children, died. He felt grief on that account, and by the force of his asceticism and knowledge proceeded to prepare out of certain ingredients the Water of Immortality,2 in order to prevent mortals from dying. But while he was waiting for the auspicious moment in which to infuse a particular drug, Indra found out what was going on. And Indra, having consulted with the gods, said to the two Aśvins—“Go and give this message to Nágárjuna on the earth from me—‘Why have you, though a minister, begun this revolutionary proceeding of making the Water of Life? Are you determined now to conquer the Creator, who indeed created men subject to the law of death, since you [377]propose to make men immortal by preparing the Water of Life? If this takes place, what difference will there be between gods and men? And the constitution of the universe will be broken up, because there will be no sacrificer and no recipient of sacrifice. So by my advice discontinue this preparation of the Water of Life, otherwise the gods will be angry, and will certainly curse you. And your son, through grief for whom you are engaged in this attempt, is now in Svarga.’” With this message Indra despatched the two Aśvins. And they arrived at the house of Nágárjuna and, after receiving the argha,3 told Nágárjuna, who was pleased with their visit, the message of Indra, and informed him that his son was with the gods in heaven. Then Nágárjuna, being despondent, thought; “Never mind the gods, but if I do not obey the command of Indra, these Aśvins will inflict a curse on me. So let this Water of Life go, I have not accomplished my desire; however my son, on account of my good deeds in a former life, has gone to the abode of bliss.” Having thus reflected, Nágárjuna said to these two gods, the Aśvins, “I obey the command of Indra, I will desist from making the Water of Life. If you two had not come, I should have completed the preparation of the Water of Life in five days, and freed this whole earth from old age and death.” When Nágárjuna had said this, he buried by their advice the Water of Life, which was almost completed, in the earth before their eyes. Then the Aśvins took leave of him, and went and told Indra in heaven that their errand was accomplished, and the king of gods rejoiced.

And in the meanwhile Nágárjuna’s master, the king Chiráyus, anointed his son Jívahara crown-prince. And when he was anointed, his mother, the queen Dhanapará, on his coming in great delight to salute her, said to him, as soon as she saw him, “Why do you rejoice without cause, my son, at having obtained this dignity of crown-prince, for this is not a step to the attainment of the kingly dignity, not even by the help of asceticism? For many crown-princes, sons of your father, have died, and not one of them has obtained the throne, they have all inherited disappointment. For Nágárjuna has given this king an elixir, by the help of which he is now in the eighth century of his age. And who knows how many more centuries will pass over the head of this king, who makes his short-lived sons crown-princes.” When her son heard that, he was despondent, and she went on to say to him, “If you desire the throne, adopt this expedient. This minister Nágárjuna every day, after he has performed the day’s devotions, gives gifts at the time of taking food, and makes this proclamation; ‘Who is a suppliant? Who wants anything? To whom can I give anything, and what?’ At that moment go to him and say, ‘Give me your head,’—Then he, being a truthful man, will have his head [378]cut off, and out of sorrow for his death this king will die, or retire to the forest; then you will obtain the crown; there is no other expedient available in this matter.” When he heard this speech from his mother, the prince was delighted, and he consented, and determined to carry her advice into effect, for the lust of sovereign sway is cruel, and overcomes one’s affection for one’s friends. Then that prince went, the next day, of his own accord to the house of that Nágárjuna, at the time when he took his food. And when the minister cried out, “Who requires anything, and what does he require?” he entered and asked him for his head. The minister said, “This is strange, my son; what can you do with this head of mine? For it is only an agglomeration of flesh, bone and hair. To what use can you put it? Nevertheless, if it is of any use to you, cut it off, and take it.” With these words he offered his neck to him. But it had been so hardened by the elixir that, though he struck at it for a long time, he could not cut it, but broke many swords over it. In the meanwhile the king, hearing of it, arrived, and asked him not to give away his head, but Nágárjuna said to him: “I can remember my former births, and I have given away my head ninety-nine times in my various births. This, my lord, will be the hundredth time of my giving away my head. So do not say anything against it, for no suppliant ever leaves my presence disappointed. So I will now present your son with my head; for this delay was made by me only in order to behold your face.” Thus he spoke, and embraced that king, and brought a powder out of his closet, with which he smeared the sword of that prince. Then the prince cut off the head of the minister Nágárjuna with a blow of that sword, as a man cuts a lotus from its stalk. Then a great cry of wailing was raised, and the king was on the point of giving up his own life, when a bodiless voice sounded from the heaven in these words—“Do not do what you ought not, king. You should not lament your friend Nágárjuna, for he will not be born again, but has attained the condition of a Buddha.” When king Chiráyus heard this, he gave up the idea of suicide, but bestowed great gifts, and out of grief left his throne, and went to the forest. There in time he obtained by asceticism eternal bliss. Then his son Jívahara obtained his kingdom, and soon after his accession he allowed dissension to arise in his realm, and was slain by the sons of Nágárjuna remembering their father’s murder. Then through sorrow for him his mother’s heart broke. How can prosperity befall those who walk in the path trodden by the ignoble? And a son of that king Chiráyus, born to him by another wife, named Śatáyus, was placed on his throne by his chief ministers.

“Thus, as the gods would not permit Nágárjuna to carry out the task of destroying death, which he had undertaken, he became subject to death. Therefore it is true that this world of living beings was appointed by the [379]Creator unstable, and full of grief hard to ward off, and even with hundreds of efforts it is impossible for any one to do anything here, which the Creator does not wish him to do.” When Marubhúti had told this story, he ceased speaking, and Naraváhanadatta rose up with his ministers and performed his daily duties.

There is in this world a city named Irávatí, which surpasses Alaká;5 in it there dwelt a king named Parityágasena. And he had two [382]beloved queens, whom he valued as his life. One was the daughter of his own minister and her name was Adhikasangamá, and the other was of royal race, and was called Kávyálankárá. And with those two the king propitiated Durgá to obtain a son, and performed penance without food, sleeping on darbha grass. Then Bhavání, who is kind to her votaries, pleased with his penance, appeared to him in a dream and gave him two heavenly fruits, and thus commanded him: “Rise up and give your two wives these two fruits to eat, and then, king, you will have born to you two heroic sons.” Having said this, Gaurí disappeared, and the king woke up in the morning and rose delighted at beholding those fruits in his hand. And by describing that dream of his he delighted his wives, and bathed and worshipped the consort of Śiva, and broke his fast. And at night he first visited that wife of his Adhikasangamá, and gave her one of the fruits, and she immediately ate it. Then the king spent the night in her pavilion, out of respect for her father, who was his own prime minister. And he placed near the head of his bed the second fruit, which was intended for the other queen. While the king was asleep, the queen Adhikasangamá rose up, and desiring for herself two similar sons, she took from his head and ate that second fruit also. For women are naturally envious of their rivals. And in the morning, when the king rose up and was looking for that fruit, she said—“I ate that second fruit also.” Then the king went away despondent, and after spending the day, he went at night to the apartments of the second queen. And when she asked for that other fruit, he said to her—“While I was asleep, your fellow-wife treacherously devoured it.” Then the queen Kávyálankárá, not having obtained that fruit, which was to enable her to give birth to a son, remained silently grieved.

In the course of some days that queen Adhikasangamá became pregnant, and in due time gave birth to twin sons. And the king Parityágasena rejoiced and made a great feast, since his desire was fulfilled by their birth. And the king gave the name of Indívarasena to the elder of the two, who was of wonderful beauty and had eyes like a blue lotus. And he gave to the younger the name of Anichchhasena, because his mother ate the second fruit against his wish. Then Kávyálankárá, the second wife of that king, on beholding this, was angry, and reflected—“Alas! I have been cheated by this rival wife out of having children; so I must without fail revenge myself on her; I must destroy these sons of hers by my cunning.” Having thus reflected, she remained thinking over a means of doing this. And as fast as those two princes grew, the tree of enmity grew in her heart.

And in course of time those two princes, having attained manhood, and being mighty of arm, and desirous of conquest, said to their father—“We have attained manhood and we have been trained in the use of weapons, [383]so how can we remain here endowed to no profit with these mighty arms? Out on the arms and the youth of a Kshatriya that longs not for victory! So let us go now, father, and conquer the regions.” When the king Parityágasena heard this request of his sons, he was pleased and consented, and made arrangements for their expedition. And he said to them, “If ever you are in difficulties, you must think upon the goddess Durgá the remover of sorrows, for she gave you to me.” Then the king sent forth those two sons on their expedition, accompanied by his troops and feudal chiefs, after their mother had performed the auspicious ceremonies to ensure them success. And he sent after them his own sagacious prime minister, their maternal grandfather, whose name was Prathamasangama. Then those two mighty princely brothers, with their army, first marched in due order to the eastern quarter, and subdued it. Then these two irresistible heroes of approved might, to whom many kings had joined themselves, went to the southern quarter to conquer it. And their parents rejoiced on hearing these tidings of them, but their second mother was consumed with the fire of concealed hate. The treacherous queen then got the following false despatch written in the king’s name to the chiefs in the princes’ camp, by means of the secretary for foreign affairs, whom she had bribed with heaps of treasure—“My two sons, having subdued the earth by the might of their arms, have formed the intention of killing me and seizing my kingdom; so if you are loyal to me, you must without hesitation put to death both those sons of mine.”—This letter Kávyálankárá sent off secretly by a courier. And the courier went secretly to the camp of those two princes, and gave that letter to the chiefs. And they all, after reading it, reflecting that the policy of kings is very cruel, and considering that that command of their master must not be disobeyed, met and deliberated in the night, and as they saw no way out of the difficulty, determined to kill those two princes, though they had been fascinated by their virtues. But their maternal grandfather, the minister, who was with them, heard of it from a friend that he had among the chiefs, and after informing the princes of the state of affairs, he thereupon mounted them on swift horses, and conveyed them away safely out of the camp.

The two princes, when conveyed away by the minister at night, travelled along with him, and entered the Vindhya forest out of ignorance of the true road. Then, after the night had passed, as they slowly proceeded on their way, about noon their horses died, overcome with excessive thirst. And that aged maternal grandfather of theirs, whose palate was dry with hunger and thirst, died exhausted with the heat before the eyes of those two, who were also weary. Then those afflicted brothers exclaimed in their sorrow—“Why has our father reduced to this state us who are innocent, and fulfilled the desire of that wicked second mother of ours?”—[384]In the midst of their lamentation they thought upon the goddess Ambiká,6 whom their father had long ago pointed out to them as their natural protectress. That moment, by force of thinking on that kind protectress, their hunger, thirst and fatigue left them, and they were strong. Then they were comforted by faith in her, and without feeling the fatigue of the journey, they went to visit that goddess who dwells in the Vindhya forest. And when those two brothers had arrived there, they began a course of fasting and asceticism to propitiate her. In the meanwhile those chiefs in the camp assembled together in a band, and went with the intention of doing the princes a mischief; but they could not find them, though they searched everywhere. They said—“The princes have escaped somewhere with their maternal grandfather,” and fearing that the whole thing would come out, they went in a fright to the king Parityágasena. And shewing him the letters, they told him the whole story. He, when he heard it, was agitated and said to them in his anger; “I did not send this letter, this is some deception. And how comes it that you did not know, you foolish creatures, that I should not be likely to put to death two sons obtained by severe austerities? They have been put to death as far as you are concerned, but they were saved by their own merits, and their maternal grandfather has exhibited a specimen of his statesmanship.” He said this to the chiefs, and though the secretary who wrote the treacherous letter fled, the king quickly had him brought back by his royal power, and after thoroughly investigating the whole matter, punished him as he deserved. And he threw into a dungeon his wicked wife Kávyálankárá, who was guilty of such a crime as trying to slay his sons. For how can an evil deed audaciously done, the end of which is not considered through the mind being blinded with excessive hate, help bringing ruin? And as for those chiefs, who had set out with his two sons and returned, the king dismissed them, and appointed others in their place. And with their mother he continued to seek for tidings of those sons, plunged in grief, devoted to righteousness, thinking upon Durgá.

In the meanwhile that goddess, who has her shrine in the Vindhya mountains, was pleased with the asceticism of the prince Indívarasena and his younger brother. And she gave Indívarasena a sword in a dream, and appearing to him, thus addressed him—“By the power of this sword thou shalt conquer enemies hard to overcome, and whatever thou shalt think of thou shalt obtain, and by means of it you shall both gain the success you desire.” When the goddess had said that, she disappeared, and Indívarasena, waking up, beheld that sword in his hand. Then he comforted his younger brother by shewing him that sword, and describing to him his dream, and in the morning he and his brother broke their fast on wild fruits. Then [385]he worshipped that goddess, and having his fatigue removed by her favour, he departed rejoicing, with the sword in his hand, in the company of his brother. And after he had travelled a long distance, he found a great and splendid city, looking like the peak of Meru on account of its golden houses. There he beheld a terrible Rákshasa standing at the gate of the high street, and the hero asked him what was the name of the town, and who was its king. That Rákshasa said—“This city is called Śailapura, and it is possessed by our lord Yamadanshṭra, the slayer of his foes, king of the Rákshasas.” When the Rákshasa said this, Indívarasena attempted to enter, in order to slay Yamadanshṭra, but the Rákshasa at the door tried to prevent him, upon which the mighty Indívarasena killed him, cutting off his head with one stroke of his sword. After slaying him, the hero entered the royal palace, and beheld inside it the Rákshasa Yamadanshṭra sitting on his throne, having a mouth terrible with tusks, with a lovely woman at his left hand, and a virgin of heavenly beauty on his right hand. And when Indívarasena saw him, he went with the sword given him by Durgá in his hand, and challenged him to fight, and the Rákshasa drew his sword and stood up to resist him. And in the course of the fight Indívarasena frequently cut off the Rákshasa’s head, but it grew again.7 Seeing that magic power of his, and having had a sign made to him by the virgin at the Rákshasa’s side, who had fallen in love with him at first sight, the prince, after cutting off the head of the Rákshasa, being quick of hand, again cut it in two with a stroke of his sword. Then the Rákshasa’s magic was baffled by contrary magic, and his head did not grow again, and the Rákshasa died of the wound.

When he was slain, the lovely woman and the princess were delighted, and the prince with his younger brother sat down, and asked them the following questions: “Why did this Rákshasa live in such a city as this, guarded by one warder only, and who are you two, and why do you rejoice at his being slain?” When they heard this, the virgin was the one that answered, and she spoke as follows: “In this city of Śailapura there lived a king of the name of Vírabhuja, and this is his wife Madanadanshṭrá, and this Rákshasa came and devoured him by the help of his magic power. And he ate up his attendants, but he did not eat this Madanadanshṭrá, whom alone he spared because she was beautiful, but he made her his wife. Then he became disgusted with this city though beautiful, and building in it houses of gold, he remained here sporting with Madanadanshṭrá, having dismissed his retinue. And I am the younger sister of this Rákshasa, and unmarried, but the moment I saw you, I fell in love with you. Accordingly she is glad at his having been slain, and so also am I; so marry me here now, my husband, since love makes me offer myself to you.” [386]

When Khaḍgadanshṭrá said this, Indívarasena married her then and there by the Gándharva form of marriage. And he remained in that very city, having everything brought to him, on his thinking of it, by the virtue of the sword of Durgá, married and accompanied by his younger brother. And once on a time he made a chariot that would fly through the air, produced by thought through the virtue of his sword, that resembled in its powers the philosopher’s stone, and placed in it his heroic younger brother Anichchhasena, and sent him off from his retreat to bear tidings of him to his parents. Anichchhasena, for his part, travelled quickly through the air in that chariot, and reached Irávatí that city of his father. There he refreshed his grief-worn parents with the sight of him, as the moon refreshes the partridges when exhausted with severe heat. And he approached them, and fell at their feet, and was embraced by them, and when they questioned him, he dispelled their apprehensions with good news of his brother. And he told in their presence the whole adventure of himself and his brother, which in the beginning was sad, but in the end was happy. And there he heard the treacherous device, which his wicked second mother had out of enmity contrived for his destruction. Then Anichchhasena remained there in tranquillity, in the company of his delighted father and his mother, honoured by the subjects. But after some days had passed, his fears were aroused by a threatening dream, and he yearned to see his brother again, and said to his father; “I will depart, and by telling my brother Indívarasena that you are anxiously awaiting him, I will bring him back; give me leave to depart, my father.” When his father heard that, being anxious for the sight of his son, he and his wife gave Anichchhasena leave to depart, and he immediately mounted his chariot, and reached through the air that city of Śailapura. And when he arrived there, he entered the palace of that brother of his. He saw there his elder brother lying senseless in the presence of Khaḍgadanshṭrá and Madanadanshṭrá, who were weeping. In his perplexity he asked, “What does this mean?” And then Khaḍgadanshṭrá said with her eyes fixed on the ground, though the other blamed her for it; “When you were away, your brother one day, on my going to bathe, had a secret intrigue with this Madanadanshṭrá. And I, on returning from bathing, found him with her, and I abused him. Then he tried to propitiate me, but I, being exceedingly bewildered by unforgiving jealousy, that seemed to have possessed me, thought thus with myself, ‘Ah! without taking me into account, he favours another; I believe he shews this insolence confiding in the magic properties of his sword, so I will hide this weapon of his.’ After thus reflecting, in my folly I thrust his sword into the fire at night, while he was asleep. The consequence was that his sword was dimmed and he was reduced to this state. And I am grieved for this myself and upbraided by Madanadanshṭrá. So you have come here [387]now when both our minds are blinded with grief, and we have resolved on death. So take this sword and kill me with it, since I have proved true to the customs of my race and acted cruelly.” When Anichchhasena was thus entreated by his brother’s wife, he thought that he ought not to slay her on account of her repentance, but prepared to cut off his own head. But at that moment, he heard the following voice come from the air—“Do not act thus, prince, your brother is not dead, but he has been struck senseless by Durgá, who is angry at his not having taken sufficient care of the sword, and you must not impute guilt to Khaḍgadanshṭrá, for this circumstance is the consequence of your all having been born into this world on account of a curse. And they were both of them your brother’s wives in a former life. So propitiate Durgá in order to gain your object.” Accordingly Anichchhasena gave up his intention of slaying himself. But he mounted that chariot, and took that fire-dimmed sword, and went to propitiate the soles of the feet of Durgá, the dweller in the Vindhya range. There he fasted, and was about to propitiate the goddess with the offering of his head, when he heard this voice from heaven—“Do not be rash, my son, go; thy elder brother shall live, and the sword shall become pure from stain, for I am pleased with thy devotion.” When Anichchhasena heard this speech of the goddess, he immediately saw that the sword in his hand had recovered its brightness, and he walked round the goddess, keeping his right hand towards her; and ascending his swift magic car, as if it were his own desire,8 he returned in a state of anxious expectation to that Śailapura. There he saw that his elder brother had just risen up, having suddenly regained consciousness, and weeping he seized his feet, and his elder brother threw his arms round his neck. And both the wives of Indívarasena fell at the feet of Anichchhasena and said—“You have saved the life of our husband.” Then he told the whole story to his brother Indívarasena who questioned him, and he, when he heard it, was not angry with Khaḍgadanshṭrá, but was pleased with his brother.9

And he heard from the lips of his brother that his parents were eager to see him, and of the fraud of his second mother, that had brought about his separation from them; then he took the sword which his brother [388]handed to him, and mounted a large chariot, which came to him the moment he thought of it, owing to the virtue of the sword, and with his golden palaces, and his two wives, and his younger brother Indívarasena, returned to his own city Irávatí. There he alighted from the air, beheld with wonder by the subjects, and entered the palace, and went with his attendants into the presence of the king. And in that condition he beheld his father and his mother, and fell at their feet with his eyes bathed in streaming tears. And they, the moment they beheld their son, embraced him and his younger brother, and having their bodies, as it were, bathed in nectar, they were relieved from their sorrow. And when their daughters-in-law, those two wives of Indívarasena, of heavenly beauty, fell at their feet, they looked on them with delight and welcomed them. And the parents, learning in course of conversation, that they were said by a divine voice to have been appointed in a previous life as his wives, were exceedingly delighted. And they rejoiced with astonishment at the power of their son, which enabled him to travel through the air, and bring golden palaces and do other things of this kind. Then Indívarasena remained, with those two wives and his attendants, in the society of his parents, causing delight to the subjects. And once on a time he took leave of his father, king Parityágasena, and went forth again to conquer the four quarters, accompanied by his younger brother. And the mighty-armed hero conquered the whole earth by the virtue of his sword, and came back bringing with him the gold, elephants, horses and jewels of conquered kings. And he reached his capital, followed out of fear by the conquered earth in the form of the army of dust, that his forces raised. And he entered the palace, where his father advanced to meet him, and he and his brother delighted their mother Adhikasangamá by their return. And after he had honoured the kings, Indívarasena spent that day in pleasure, accompanied by his wives and his followers. And on the next day the prince made over the earth to his father by way of tribute from the kings, and suddenly recollected his former birth. Then, like one waking up from sleep, he said to his father—“Father, I remember my former birth; listen, I will tell you all about it. There is a city on the plateau of the Himálayas named Muktápura; in it there lives a king named Muktásena, a king of the Vidyádharas. And by a queen named Kambuvatí he had born to him in course of time two virtuous sons, Padmasena and Rúpasena. Then a maiden, named Ádityaprabhá, the daughter of a chief of the Vidyádharas, of her own accord, out of love, chose Padmasena for her husband. Hearing of that, a Vidyádhara maiden, of the name of Chandravatí, became love-sick also, and came and chose him for her husband. Then Padmasena, having two wives, was continually worried by that wife Ádityaprabhá, who was jealous of her rival. And so Padmasena over and over again importuned his father Muktásena [389]to the following effect: ‘I cannot endure every day the ill-temper of my wife, who is blind with jealousy, let me retire to a wood of ascetics to put an end to this misery. Therefore, father, give me permission.’ His father, annoyed at his persistence, cursed him and his wives, saying; ‘What need is there of your going to a wood of ascetics? Fall into the world of mortals. There this quarrelsome wife of yours, Ádityaprabhá, shall be born in the race of Rákshasas, and become your wife again. And this second, Chandravatí, who is virtuous and attached to you, her husband, shall be the wife of a king, and the paramour of a Rákshasa, and shall obtain you as her beloved. And since this Rúpasena has been observed by me to follow you his elder brother with affection, he shall be your brother also in that world. There too you shall endure some affliction caused by your wives.’ Thus he spoke and ceased, and appointed this as the termination of the curse; ‘When you, being a prince, shall conquer the earth and give it to your father, then you and they shall remember your former birth, and be freed from your curse.’ When Padmasena had been thus addressed by his own father, he went with those others to the world of mortals. I am that very Padmasena, born here as your son, Indívarasena by name, and I have done what I was appointed to do. And the other Vidyádhara prince, Rúpasena, has been born as Anichchhasena my younger brother. And as for my wives Ádityaprabhá10 and Chandravatí, know that they have been born here as these two, Khaḍgadanshṭrá and Madanadanshṭrá. And now we have reached that appointed end of our curse. So let us go, father, to our own Vidyádhara home.” Having said this, he together with his brother and his wives, who remembered their former existence, abandoned the human and assumed the Vidyádhara form. And having worshipped the feet of his father, and taken his two wives in his arms, he went with his younger brother through the air to his own city Muktápura. There the wise prince, gladly welcomed by his father Muktásena, a joy to the eyes of his mother, accompanied by his brother Rúpasena, lived with his Ádityaprabhá, who did not again display jealousy, and with Chandravatí in happiness.

The minister Gomukha, having told this delightful tale on the road, again said to Naraváhanadatta; “Thus the great must endure great pains and gain great glory, but others have little pain and little glory. But you, protected by the might of the science of queen Ratnaprabhá, shall without difficulty gain that princess Karpúriká.”

When Naraváhanadatta heard this from the lips of the eloquent Gomukha, he set out on the path with him, insensible to fatigue. And as he travelled, he came in the evening to a pellucid lake, the lotuses on which were in full bloom, and which was full of an abundant supply of cold water, delicious as nectar. Its banks were adorned with pomegranate trees, [390]bread-fruit trees, and rows of mango-trees, and on it the swans sang sweetly. They bathed in it, and devoutly worshipped the beloved11 of the daughter of Himálaya and refreshed themselves with various fragrant, sweet-tasting, delightful fruits, and then the son of the king of Vatsa and his friend spent the night on the bank of the lake, sleeping on a bed strewn with soft young shoots.

There is a city named Kánchí possessed of great excellences,2 which, like a girdle, well adorns the earth-bride. In it there was a famous king of the name of Báhubala, who won fortune by the might of his arm, and imprisoned her in his treasury, though she is a gadding dame. We were two brothers in his kingdom, carpenters by trade, skilful in making ingenious automata of wood and other materials, such as Maya3 first invented. My elder brother was by name Práṇadhara, and he was infatuated with love for a fickle dame, and I, my lord, am named Rájyadhara, and I was ever devoted to him. That brother of mine consumed all my father’s property and his own, and some portion of what I had acquired, which melted by affection I made over to him. Then he, being much infatuated about the lady, out of desire to steal wealth for her sake, made a couple of swans of wood with mechanism and strings attached to them. That pair of swans was sent out at night by pulling the strings, and entering by means of the mechanical contrivance into the king’s treasury through a window, they took from it with their beaks jewels placed in a basket, and returned to the house of my brother. And my elder brother sold the jewels and spent the money so acquired with his paramour, and in that way he robbed the king’s treasury every night, and though I tried to prevent him, he would not give up that improper proceeding, for who, when blinded by passion, distinguishes between right and wrong? And then the keeper of the treasury, as the king’s treasure-house was plundered night after night without the bolt being moved, though there were no mice in it, for several days in succession enquired into the matter, without saying anything, out of fear, and then being exceedingly vexed, went and told the whole matter plainly to the king. Then the king posted him and some other guards in the treasure-house at night, with orders to keep awake in order to find out the truth of it. Those guards went into the treasure-house at midnight, and while there, saw my brother’s two swans entering there [392]by the window, impelled by strings. The swans moved round by means of their mechanism and took the jewels, then the guards cut the strings, and took the swans to shew the king in the morning. And then my elder brother said in a state of bewilderment—“Brother, my two swans have been seized by the guards of the treasury, for the strings have become slack, and the pin of the mechanism has dropped. So we must both of us leave this place immediately, for the king, when he hears of it in the morning, will punish us as thieves. For we are both known to be skilled in mechanical contrivances. And I have here a chariot with a pneumatic contrivance, which quickly goes eight hundred yojanas, if you press a spring. Let us go by means of it to-day to a distant foreign land, though exile may be disagreeable; for how can an evil deed, that is done in despite of good advice, bring pleasure to any one? This is the mature fruit of my wickedness in not obeying your advice, which has extended to innocent you, as well as to me.” After saying this, my brother Práṇadhara immediately mounted with his family that chariot, that flew through the air. But though he urged me, I would not mount it, as it was laden with many people, so he flew up in it to the sky and went off to some distant place.

When that Práṇadhara,4 who was rightly named, had gone off somewhere, I, expecting that in the morning I singly should he exposed to danger at the hands of the king, mounted another chariot with a pneumatic mechanism, which I had myself made, and quickly travelled two hundred yojanas from that place. Then I again started that air-travelling chariot, and went another two hundred yojanas. Then I left my chariot, terrified at finding that I was near the sea, and travelling on my feet, reached in course of time this city which was empty. And out of curiosity I entered this palace, which was filled with garments, ornaments, and couches and all the other conveniences fit for a king. And in the evening I bathed in the water of the garden-lake, and ate fruits, and going to the royal bed reflected alone at night—“What am I to do in this uninhabited spot? So to-morrow I will go hence to some place or other, for I no longer need fear danger from king Báhubala.” When I had thus reflected, I went to sleep, and towards the end of night a hero of divine appearance, mounted on a peacock, thus addressed me in a dream; “You must live here, good sir, you must not depart elsewhere, and at the time of meals you must go up to the middle court of the palace, and wait there.” Thus he spoke, and disappeared, and I woke up and reflected—“Undoubtedly this heavenly place has been made by Kártikeya, and he has favoured me with this dream on account of my merits in a former life. I have turned up here because I am to be happy dwelling in this town.” I conceived this hope and rose up, [393]and said the prayer for the day, and at the time of eating I went up to the middle court, and while I was waiting there, golden dishes were placed in front of me, and there fell into them from heaven food consisting of ghee, milk, rice, boiled rice and other things;5 and any other kinds of food that I thought of, came to me as fast as I thought of them. After eating all this, I felt comforted by the favour of the god. So, my lord, I took up my abode in this city, with kingly luxuries coming to me every day as fast as I wished for them. But I do not obtain wives and retinue by thinking of them, so I made all these people of wood. Though I am a carpenter, since I have come here I enjoy alone all the pleasures of a king by the power of Destiny, and my name is Rájyadhara.6

“So repose, now, a day in this god-built town, and I will attend upon you to the best of my ability.” After saying this, Rájyadhara led off with him Naraváhanadatta and Gomukha to the city garden, there the prince bathed in the water of the lake and offered lotuses to Śiva, and was conducted to the feasting-place in the middle court, and there he and his minister enjoyed viands which were placed before them by Rájyadhara, who stood in front of them, to whom they came as soon as he thought of them. Then the eating-ground was swept by some unseen hand, and after they had taken betel, they drank wine and remained in great felicity. And after Rájyadhara had eaten, the prince retired to a gorgeous couch, astonished at the wonderful nature of the town, which resembled the philosopher’s stone. And when he could not sleep, on account of his recently conceived longing for Karpúriká, Rájyadhara, who was also in bed, asked her story, and then said to him—“Why do you not sleep, auspicious sir? You will obtain your desired love. For a fair woman, like Fortune, of her own accord chooses a man of high courage. I have had ocular proof of this, so hear the story; I will relate it to you.”

That king of Kánchí, Báhubala, whom I mentioned to you, had a rich door-keeper, rightly named Arthalobha.7 He had a beautiful wife named Mánapará. That Arthalobha, being by profession a merchant, and on account of his avarice distrusting his servants, appointed that wife of his to look after his business in preference to them. She, though she did not like it, being obedient to him, made bargains with merchants and captivated all men by her sweet form and speech. And Arthalobha, seeing that all the [394]sales of elephants, horses, jewels, and garments that she made, brought in a profit, rejoiced exceedingly. And once on a time there came there from a distant foreign land a merchant, named Sukhadhana, having a large stock of horses and other commodities. The moment Arthalobha heard that he had come, he said to his wife—“My dear, a merchant named Sukhadhana has arrived from a foreign land, he has brought twenty thousand horses, and innumerable pairs of excellent garments made in China, so please, go and purchase from him five thousand horses and ten thousand pairs of garments, in order that with the thousands of horses I already possess and those other five, I may pay a visit to the king, and carry on my commerce. When commissioned in these words by that villain Arthalobha, Mánapará went to Sukhadhana; whose eyes were captivated by her beauty, and who welcomed her gladly. And she demanded from him for a price those horses and garments. The merchant, overpowered with love, took her aside and said to her—“I will not give you one horse or garment for money, but if you will remain one night with me, I will give you five hundred horses and five thousand garments.” After saying this, he solicited that fair one with even a larger amount; who does not fall in love with women, who are allowed to go about without restraint? Then she answered him—“I will ask my husband about this, for I know he will send me here out of excessive cupidity.8” After saying this, she went home, and told her husband what the merchant Sukhadhana had said to her secretly. And that wicked covetous husband Arthalobha said to her; “My dear, if you obtain five hundred horses and five thousand pairs of garments for one night, what is the harm in it. So go to him now; you shall return quickly in the morning.” When Mánapará heard this speech of her mean-spirited husband’s, she began to debate in her heart, and thus reflected—“Out on this base spiritless husband of mine that sells his honour! By continually meditating on gain he has become all made up of the desire of gain. It is better that the generous man, who buys me for one night with hundreds of horses and thousands of pieces of China silk, should be my husband.” Thus reflecting, she took leave of her base husband, saying; “It is not my fault,” and went to the house of that Sukhadhana. And he, when he saw that she had come, after questioning her and hearing the whole story from her, was astonished, and considered himself fortunate in obtaining her. And he sent off immediately to her husband Arthalobha the horses and garments that were to purchase her, as agreed upon. And he remained that night with her, having all his wishes attained, for she seemed like the fortune which was the fruit of his own wealth, incarnate in bodily form, at last obtained by him. And in the morning the base Arthalobha [395]sent, in his shamelessness, servants to summon her, whereupon Mánapará said to them, “How can I again return to be the wife of that man who sold me to another? I am not as shameless as he is. Tell me yourselves if this would be becoming now. So depart, the man that bought me is my husband.” When the servants were thus addressed by her, they went and repeated her words to Arthalobha with downcast faces. The mean fellow, when he heard it, wanted to recover her by force; then a friend of the name of Harabala said to him; “You cannot recover her from that Sukhadhana, for he is a hero, and I do not behold in you manliness corresponding to his. For he is moved to heroism by a woman that loves him on account of his generosity, and he is mighty, and surrounded with other mighty men that have come with him. But you have been deserted by your wife, who separated from you because you sold her out of meanness, and scorn makes you timid, and being reproached you have become effeminate. Moreover you are not mighty, and you are not surrounded by mighty friends, so how can you possibly be capable of vanquishing that rival? And the king will be angry with you, when he hears of your crime of selling your wife; so keep quiet, and do not make a ridiculous blunder.” Though his friend tried to dissuade him with these words, Arthalobha went and beset, in his anger, the house of Sukhadhana with his retainers. While he was thus engaged, Sukhadhana sallied out with his friends and retainers, and in a moment easily defeated the whole of Arthalobha’s force.

Then Arthalobha fled, and went into the presence of the king. And concealing his own wicked conduct, he said to the king,—“O king, the merchant Sukhadhana has carried off my wife by force.” And the king, in his rage, wished to arrest that Sukhadhana. Then a minister of the name of Sandhána said to the king—“In any case, my lord, you cannot arrest him, for when his force is increased by that of the eleven friends who have come with him, he will be found to have more than a hundred thousand excellent horses. And you have not discovered the truth about the matter, for his conduct will turn out to be not altogether without cause. So you had better send a messenger, and ask what it is that this fellow here is chattering about.” When king Báhubala heard this, he sent a messenger to Sukhadhana to ask about the matter. The messenger went, and asked about the matter by the king’s order, and thereupon Mánapará told him her story. When Báhubala heard that wonderful tale, he came to the house of Sukhadhana to behold the beauty of Mánapará, being filled with excessive curiosity. There he beheld, while Sukhadhana bent before him, Mánapará, who with the wealth of her beauty would astonish even the Creator. She prostrated herself at his feet, and he questioned her, and heard from her own mouth how the whole thing happened, Arthalobha being present and listening. When he heard it, he thought it was true, because Arthalobha [396]was speechless, and he asked that fair one what was to be done now. Then she said decidedly, “How can I return to that spiritless avaricious man, who sold me to another man without the excuse of distress?” When the king heard this, he said, “Well said,” and then Arthalobha bewildered with desire, wrath, and shame, exclaimed,—“King, let him and me fight with our own retainers, without any auxiliary forces; then let it be seen who is spirited and who is spiritless.” When Sukhadhana heard this, he said—“Then let us fight in single combat, what need is there of retainers? Mánapará shall be the prize of the victor.” When the king heard this, he said, “Good! so let it be!” Then, before the eyes of Mánapará and the king, they both entered the lists mounted. And in the course of the combat, Sukhadhana laid Arthalobha on the plain, by his horse’s rearing on account of a lance-wound. Then Arthalobha fell three times more on the earth, on account of his horse being killed, but Sukhadhana, who was a fair fighter, restrained himself and would not slay him. But the fifth time Arthalobha’s horse fell upon him, and bruised him, and he was carried off by his servants motionless. Then Sukhadhana was cheered by all the spectators with shouts of applause, and the king Báhubala honoured him as he deserved. And he immediately bestowed a gift of honour upon the lady, and he confiscated the property of Arthalobha, which had been acquired by unlawful means; and appointing another to his office, he departed pleased to his palace. For good men derive satisfaction from breaking off their connection with the bad. And Sukhadhana, having maintained his claim by force, remained enjoying himself in the society of Mánapará his loving wife.

“Thus wives and wealth leave the mean-spirited man, and of their own accord come to the high-spirited man from every quarter. So dismiss anxiety! Go to sleep! in a short time, my lord, you will obtain that princess Karpúriká.” When Naraváhanadatta heard that sound advice of Rájyadhara’s, he and Gomukha went off to sleep.

And in the morning, while the prince was waiting awhile after his meal, the wise Gomukha addressed Rájyadhara as follows: “Make such an ingenious chariot for my master, as that he shall be able by means of it to reach the city of Karpúrasambhava, and obtain his beloved.” When thus supplicated, that carpenter offered Naraváhanadatta the chariot with a pneumatic contrivance, that he had made before. He ascended that sky-travelling chariot, swift as thought, together with Gomukha, and crossed the deep, the home of monsters, that agitated its waves as if exulting to behold his valour, and reached the city of Karpúrasambhava on its shore. There the chariot descended from the sky, and he and Gomukha left it, and out of curiosity wandered about inside the town. And by questioning the people he found out that he had indeed without doubt reached the [397]desired city, and delighted he went to the neighbourhood of the palace. There he found a splendid house occupied by an old woman, and he entered it to stay there, and she received him with respect. And eager to hit upon an artifice, he immediately asked that woman, “Noble lady, what is the name of the king here, and what children has he? And tell us of their appearance, for we are foreigners.” When he said this to the old woman, she, seeing that he was of excessively noble form, answered—“Listen, illustrious sir, I will tell you all. In this city of Karpúrasambhava there is a king named Karpúraka. And he, having no children, performed penance, with his wife Buddhikárí, fasting, in honour of Śiva, in order to obtain offspring. After he had fasted for three nights, the god Śiva commanded him in a dream—‘Rise up, a daughter shall be born to you, who shall be superior to a son, and whose husband shall obtain the sovereignty of the Vidyádharas.’ After receiving this order from Śiva, the king woke up in the morning; and, after communicating this dream to his wife Buddhikárí, he rose up and went off delighted, and with his queen broke his fast. And then in a short time that queen conceived by the king, and when the period was completed, she brought forth a daughter beautiful in all her limbs. She surpassed in splendour the lights in the lying-in chamber,9 and they, as it were, heaved sighs by discharging lamp-black. And her father made great rejoicings, and gave her the name of Karpúriká, which is his own name made feminine. And gradually that moonlight of the eyes of the people, the princess Karpúriká, has grown up, and is now in the full bloom of youth. And her father, the king here, desires to have her married, but the haughty girl detests men, and will not consent. And when my daughter, who is her friend, put this question to her ‘My dear, why do you not desire marriage, the only fruit of a daughter’s birth?’ she answered, ’My dear, I remember my former birth, and the cause is something which happened then; hear it.”

On the shore of the ocean there is a great sandal-wood tree. Near it there is a lake adorned with full-blown lotuses. I was a female swan on that lake on account of my actions in a previous birth. Once on a time, out of fear of the sea, I made a nest in that sandal-wood tree with my husband, who was a male swan. When I was dwelling in that nest, I had male offspring born to me, and suddenly a great wave of the sea came and carried them off. When the flood carried away my children, out of grief I wept and took no food; and remained in front of a linga of Śiva on the shore of the sea. Then that male swan, my husband, came to me and said—“Rise up, why do you lament your children that are dead, we shall get other ones.10 As long as life is preserved, everything can be obtained.” [398]His speech pierced my heart like an arrow, and I reflected—“Alas! males are thus wickedly regardless of their youthful offspring, and show no affection to, or compassion for their females, though they are attached to them. So of what comfort is this husband to me? Of what use is this body that brings only pain?” Thus reflecting, I prostrated myself before Śiva, and devoutly placed him in my heart, and then in front of his symbol, before the eyes of the swan, my husband, I uttered this prayer; “May I become in the next birth a princess remembering my former state,”—and thereupon I flung myself into the sea. Consequently, I have been born in this life such as you see. And because I remember the cruelty of that husband in a former birth, my mind does not feel inclined to any suitor. So I do not desire to be married; the rest is in the hands of Destiny. “This is what the princess said then in private to my daughter, and that daughter of mine came and told it to me.”

“So, my son, I have told you what you asked me. And that princess is undoubtedly destined to be your wife. For she was long ago designated by the god Śiva as the wife of the future emperor of the Vidyádharas. And I see that you are marked with all the distinguishing signs of an emperor, such as the peculiar freckle, and other marks. Perhaps you are some distinguished person brought here by Providence for that very purpose. Rise up, for the present we will see what there is in my house in the way of provision.” After the old lady had told him this, she brought him food, and he and Gomukha spent the night there. And in the morning, the prince deliberated in private with Gomukha as to the steps to be taken, and then he assumed the dress of a Páśupata ascetic, and accompanied by Gomukha, he went to the king’s gate, and roamed about in front of it, crying out again and again—“Ah my female swan! Ah my female swan!” And the people gazed at him. And when the maids beheld him thus employed, they went in astonishment and said to the princess Karpúriká; “Your Highness! we have seen at the royal gate a Páśupata ascetic who, though he has a fellow, is unfellowed in beauty,11 and he continually utters these words, ‘Ah my female swan! Ah my female swan!’ which bewilders the minds of the women.” When the princess heard this, she, as having been a swan in a former birth, was filled with curiosity, and had him, just as he was, conducted by her maids into her presence. And she saw that he was adorned with infinite beauty, like a new god of Love that had taken a vow to propitiate Śiva. And she said to him, when he looked at her with an eye expanded by curiosity, “What is this that you are continually saying, ‘Ah! my female swan! Ah! my female swan?’” Though she said this to him, he went on to say—“Ah! my female swan!” Then his companion Gomukha answered her; “I will explain this in a few words, listen, Your Highness. [399]

“In a former birth he was a swan on account of his actions in an anterior state of existence. Then he built himself a nest in a sandal-wood tree, on the bank of a great lake near the shore of the sea, and lived there with his female. And as it happened, their offspring in that nest were swept away by a wave, and his female, distracted with grief, threw herself into the sea. Then he, being grieved at separation from her, and disgusted with his bird-nature, desirous of leaving that body, made a pious wish in his heart—‘May I be in a future life a prince remembering my former state, and may this virtuous female swan be my wife, remembering her former existence also.’ Then he thought on Śiva, and scorched with the fire of grief, flung that body into the water of the sea. So he has been now born, my fair lady, as Naraváhanadatta, the son of the king of Vatsa in Kauśámbí, with the power of recollecting his former existence. When he was born, a voice said distinctly from heaven; ‘This prince shall be the emperor of all the kings of the Vidyádharas.’ In course of time, when he had become crown-prince, he was married by his father to the goddess Madanamanchuká of heavenly appearance, who had been born for a certain reason as a woman. And then the daughter of a king of the Vidyádharas named Hemaprabha, the maiden Ratnaprabhá, came of her own accord, and chose him for a husband. Nevertheless, thinking on that female swan, he does not enjoy tranquillity; and he told this to me, who have been his servant from my childhood. Then, while he was out hunting, it happened that he and I had a meeting in the forest with a holy female hermit. And in the course of conversation she said to him with favouring condescension—‘Owing to the effect of his actions the god of Love, my son, became a swan. And a heavenly female, that had fallen through a curse, became his dear wife, when he was dwelling, as a swan, in a sandal-wood tree on the bank of the sea. But she threw herself into the sea, through grief at her offspring having been carried away by the tide, and then the male swan flung himself into the sea also. He has now by the favour of Śiva been born as yourself, the son of the king of Vatsa, and you know of that former birth of yours, my son, for you remember your former existence. And that female swan has been now born in Karpúrasambhava, a city on the shore of the sea, as a princess, Karpúriká by name. Therefore, go there, my son, and win her to wife.’ When the holy female hermit had said this, she flew up into the sky and disappeared. And this lord of mine, having heard this information, immediately set out with me to come here. And being attracted by love for you, he risked his life, and after traversing a hundred difficulties, he reached the shore of the sea. There we had an interview with the carpenter, named Rájyadhara, who dwells in Hemapura, and who gave us an ingenious chariot. We have mounted on this terrible machine, as if it were our courage having taken [400]shape,12 and have crossed the perilous gulf of the sea, and arrived at this town. For this reason, queen, my master wandered about, exclaiming, ‘Ah my female swan!’ until he came into your presence. Now, from the pleasing sight of the noble moon of your countenance, he enjoys the removal of the darkness caused by the presence of innumerable woes. Now, honour your noble guest with the blue lotus garland of your look.” When Karpúriká heard this feigned speech of Gomukha’s, she thought it was true, relying on the fact that it harmonized with her own recollections. And she melted in her soul with love, and she thought, “After all this husband of mine was attached to me, and my despondency was causeless.” And she said—“I am in truth that very female swan, and I am fortunate in that my husband has for my sake endured suffering in two births. So now I am your slave, overcome by love;” and saying this, she honoured Naraváhanadatta with baths and other hospitalities. Then she informed her father of all this by the mouth of her attendants, and he, the moment he heard it, came to her. Then the king thought himself fortunate, having seen that his daughter had conceived a desire to be married, and that an appropriate suitor for her had at length arrived in Naraváhanadatta, who was marked with all the signs of a great emperor. And he gave, with all due honour, his daughter Karpúriká to Naraváhanadatta according to the prescribed form. And he gave to that son-in-law of his, at every circumambulation from left to right of the sacred fire, thirty millions of gold-pieces, and as many lumps of camphor, the heaps of which appeared like the peaks of Meru and Kailása that had witnessed the marriage of Párvatí, come to behold his magnificence. Moreover the king Karpúraka, who had attained his wish, gave Naraváhanadatta a hundred millions of excellent garments and three hundred female slaves well adorned. And Naraváhanadatta, after his marriage, remained with that Karpúriká, as if with affection incarnate in bodily form. Whose mind was not delighted at the union of that couple, which resembled the marriage of the spring-creeper and the spring-festival?

And on the next day Naraváhanadatta, who had attained his object, said to his beloved Karpúriká, “Come, let us go to Kauśámbí.” Then she answered him—“If it is to be so, why should we not go there immediately in this chariot of yours that flies through the air? If it is too small, I will furnish another large one, for there is living here a mechanic who makes ingenious chariots, who has come from a foreign land, Práṇadhara by name; I will cause him quickly to make such a chariot.” After saying this, she called the warder that kept the door, and said to him—“Go and order that chariot-maker Práṇadhara to prepare a large chariot, that will travel through the air, for us to start in.” Then the queen Karpúriká, having dismissed the warder, informed her father by the mouth of a slave [401]of her desire to depart. And while the king, on hearing it, was coming thither, Naraváhanadatta thus reflected; “This Práṇadhara is certainly the brother of Rájyadhara, whom he described as having run away from his native land through fear of his king.” While he was thus thinking, the king quickly arrived, and that mechanic Práṇadhara came with the warder, and said—“I have ready-made a very large chariot, which will easily carry at this instant thousands of men.” When the mechanic said this, Naraváhanadatta said “Bravo!” and asked him courteously; “Are you the elder brother of Rájyadhara, skilled in various very great mechanical contrivances?” And Práṇadhara answered him, bowing before him—“I am that very brother of his, but how does Your Highness know about us?” Then Naraváhanadatta told him what Rájyadhara had told him, and how he had seen him. Then Práṇadhara joyfully brought him the chariot, and he mounted it with Gomukha, after having been politely dismissed by his father-in-law the king, and after bidding farewell to him; but first he placed in it the slaves, camphor and gold. And he took with him Práṇadhara, whom the king permitted to depart, and that head-warder, and his recently married wife Karpúriká; and his mother-in-law uttered a solemn prayer for a blessing on his journey, and from those stores of splendid garments he bestowed gifts on the Bráhmans; and he said to Práṇadhara—“First let us go to Rájyadhara on the shore of the sea, and then home.” Then the chariot was driven on by Práṇadhara, and the king and his wife flew up into the air quickly by means of it, as if by his accomplished wish.13 In a moment he crossed the sea, and reached again that city of Hemapura on its shore, the abode of that Rájyadhara. There Rájyadhara bowed before him, delighted at beholding his brother, and as he had no female slaves, the prince honoured him with the gift of some, at which he greatly rejoiced. And after taking leave of Rájyadhara, whose tears flowed fast, as he could hardly bear to part from his elder brother, the prince reached Kauśámbí in that same chariot. Then the people, on beholding the prince unexpectedly descend from heaven, riding in that splendid chariot, followed by his retainers, and accompanied by his new bride, were much astonished. And his father, the king of Vatsa, having gathered from the exultations of the citizens that his son had arrived, was delighted, and went out to meet him, accompanied by the queen, the ministers, his daughter-in-law, and other persons. And the king, beholding that son prostrate at his feet with his wife, received him gladly, and thought that the fact, that he was to be the future emperor of the aerial spirits, was clearly revealed by his coming in a flying chariot. His mother Vásavadattá, with Padmávatí, embraced him, and she shed a tear, which dropped like the knot of pain loosened by seeing him. And his wife Ratnaprabhá was delighted, and Madanamanchuká [402]also, and their jealousy being overcome by love for him, they embraced his feet, and won his heart at the same time. And the prince delighted his father’s ministers, headed by Yaugandharáyaṇa, and his own, headed by Marubhúti, when they bowed before him, by rewarding them as they severally deserved. And they all, with the king of Vatsa at their head, welcomed that new wife Karpúriká, who bowed becomingly before them, like the goddess of Fortune arrived surrounded by a hundred immortal nymphs, even the sister-shape of Amṛita,14 openly brought by her husband, having crossed the sea adorned with its shore as a garment with a beautiful fringe. And the king of Vatsa honoured that warder of her father’s, giving him many crores of gold-pieces, garments and lumps of camphor, which had been brought in the chariot. And the king then honoured Práṇadhara as the benefactor of his son Naraváhanadatta, who had pointed him out as the maker of the chariot. And then the king honoured Gomukha, and asked him joyfully, “How did you obtain this princess? And how did you start from this place?” And then Gomukha deftly told the king of Vatsa, with his wives and ministers, in private, the whole adventure, as it took place, beginning with their going to the forest to hunt,——how they met the female hermit, and how they crossed the sea by means of the chariot provided by Rájyadhara, and how Karpúriká was obtained with her female attendants, though she was averse to marriage, and how they returned by the way by which they went, in a chariot which they obtained by finding Práṇadhara. Then all of them, shaking their heads in astonishment and joy, said—“To think of the concurrence of all these circumstances, the chase, and the female ascetic, the carpenter Rájyadhara skilled in mechanical contrivances found on the shore of the sea, the crossing the ocean in the chariot that he made, and that another maker of these chariots should have previously reached the other side of the ocean! The truth is, Destiny takes trouble to provide the fortunate with the means of obtaining prosperous success.” Then all respectfully commended Gomukha for his devotion to his lord. And they praised queen Ratnaprabhá, who by her knowledge protected her lord on his journey, for she produced general satisfaction by acting like a woman devoted to her husband. Then Naraváhanadatta, having made his party of air-travellers forget the fatigues of their journey, entered his palace with his father, and mother, his wives and other relations. Then his treasury was filled with heaps of gold by the friends and relations who came to see him, and whom he honoured, and he loaded Práṇadhara and his father-in-law’s warder with wealth. And Práṇadhara, immediately after he had taken food, respectfully addressed this petition to him—“Prince, king Karpúriká gave us the following [403]order—‘You must come back quickly as soon as my daughter has reached her husband’s palace, in order that I may have early news of her arrival.’ So we must certainly go there quickly this very moment; give us a letter from Karpúriká to the king written with her own hand. For otherwise the heart of the king, which is attached to his daughter, will not take comfort. For he, never having mounted an air-chariot, fears that we may have fallen from it. So give me the letter, and permit this head-warder, who is desirous of ascending the chariot, to depart with me. But I will return here, crown-prince, and will bring my family, for I cannot abandon the two ambrosial lotuses of your feet.” When Práṇadhara said this firmly, the son of the king of Vatsa immediately made Karpúriká sit down to write that letter. It ran as follows, “My father, you must not feel anxious about me, since I share the happiness and possess the love of a good husband; was the goddess Lakshmí an object of anxiety to the ocean after she had betaken herself to the Supreme Bridegroom?” When she had written the above letter with her own hand, and given it, the son of the king of Vatsa dismissed the warder and Práṇadhara with honour. And they ascended the chariot, and produced astonishment in the minds of all, as they were seen going through the air, and crossing the sea they went to the city of Karpúrasambhava. There they delighted the king Karpúraka by reading out his daughter’s letter, which told that she had reached her husband’s palace. The next day Práṇadhara took leave of the king, and after visiting Rájyadhara, repaired with his family into the presence of Naraváhanadatta. Naraváhanadatta, when he had returned thus quickly after accomplishing his mission, gave him a dwelling near his palace and an ample allowance. And he amused himself, and his wives, by going about in the flying chariots made by him, as if rehearsing future journeyings in the skies as emperor of the Vidyádharas.

Thus, having delighted his friends, followers and wives, and obtained a third wife Karpúriká in addition to Ratnaprabhá and Madanamanchuká, the son of the king of Vatsa spent those days in happiness. [405]

Of old there was in the country of the people of Madra a town named Śákala;4 Chandraprabha, the son of Angáraprabha, was king of it, whose name expressed his nature, as he delighted the whole world, but he was like fire in that he scorched his enemies. By his wife, named Kírtimatí, there was born to that king a son, whose future glory was indicated by his exceedingly auspicious marks. And when he was born, a clear voice sounded from heaven, which rained nectar into the ears of king Chandraprabha, “This king, now born, named Súryaprabha, is appointed by Śiva as the future emperor over the kings of the Vidyádharas. Then that prince Súryaprabha grew up in the house of his father, who was distinguished by the delightful favour of the enemy of Pura,5 and he being very clever, gradually acquired, while still a child, all knowledge and all the accomplishments by sitting at the feet of a teacher; and then, when he was sixteen years old, and captivated the subjects by his virtues, his father Chandraprabha appointed him crown-prince, and he gave him the sons of his own ministers, many in number, Bhása, Prabhása, Siddhártha, Prahasta and others. And while he was bearing with them the burden of a crown-prince’s duty, one day a great Asura of the name of Maya came there, and Maya went up in the assembly-hall to king Chandraprabha, who welcomed him, and said to him in the presence of Súryaprabha, “King, this son of yours, Súryaprabha, has been appointed as the future emperor of the kings of the Vidyádharas by Śiva; so why does he not acquire the magic sciences that will put him in possession of the dignity? For this reason I am sent here by the god Śiva. Permit me to take him, and teach him the right method of employing the sciences, which will be the cause of his obtaining the sovereignty of the Vidyádharas. For he has a rival in this business, a lord of the sky-goers named Śrutaśarman; he too has been appointed by Śiva. But this prince, after acquiring the power of the sciences, shall conquer him with our help, and become emperor over the lords of the Vidyádharas.” When Maya said this, king Chandraprabha said—“We are fortunate; let this auspicious one be taken by you wherever you wish.” Then Maya took leave of the king, and quickly carried off to Pátála Súryaprabha and his ministers, whom the king permitted to depart. [407]There he taught the prince ascetic practices of such a kind, that by means of them the prince and his ministers quickly acquired the sciences. And he taught him also the art of providing himself with magic chariots, so that he acquired a chariot named Bhútásana. Then Maya brought Súryaprabha, mounted on that chariot, with his ministers, having acquired the sciences, back to his own city from Pátála. And after he had led him into the presence of his parents, he said to him, “Now I depart, enjoy here all the enjoyments given by your magic knowledge until I return.” After saying this, the Asura Maya departed, after having been duly honoured, and king Chandraprabha rejoiced in his son’s having acquired the sciences.

Then Súryaprabha, by virtue of the sciences, was continually roaming through many countries in his chariot, with his ministers, to amuse himself. And wherever any princess beheld him, she was immediately bewildered by love, and chose him for her husband. The first was the virgin daughter of the king of Támraliptí, who was called Vírabhaṭa; her name was Madanasená, and she was the first beauty of the world. The second was Chandrikávatí the daughter of Subhaṭa, the emperor of the western border, who had been carried off by the Siddhas and left somewhere else. And the third was the famous daughter of Kumbhíra, the king of the city of Kánchí, Varuṇasená by name, remarkable for her beauty. And the fourth was the daughter of king Paurava, sovereign of Lávánaka, Sulochaná by name, with lovely eyes. And the fifth was the daughter of king Suroha, the lord of the land of China, Vidyunmálá with charming limbs, yellow as gold. And the sixth was the daughter of king Kántisena, ruler in the land of Śríkaṇṭha, surpassing in beauty the Apsarases. And the seventh was Parapushṭá, the daughter of king Janamejaya, the lord of the city of Kauśámbí, a sweet-voiced maid. And though the relations of these maidens, who were carried off by a surprise, found out what had happened, still, as the prince was confident in the might of his supernatural science, they were pliant as canes. These wives also acquired the sciences, and Súryaprabha associated with them all at the same time, taking many bodies by his magic skill. Then he amused himself, in the company of these wives, and of the ministers Prahasta and others, with roaming in the air, with concerts, drinking-parties and other amusements. Possessing heavenly skill in painting, he drew the Vidyádhara females, and in that way, and by making sportive sarcastic speeches, he enraged those charmers, and he was amused at their faces, furrowed with frowns, and with reddened eyes, and at their speeches, the syllables of which faltered on their trembling lips. And that prince went with his wives to Támraliptí, and roaming through the air sported in the gardens with Madanasená. And having left his wives there, he went in the chariot Bhútásana, and accompanied by Prahasta only, visited the city called Vajrarátra. There he carried off the [408]daughter of king Rambha before his eyes, Tárávalí by name, who was enamoured of him, and burning with the fire of love. And he came back to Támraliptí, and there carried off again another maiden princess, by name Vilásiní. And when her haughty brother Sahasráyudha was annoyed at it, he paralyzed him by his supernatural power. And he also stupefied Sahasráyudha’s mother’s brother, who came with him, and all his retainers, and made his head shorn of hair, because he wished to carry off his beloved ones. But though he was angry, he spared to slay them both, because they were his wife’s relatives, but he taunted them, who were downcast on account of the overthrow of their pride, and let them go. Then Súryaprabha, surrounded by nine wives, having been summoned by his father, returned in his chariot to his city Śákala.

And then king Vírabhaṭa sent from Támraliptí an ambassador to Súryaprabha’s father, king Chandraprabha, and gave him the following message to deliver—“Your son has carried off my two daughters, but let that be, for he is a desirable husband for them, as he is a master of supernatural sciences, but, if you love us, come here now, in order that we may make a friendship based upon the due performance of marriage rites and hospitality.” Thereupon king Chandraprabha rewarded the messenger, and determined that he would quickly start for that place on the morrow. But he sent Prahasta, as an ambassador to Vírabhaṭa, in order to make sure of his sincerity, and gave him Bhútásana to travel in. Prahasta went quickly and had an interview with king Vírabhaṭa, and questioned him about the business, and was informed and highly honoured by him,6 and promised him, who smiled graciously, that his masters would come early next morning, and then he returned in a moment to Chandraprabha through the air. And he told that king that Vírabhaṭa was ready to receive him. The king, for his part, being pleased, shewed honour to that minister of his son’s. Then king Chandraprabha with queen Kírtimatí, and Súryaprabha with Vilásiní and Madanasená, mounted that chariot Bhútásana, and went off early next day with retinue and ministers. In one watch only of the day they reached Támraliptí, being beheld, as they passed through the air, by the people with eyes the lashes of which were upraised through wonder. And descending from the sky, they entered the city side by side with king Vírabhaṭa, who came out to meet them; the beautiful streets of the town were irrigated at every step with sandal-wood water, and seemed to be strewed with blue lotuses by means of the sidelong glances of the city ladies. There Vírabhaṭa honoured his connexion and his son-in-law, and duly performed the marriage ceremony of his daughters. And king Vírabhaṭa gave at the marriage-altar of those daughters, a thousand loads of pure gold, and a hundred camels laden with burdens of ornaments made of jewels; and five [409]hundred camels laden with loads of various garments, and fifty thousand horses, and five thousand elephants, and a thousand lovely women adorned with beauty and jewels. And moreover he gratified his son-in-law Súryaprabha and his parents with valuable jewels and territories. And he duly honoured his ministers, Prahasta and others, and he made a feast at which all the people of the city rejoiced. And Súryaprabha remained there in the company of his parents, and his beloved wives, enjoying delights, consisting of various dainties, wines, and music.

In the meanwhile an ambassador arrived from Rambha in Vajrarátra, and in the hall of assembly delivered this message from his master: “The crown-prince Súryaprabha, confiding in the might of his sciences, has insulted us by carrying off our daughter. But to-day we have come to know, that he has undertaken to be reconciled to king Vírabhaṭa, whose misfortune is the same as ours. If in the same way you agree to be reconciled to us, come here also quickly, if not, we will in this matter salve our honour by death.” When king Chandraprabha heard that, he honoured the ambassador, and said to him, “Go to that Rambha and give him this message from me: ‘Why do you afflict yourself without cause? For Súryaprabha is now appointed by Śiva the future emperor of the Vidyádharas; and inspired sages have declared that your daughter and others are to be his wives. So your daughter has attained her proper place, but you being stern were not asked for her. So be appeased, you are our friend, we will come to your residence also.’” When Prahasta received this message from the king, he went through the air, and in a single watch he reached Vajrarátra. There he told his message to Rambha, and having been gladly received by him, he returned as he came, and reported it to king Chandraprabha. Then Chandraprabha sent his minister Prabhása, and had king Rambha’s daughter Tárávalí conducted to him from Śákala. Then he departed in the air-chariot with Súryaprabha, being dismissed with great honour by king Vírabhaṭa and all others. And he reached Vajrarátra, which was full of people awaiting his arrival, and was met by Rambha, and entered his palace. There Rambha, having performed the great feast of the marriage ceremony, gave his daughter countless stores of gold, elephants, horses, jewels, and other valuables. And he gratified so lavishly his son-in-law Súryaprabha, that he forgot all his own luxuries. And while they were remaining there delighted with feasts, an ambassador came from the city of Kánchí to Rambha. Rambha having heard his message, said to king Chandraprabha—“King, the lord of Kánchí, named Kumbhíra, is my elder brother; he has to-day sent me a trustworthy messenger to speak this speech; ‘Súryaprabha first carried off my daughter, then yours. And now you have made friendship with him and his father, as I hear, so bring about my friendship also with them. Let them come to my house, that I may with my own hand [410]give my daughter Varuṇasená to Súryaprabha.’ So grant this request of my brother’s.” When Rambha made this request, Chandraprabha granted it, and sent Prahasta and had Varuṇasená brought quickly from the city of Śákala to her father Kumbhíra. And the next day, he and Súryaprabha and Rambha, and Vírabhaṭa and all, with their attendants, went to the city of Kánchí. And after they had been met by Kumbhíra, they entered the city of Kánchí, as it were the girdle of the earth, full of many jewels and adorned with excellences.7 There Kumbhíra bestowed his daughter on Súryaprabha with the usual ceremonies, and gave much wealth to the young couple.

And when the marriage had taken place, Prahasta, after taking food, said to Chandraprabha, who was all joyfulness, in the presence of all, “King, in the country of Śríkaṇṭha I had an interview with the king of that land; there king Kántisena whom I thus happened to see, said to me—‘Let Súryaprabha come to my house with that daughter of mine, whom he has carried off, I will perform the ceremony for him according to rule. If he refuses, I will abandon the body, distracted by love for my daughter.’ This is what he then said to me, and I have now mentioned it on the proper occasion.” When Prahasta said this, king Chandraprabha answered, “Go then, take Kántimatí to him, we will go there also.” When the king said this to him, Prahasta went off that moment through the air, and did as he had commanded. And next morning Chandraprabha and all, with Kumbhíra, went to the land of Śríkaṇṭha in the air-travelling chariot. There king Kántisena came to meet them, and making them enter his palace, performed the auspicious ceremony of his daughter’s marriage. Then he gave to Kántimatí and Súryaprabha an endless quantity of jewels, which excited the wonder of the kings.

While they were all remaining there, enjoying all kinds of pleasures, a messenger came from Kauśámbí and said—“King Janamejaya sends this message to your honours, ‘My daughter, of the name of Parapushṭá, has been carried off by some one lately. And I have found out to-day, that she has come into the power of Súryaprabha, so let him come with her to my house without fear. I will perform the marriage ceremony according to rule, and so dismiss him with his wife, otherwise you will be my enemies, and I shall be yours.’” Having thus delivered his master’s message, the ambassador remained silent: then king Chandraprabha said to them apart—“How can we go to the house of that king who sends such haughty messages?” When the king’s minister named Siddhártha heard that, he said, “Do not entertain wrong notions, king, for he is justified in [411]using such language. For that king is very generous, learned and sprung of a noble race, a hero, one who has offered the Aśvamedha sacrifice, ever unconquered by others. How can he have spoken anything unbecoming in speaking according to facts? And as for the enmity which he threatens, he does that now on account of Indra. So you must go to his house, for he is a king faithful to his engagements. Nevertheless send some one to find out his intentions.” When they heard this speech of Siddhártha’s, they all approved it. Then king Chandraprabha sent Prahasta to sound Janamejaya, and honoured his messenger. And Prahasta went, and after making an agreement with the king of Kauśámbí, brought a letter from him, and satisfied Chandraprabha. The king quickly sent that Prahasta, and had Parapushṭá conducted from Śákala to Janamejaya. Then Chandraprabha and the other kings, preceded by Súryaprabha,8 with Kántisena, went to Kauśámbí in the chariot. There the king Janamejaya courteously honoured his son-in-law, and his connexion and all the others, by advancing to meet them, and other ceremonies. And after he had performed the ceremony of the marriage-rite, he gave five thousand elephants and one hundred thousand excellent horses, and also five thousand camels laden with full burdens of jewels, gold, precious apparel, camphor and aloes-wood. And he made such a feast, that even the realm of Pluto was exclusively engaged in dancing and music, a feast in which excellent Bráhmans were honoured, and all kings gratified.

And in the meanwhile the heaven there suddenly became red, as if indicating that it would soon be dyed crimson with blood. And the sky suddenly became full of confused hurtling noises, as if terrified at beholding a hostile army coming in the air. And a mighty wind immediately began to blow, as if exciting the inhabitants of earth to war against the wanderers of the air. And immediately a great Vidyádhara army was seen in the air, illuminating with brightness the circle of the horizon, loud-shouting, impetuous. And in the midst of it Súryaprabha and the others beheld with astonishment a very handsome heavenly youth. And at that moment the herald of the Vidyádharas proclaimed with a loud voice in front of that youth, whose name was Dámodara: “Victory to the crown-prince Dámodara son of king Ásháḍha! O mortal, dweller on the earth, Súryaprabha, fall at his feet. And do homage, O Janamejaya; why have you given your daughter to an undeserver? Propitiate, both of you, this god at once, otherwise he will not be appeased.” When Súryaprabha heard this, and saw that army, he was wroth, and seizing his sword and shield, he flew up into the heaven by his science. And all his ministers flew up after him, with their weapons in their hands, Prahasta, and Prabhása, [412]and Bhása, and Siddhártha, and Prajnáḍhya, and Sarvadamana, and Vítabhíti and Śubhankara. And the Vidyádharas fought a great fight with them. And on one side Súryaprabha, and on the other Dámodara advanced, not slaying their enemies with their swords, but receiving their weapons on their shields. Those men, few in number, and those air-roamers, a hundred thousand in number, found equality in battle, fighting with one another. And all sword-blades there flashed red with blood, falling on the heads of heroes, like the glances of the god of death. And the Vidyádharas fell on the earth with their heads and their bodies, in front of Chandraprabha, as if imploring protection out of fear. Súryaprabha shone in the world with the glory of the Vidyádharas which he had seen. The sky was red with blood, as if with vermilion shed abroad. And Súryaprabha at last reached, and fought face to face with Dámodara, who was armed with a sword and a shield. And as he fought, he broke through his enemy’s guard by a skilful management of his weapons, and laid him on the earth, having cleft his shield with his sword. And while he was preparing to cut off the head of his struggling foe, Vishṇu came and made a threatening sound in the sky. Then Súryaprabha, having heard that sound, and having beheld Hari, prostrated himself, and out of respect for the god spared to slay Dámodara. Hari carried him off somewhere as his votary, and saved him from death, for the adorable one delivers in this world and the next his faithful followers. And the troops of Dámodara fled in different directions. Súryaprabha, for his part, descended from heaven to his father’s side. And his father Chandraprabha welcomed him, on his returning unwounded with his ministers, and the other kings praised him, now that his valour had been seen.

And while they were all engaged in joyfully talking over the combat, another ambassador, belonging to Subhaṭa, arrived there. And he came and delivered a letter in the presence of Chandraprabha; and Siddhártha, opening it, read it out in the assembly: It ran as follows, “The august king Chandraprabha, the pearl-jewel of a noble race, is thus respectfully solicited by king Subhaṭa in the Concan. We have learnt that our daughter, who was carried off by some being in the night, has come into the hands of thy son, and we rejoice thereat. Make an effort, thou and thy son Súryaprabha, to come with her to our house, without raising any objection, in order that we may behold our daughter, returned as it were from the other world, and perform for her at once the ceremony required for marriage.” When this letter was read by Siddhártha, the king Chandraprabha, consenting, welcomed the messenger and rejoiced. And he quickly sent Prahasta to the western border, and had Subhaṭa’s daughter Chandrikávatí conducted into her father’s presence. And the next morning they all went, with Súryaprabha in front, and in company with Janamejaya, in the chariot to the western border. There king Subhaṭa, pleased at recovering his daughter, shewed them [413]much honour, and celebrated his daughter’s marriage festival. And he bestowed on Chandrikávatí jewels and other gifts in such liberal profusion, that Vírabhaṭa and the others were ashamed at what they had given. Then, while Súryaprabha was remaining there in the house of his father-in-law, there came from Lávánaka also an ambassador belonging to king Paurava. He delivered to Chandraprabha this message from his master, “My daughter Sulochaná has been carried off by the fortunate prince Súryaprabha: that does not grieve me; but why should he not be brought with her to my house, in order that we may perform the marriage ceremony?” When king Chandraprabha heard that, he honoured the messenger in his joy, and had Sulochaná escorted by Prahasta into the presence of her father. Then they, Subhaṭa and all, in the company of Súryaprabha, went to Lávánaka in the chariot, that came as soon as it was thought of. There Paurava performed the joyful marriage ceremony, and bestowed jewels liberally on Súryaprabha and Sulochaná, and honoured the kings also. And while they were remaining there in delight, entertained by the king, Suroha, the king of China, also sent an ambassador. That king, like the others, requested by the mouth of the ambassador that, as his daughter had been carried off, they would come with her to his palace.

Then king Chandraprabha was delighted, and he had the king of China’s daughter, Vidyunmálá, also conducted by Prahasta to her father’s house. And on the next day Chandraprabha and all went, including Paurava, together with Súryaprabha and his retinue, to the land of China. There the king came out to meet them, and led them into his own treasure-chamber, and there performed the marriage ceremony of his daughter. And he gave to Vidyunmálá and Súryaprabha an immense quantity of gold, elephants, horses, jewels and silk garments. And being invited by Suroha, Chandraprabha and the others continued there for some days in various enjoyments. And Súryaprabha, who was in the prime of youth, was adorned by that Vidyunmálá,9 as the rainy season, when the clouds abound, is adorned by the lightning-garland.

Thus Súryaprabha and his relatives, accompanied by his various charmers, enjoyed delights here and there in the houses of his fathers-in-law. Then he took counsel with Siddhártha and his other ministers, and dismissed one by one to their own lands Vírabhaṭa and the other kings, with numbers of horses, and then took leave of that king Suroha, and accompanied by his daughter, with his own parents and followers ascended that chariot Bhútásana, and went triumphant to his own city of Śákala. In that city great rejoicing took place on account of his arrival; in one place there was the occupation of dancing, in another the delight of music; in one place the amusement of drinking, in another the toilet-rites [414]of fair-eyed ladies; in another the voice of bards loud in the praise of him who had obtained what he desired. Then he had brought his other wives, who had remained in their fathers’ houses, and with the stores of elephants and horses bestowed by their fathers, that were brought with them, and with the innumerable camels bowed down with burdens full of various jewels, he displayed in sport the wealth obtained by the conquest of the world, and aroused the wonder of his subjects.

Then Śákala, inhabited by that fortunate one, appeared glorious, as if the chiefs of the gods, of the followers of Kuvera, and of the snakes, had made in it many deposits of much wealth. Then Súryaprabha dwelt there with Madanasená, enjoying the pleasures he desired, happy in that all blessings were fully bestowed upon him, in the society of his parents, with his ministers, accompanied by his other wives, expecting every day Maya, who had made a promise to return.

In a former Kalpa6 there was a certain Bráhman, of the name of Kála. He went to the holy bathing-place Pushkara and muttered prayers day and night. While he was muttering, two myriads of years of the gods passed away. Then there appeared a great light inseparable from his head, which, streaming forth in the firmament like ten thousand suns,7 impeded the movement of the Siddhas and others there, and set the three worlds on fire. Then Brahmá, Indra and the other gods came to him and said—“Bráhman, these worlds are on fire with your brightness. Receive whatever boon you desire.” He answered them—“Let me have no other pleasure than muttering prayers, this is my boon, I choose nothing else.” When they importuned him, that mutterer of prayers went far off and remained on the north side of the Himálayas, muttering prayers. When this extraordinary brightness of his gradually became intolerable even there, Indra sent heavenly nymphs to tempt him. That self-restrained man did not care a straw about them, when they endeavoured to seduce him. Then the gods sent him Death as plenipotentiary. He came to him and said—“Bráhman, mortals do not live so long, so abandon your life; do not break the law of nature.” When the Bráhman heard this, he said—“If the limit of my life is attained, why do you not take me? What are you waiting for? But I will not of myself abandon my life, O thou god with [419]the noose in hand; indeed, if I were wilfully to abandon my life, I should be a self-murderer.” When he said this, and Death found that he could not take him on account of his power, he turned away from him and returned as he came. Then Indra repenting seized that Kála,8 who had conquered Time the destroyer, in his arms, and took him up to heaven by force. There he remained averse to the sensual enjoyments of the place, and he did not cease from muttering prayers, so the gods made him descend again, and he returned to the Himálayas. And while all the gods were trying to induce him there to take a boon, the king Ikshváku came that way. When he heard how affairs stood, he said to that mutterer of prayers, “If you will not receive a boon from the gods, receive one from me.” When the mutterer of prayers heard that, he laughed, and said to the king—“Are you able to grant me a boon, when I will not receive one even from the gods?” Thus he spoke, and Ikshváku answered the Bráhman—“If I am not able to grant you a boon, you can grant me one; so grant me a boon.” Then the mutterer said—“Choose whatever you desire, and I will grant it.” When the king heard this, he reflected in his mind: “The appointed order is that I should give, and that he should receive; this is an inversion of the due order, that I should receive what he gives.” Whilst the king was delaying, as he pondered over this difficulty, two Bráhmans came there disputing; when they saw the king they appealed to him for a decision. The first said, “This Bráhman gave me a cow with a sacrificial fee: why will he not receive it from my hand, when I offer to give it back to him?” Then the other said, “I did not receive it first, and I did not ask for it, then why does he wish to make me receive it by force?” When the king heard this, he said—“This complainant is not in the right; why, after receiving the cow, do you try to compel the man, who gave it, to take it back from you?” When the king said this, Indra, having found his opportunity, said to him—“King, if you hold this view of what is right, then, after you have asked the Bráhman, who mutters prayers, for a boon, why do you not take it from him when it is granted?” Then the king, being at a loss for an answer, said to that muttering Bráhman—“Revered sir, give me the fruit of half your muttering as a boon.” Then the muttering Bráhman said—“Very well, receive the fruit of half my muttering,” and so he gave the king a boon. By means of that boon the king obtained access to all the worlds, and that muttering Bráhman obtained the world of the gods called Śivas.9 There he remained for many kalpas, and then returned to earth, and by mystic contemplation obtained independence, and gained everlasting supernatural power. [420]

“Thus this supernatural power is desired by wise men, who are averse to heaven and such low enjoyments; and you have obtained it, O king, so, being independent, enter your own body.” When Maya said this to king Chandraprabha, after communicating to him the doctrine of mystic contemplation giving supernatural power,10 he and his wife and his son and his ministers rejoiced exceedingly.

Then the king, with his son and companions, was led by Maya to a second under-world, and made to enter a splendid city. And there they saw a gigantic hero, reclining at full length upon a beautiful couch, as if asleep, anointed with potent herbs and ghee, awful from the ghastly transformation of his features, surrounded by the daughters of the kings of the Daityas, with their lotus-faces full of melancholy. Then Maya said to Chandraprabha:—“This is your body, surrounded by your former brides, enter it.”—The king had recourse to the magic contemplation taught by Maya, and entered the body of that hero, abandoning his own frame.11 Then the hero yawned slowly, opened his eyes, and rose up from the bed, as if awaking out of sleep. Then a shout arose from the delighted Asura brides, “Happy are we, that our husband, the god Sunítha, is to-day restored to life.” But Súryaprabha and the others were immediately despondent, beholding the body of Chandraprabha lying lifeless. But Chandraprabha-Sunítha, appearing as if risen from a refreshing sleep, saw Maya, and falling at his feet honoured his father. That father too embraced him and asked him in the presence of all,—“Do you remember both your lives, my son?” He said; “I do remember them,” and related what had happened to him in his life as Chandraprabha, and also what had happened to him in his life as Sunítha, and he comforted one by one Súryaprabha and the others, and also his queens, mentioning each by name, and also the Dánava ladies, his wives in his first life. And he preserved the body, which he had as Chandraprabha, carefully laid by, embalmed by means of drugs and ghee, saying, “It may possibly be useful to me.” Then Súryaprabha and the others, tranquil now that they had gained confidence, bowed before him, and joyfully congratulated him.

Then Maya, having conducted all of them in high delight out of that city, led them to another city adorned with gold and jewels. When they entered [421]it, they beheld a lake of the appearance of beryl, filled with nectar, and they all sat down on the bank of it. And they drank that nectarous draught there, more excellent than the water of life, in curiously ornamented cups formed of jewels, which were brought to them by the wives of Sunítha. And by that draught they all rose up, as from a sleep of intoxication, and became possessed of divine bodies, and of great strength and courage.

Then the Asura Maya said to Chandraprabha-Sunítha, “Come, my son, let us go, and see your mother after so long a separation.” And Sunítha said “So be it,” and prepared to go conducted by Maya, and so proceeded to the fourth under-world with Súryaprabha and the others. There they beheld curious cities made of various metals, and at last they all reached a city built entirely of gold. There, on a pillar composed of jewels adorned with every luxury, they beheld that mother of Sunítha, the wife of Maya, by name Lílávatí, surpassing in beauty the nymphs of heaven, surrounded with Asura maidens, and adorned with all ornaments. The moment she beheld that Sunítha, she rose up in a state of excitement, and Sunítha, after saluting her, fell at her feet. Then she embraced with gushing tears the son, whom she once more held in her arms after so long an interval, and again praised her husband Maya, who was the cause of her regaining him. Then Maya said—“Queen, your other son Sumundíka has been born again as the son of your son, and here he is, Súryaprabha by name. He has been appointed by the god Śiva the future emperor of the Vidyádharas, and is destined to rule over them in the body which he now possesses.” When Súryaprabha heard this, and saw her look at him with an eye of longing affection, he and his ministers fell at her feet. And Lílávatí gave him her blessing, and said to him—“My darling, you do not require the body of Sumundíka, in this you are sufficiently glorious.” When his sons were thus triumphant, Maya called to mind his daughter Mandodarí, and Vibhíshaṇa, and when called to mind, they came. And Vibhíshaṇa, welcomed with triumphant rejoicings, said to him—“O prince of the Dánavas, if you will listen to my advice, I will give it you. You are among the Dánavas singularly virtuous and prosperous, so you ought not to take up a causeless enmity against the gods. For you will gain nothing but death from your hostility to them. For Asuras have been slain in battle by the gods, but not gods by Asuras.” When Maya heard this, he said—“We are not forcing on war, but if Indra violently makes war on us, tell me, how can we remain passive? And as for those Asuras who were slain by the gods, they were reckless, but did the gods slay Bali and others who were not infatuated?” That king of the Rákshasas having, with his wife Mandodarí, been addressed with these and similar speeches by Maya, took leave of him, and went to his own dwelling.

Then Sunítha, with Súryaprabha and the others, was conducted to the [422]third under-world to visit king Bali. In that world, which surpassed even heaven, they all beheld Bali, adorned with chain and tiara, surrounded with Daityas and Dánavas. Sunítha and his companions fell at his feet in due order, and he honoured them with appropriate welcome. And Bali was delighted with the tidings related by Maya, and he quickly had summoned Prahláda and the other Dánavas. Sunítha and the others honoured them also by falling at their feet, and they, being full of joy, congratulated them, as they bent before them. Then Bali said, “Sunítha became Chandraprabha on the earth, and now is restored to life for us by regaining his body. And we have also gained Súryaprabha, who is an incarnation of Sumundíka. And he has been appointed by Śiva the future emperor of the Vidyádharas: and by the power of the sacrifice offered by Chandraprabha my bonds have been relaxed. So without doubt we have gained prosperity by recovering these.” When Śukra, the spiritual adviser of the Dánavas, heard this speech of Bali’s, he said, “In truth those who act according to right never fail of prosperity in any matter; so act according to right, and do on this occasion also what I bid you.” When the Dánavas, the princes of the seven under-worlds, who were assembled there, heard that, they agreed to it and bound themselves so to act. And Bali made a feast there, out of joy at the recovery of Sunítha.

In the meanwhile the hermit Nárada arrived there again, and after taking the argha, he sat down, and said to those Dánavas, “I have been sent here by Indra, and he in truth says this to you, ‘I am exceedingly delighted at the fact that Sunítha has come back to life; so you must not take up a causeless enmity against me, and you must not fight against my ally Śrutaśarman.’” When the hermit had thus delivered Indra’s message, Prahláda said to him, “Of course Indra is pleased that Sunítha has come back to life, how could it be otherwise? But we at any rate are not taking up causeless hostility. This very day we all took an engagement that we would not do so, in the presence of our spiritual adviser. But if Indra makes himself a partizan12 of Śrutaśarman, and violently opposes us, how are we to be blamed for it? For Súryaprabha’s ally, Śiva, the god of gods, has long ago appointed him, because he propitiated him first. So what have we to do with this matter which has been settled by the lord Śiva? It is clear that this, which Indra says, is without cause, and not right.” When Prahláda, the king of the Dánavas said this to Nárada, he blamed Indra by expressing his agreement with it, and disappeared. When he had gone, Uśanas13 said to the kings of the Dánavas—“Indra is evidently determined to oppose us in this matter. But, as Śiva has decidedly girded up his loins to shew us favour, what is his power, or what will his [423]reliance upon Vishṇu do?” The Dánavas heard and approved this speech of Śukra’s, and taking leave of Bali and Prahláda, went to their own homes. Then Prahláda went to the fourth under-world, his habitation, and king Bali, rising up from the assembly, retired within. And Maya and Sunítha and the others, Súryaprabha and all, bowed before Bali, and went to their own habitations. After they had eaten and drunk there sufficiently, Lílávatí, the mother of Sunítha, came to him and said, “My son, you know that these wives of yours are the daughters of mighty ones, Tejasvatí being the daughter of the god of wealth, Mangalávatí of Tumburu; and as for Kírtimatí, that wife that you married in your existence as Chandraprabha, her you know to be the daughter of the Vasu Prabháva, so you must look upon these three with an equal eye, my son.” After saying this, she commended to him his three principal wives. Then, that night, Sunítha entered his sleeping apartment with the eldest, Tejasvatí.

But Súryaprabha, in another chamber, with his ministers, reclined on a couch without any of his wives that night. And the goddess of sleep did not come to him, who remained continually alone, saying to herself, “What is the use of this unloving man, who leaves his wives outside?” And she would not approach Prahasta out of jealousy, as he was so exclusively in love with the cares of his official duties, but the other ministers around Súryaprabha went to sleep comfortably. In the meanwhile Súryaprabha and Prahasta beheld an incomparable maiden entering, accompanied by a female friend. She was so beautiful that Providence seemed, after creating her, to have placed her in the lower regions in order that the nymphs of heaven, also his creation, might not be eclipsed by her. And while Súryaprabha was debating who she might be, she approached each of his friends, one by one, and looked at them; and as they did not possess the distinguishing marks of emperors, she left them, and seeing that Súryaprabha possessed them, she approached him, who was lying in the midst of them; and she said to her friend—“Here he is, my friend; so touch him on the feet, wake him up with those hands of yours cool as water.” When her friend heard that, she did so, and Súryaprabha ceased to feign sleep, and opened his eyes, and beholding those maidens, he said—“Who are you, and why do you come here?” When the friend of the lady heard that, she said to him—“Listen, king, in the second under-world there is a victorious king named Amíla, a chieftain of the Daityas, the son of Hiraṇyáksha; this is his daughter Kalávatí whom he loves more than life. Her father came back to-day from the court of Bali, and said—‘I am fortunate in that I have to-day beheld Sunítha once more restored to life; and I have also seen the young man Súryaprabha, an incarnation of Sumundíka, who has been brought into the world by Śiva as the future emperor of the Vidyádharas. So I will now offer a congratulatory tribute to Sunítha,——I will give my daughter Kalávatí to [424]Súryaprabha, for she cannot be given to Sunítha because she belongs to the same family; but Súryaprabha is his son in his birth as a king, not in his birth as an Asura, and any honour paid to his son will be paid to him.’ When my friend heard this speech of her father’s, her mind being attracted by your virtues, she came here out of a curiosity to see you.” When that friend of the lady’s said this, Súryaprabha pretended to be asleep in order to discover the real object of her wish. The maiden slowly approached the sleepless Prahasta, and after telling him all by the mouth of her friend, went out. And Prahasta advanced towards Súryaprabha and said—“King, are you awake or not?” And he, opening his eyes, said to him, “My friend, I am awake, for how could I sleep to-day being alone? But I will tell you a strange fact; listen, for what can I hide from you? I saw a moment ago a maiden enter here with her friend; her equal is not beheld in these three worlds. And she departed in a moment, taking my heart with her. So look for her at once, for she must be somewhere hereabout.” When Súryaprabha said this to him, Prahasta went out, and seeing the maiden there with her friend, he said to her—“I, to please you, have again woke up my master here, so you, to please me, must once more grant him an interview. Behold once more his form that gives satisfaction to your eyes,14 and let him, who was overpowered by you as soon as he saw you, behold you again. For when he woke up, he said to me speaking of you, ‘Bring her from some place or other, and shew her to me, otherwise I cannot survive.’ Then I came to you, so come and behold him yourself.” When she was thus addressed by Prahasta, she hesitated to go in boldly, owing to the modesty natural to a maiden, and reflected, and then Prahasta, seizing her hand, led her into the presence of Súryaprabha. And Súryaprabha, when he saw that Kalávatí had come near him, said—“Fair one, was this right of you to come in to-day and steal away my heart, as you did, when I was asleep? So, thief, I will not leave you unpunished to-day.” When her sly friend heard this, she said to him; “Since her father knew of it before, and determined to assign this thief to you for punishment, who can forbid you to punish her. Why do you not inflict on her to your heart’s content the punishment due for thieving?” When Súryaprabha heard that, he wanted to embrace her, but Kalávatí being modest, said, “Do not, my husband, I am a maiden.” Then Prahasta said to her; “Do not hesitate, my queen, for the Gándharva marriage is the best of all marriages in the world.” When Prahasta had said this, he went out with all the rest, and Súryaprabha that very moment made Kalávatí, the maiden of the under-world, his wife. [425]

And when the night came to an end, Kalávatí went to her own dwelling, and Súryaprabha went to Sunítha and Maya. They all assembled and went into the presence of Prahláda, and he, seated in the hall of audience, after honouring them appropriately, said to Maya: “We must do something to please Sunítha on this day of rejoicing, so let us all feast together.” Maya said—“Let us do so, what harm is there in this?” And then Prahláda invited by means of messengers the chiefs of the Asuras, and they came there in order from all the under-worlds. First came king Bali accompanied by innumerable great Asuras. Close behind him came Amíla and the brave Durároha and Sumáya, and Tantukachchha, and Vikaṭáksha and Prakampana, and Dhúmaketu and Mahámáya, and the other lords of the Asuras; each of these came accompanied by a thousand feudal chiefs. The hall of audience was filled with the heroes who saluted one another, and after they had sat down in order of rank, Prahláda honoured them all. And when the time of eating arrived, they all, with Maya and the others, after bathing in the Ganges, went to a great hall to dine. It was a hundred yojanas wide, and had a pavement of gold and jewels, and was adorned with jewelled pillars, and full of curiously wrought jewelled vessels. There the Asuras, in the company of Prahláda, and with Sunítha and Maya, and with Súryaprabha accompanied by his ministers, ate heavenly food of various kinds, containing all the six flavours, solid, liquid, and sweetmeats, and then drank the best of wine. And after they had eaten and drunk, they all went to another hall, which was made of jewels, and beheld the skilful dance of the Daitya and Dánava maidens. On that occasion Súryaprabha beheld the daughter of Prahláda, named Mahalliká, who came forward to dance by order of her father. She illuminated the world with her beauty, rained nectar into his eyes, and seemed like the moon-goddess15 come to the under-world out of curiosity. She had her forehead ornamented with a patch, beautiful anklets on her feet, and a smiling face, and seemed as if all made of dancing by the Creator. With her curling hair, her pointed teeth, and her breasts that filled up the whole of her chest, she seemed as it were to be creating a new style of dance. And that fair one, the moment she was beheld by Súryaprabha, forcibly robbed him of his heart, though it was claimed by others. Then she also beheld him from a distance, sitting among the Asura princes, like a second god of Love made by the Creator, when the first god of love had been burnt up by Śiva. And when she saw him, her mind was so absorbed in him, that her skill in the expression of sentiments by gesture forsook her, as if in anger at beholding her want of modesty. And the spectators beheld the emotion of those two, and brought the spectacle to an end, saying, “The princess [426]is tired.” Then Mahalliká was dismissed by her father, looking askance at Súryaprabha, and after she had bowed before the princes of the Daityas, she went home. And the princes of the Daityas went to their respective houses, and Súryaprabha too went to his dwelling at the close of day.

And when the night came, Kalávatí again came to visit him, and he slept secretly within with her, with all his followers sleeping outside. In the meanwhile Mahalliká also came there, eager to see him, accompanied by two confidantes. Then a minister of Súryaprabha’s, named Prajnáḍhya, who happened at that moment to have his eyes forsaken by sleep, saw her attempting to enter. And he, recognising her, rose up and said—“Princess, remain here a moment until I enter and come out again.” She alarmed, said—“Why are we stopped, and why are you outside?” Prajnáḍhya again said to her—“Why do you enter in this sudden way when a man is sleeping at his ease? Besides, my lord sleeps alone to-night on account of a vow.” Then the daughter of Prahláda, being ashamed, said, “So be it, enter,” and Prajnáḍhya went inside. Seeing that Kalávatí was asleep, he woke up Súryaprabha and himself told him that Mahalliká had arrived. And Súryaprabha, hearing of it, gently rose up, and went out, and beholding Mahalliká with two others, he said—“This person has been supremely blessed by your arrival, let this place be blessed also, take a seat.” When Mahalliká heard this, she sat down with her friends, and Súryaprabha also sat down, with Prajnáḍhya by his side. And when he sat down, he said—“Fair one, although you shewed contempt for me by seeming to look on others in the assembly with respect, nevertheless, O rolling-eyed one, my eyes were blessed as soon as they beheld your dancing as well as your beauty.” When Súryaprabha said this, the daughter of Prahláda answered him—“This is not my fault, noble sir,16 he is in fault, who made me ashamed in the hall of assembly by putting me beside my part in the pantomime.” When Súryaprabha heard this, he laughed and said—“I am conquered.” And then that prince seized her hand with his, and it perspired and trembled, as if afraid of the rough seizure. And she said—“Let me go, noble sir, I am a maiden under my father’s control,”—then Prajnáḍhya said to that daughter of the chief of the Asuras, “Is not there not such a thing as the Gándharva marriage of maidens? And your father, who has seen your heart, will not give you to another, moreover he will certainly do some honour to this prince here; so away with timidity! Let not such a meeting be thrown away!” While Prajnáḍhya was saying this to Mahalliká, Kalávatí woke up within. And not seeing Súryaprabha on the bed, after waiting a long time, she was terrified and apprehensive and went out. And seeing her lover in the company of Mahalliká, she was angry and ashamed and terrified. Mahalliká too, when she saw her, was terrified and angry and ashamed, [427]and Súryaprabha stood motionless like a painted picture. Kalávatí came to his side, thinking—“Now that I have been seen, how can I escape, shall I display shame or jealousy?” And she said with a spiteful intonation to Mahalliká—“How are you, my friend, how comes it that you have come here at night?” Then Mahalliká said—“This is my house; as you have arrived here from another mansion of the under-world, you are to-day my guest here.” When Kalávatí heard that, she laughed and said—“Yes, it is clearly the case that you entertain with appropriate hospitality every guest, as soon as he arrives here.” When Kalávatí said this, Mahalliká answered—“When I spoke to you kindly, why do you answer in such an unkind and spiteful way, shameless girl? Am I like you? Did I, without being bestowed in marriage by my parents, come from a distance, and in a strange place sleep in the bed of a strange man alone at night? I came to see my father’s guest, as he was going away, in accordance with the duty of hospitality, a moment ago, accompanied by two female friends. When this minister entered, after first reproaching me, I guessed the real state of the case; you have now of yourself revealed it.” When thus addressed by Mahalliká, Kalávatí departed, looking askance at her beloved with an eye red with anger. Then Mahalliká too said to Súryaprabha in wrath, “Now I will depart, man of many favourites,” and went away. And Súryaprabha remained in heartless despondency, as was reasonable, for his heart, devoted to his loved ones, went with them.

Then he woke up his minister Prabhása, and sent him to discover what Kalávatí had done, after she had separated from him in anger; and in the meanwhile he sent Prahasta to find out about Mahalliká, and he remained with Prajnáḍhya awaiting their report. Then Prabhása returned from investigating the proceedings of Kalávatí, and being questioned, he said as follows: “From this place I went to the private apartment of Kalávatí in the second under-world, concealing myself by my science. And outside it I heard the conversation of two maids. The one said, ‘My friend, why is Kalávatí distressed to-day?’ Then the second said—‘My friend, hear the reason. There is at present in the fourth under-world an incarnation of Sumundíka, named Súryaprabha, who in beauty surpasses the god of Love; she went secretly and gave herself to him. And when she had repaired to him to-day of her own accord at night-fall, Mahalliká, the daughter of Prahláda, chose to come there too. Our mistress had a jealous quarrel with her, and was in consequence preparing to slay herself, when, she was seen by her sister Sukhávatí and saved. And then she went inside, and flinging herself down on a bed, she remained with that sister, who was despondent when she had learnt by enquiry what had taken place.’ When I had heard this conversation of the two maids, I entered the apartment, and beheld Kalávatí and Sukhávatí, who resembled one another exactly.” [428]

While Prabhása was saying this to Súryaprabha in private, Prahasta also came there, and being questioned, he said as follows—“When I arrived from this place at the private apartment of Mahalliká, she entered despondent with her two intimate friends. And I entered also invisible by the employment of magic science, and I saw there twelve friends like her; and they sat round Mahalliká, who reclined on a sofa ornamented with splendid jewels; and then one said to her, ‘My friend, why do you seem to be suddenly cast down to-day? What is the meaning of this despondency when your marriage is about to come off?’ When the daughter of Prahláda heard that, she answered her friend pensively, ‘What marriage for me? To whom am I betrothed? Who told you?’ When she said that, they all exclaimed, ‘Surely your marriage will take place to-morrow, and you are betrothed, my friend, to Súryaprabha. And your mother, the queen, told us to-day when you were not present, and ordered us to decorate you for the marriage ceremony. So you are fortunate, in that you will have Súryaprabha for a husband, through admiration for whose beauty the ladies of this place cannot sleep at night. But this is a source of despondency to us—What a gulf there will now be between you and us! When you have obtained him for a husband, you will forget us.’ When Mahalliká heard this from their mouth, she said, ‘Has he been seen by you, and is your heart attached to him?’ When they heard that, they said to her—‘We saw him from the top of the palace, and what woman is there that a sight of him would not captivate?’ Then she said, ‘Then I will persuade my father to cause all of you to be given to him.17 So we shall live together, and not be separated.’ When she said this, the maidens were shocked, and said to her, ‘Kind friend, do not do so. It would not be proper, and would make us ashamed.’ When they said this, the daughter of the king of the Asuras answered them, ‘Why is it not proper? I am not to be his only wife: all the Daityas and Dánavas will give him their daughters, and there are other princesses on the earth whom he has married, and he will also marry many Vidyádhara maidens. What harm can it do to me that you should be married among these? So far from it, we shall live happily in mutual friendship; but what intercourse can I hold with those others who will be my enemies? And why should you have any shame about the matter? I will arrange it all.’ While these ladies were thus conversing, with hearts devoted to you, I came out at my leisure and repaired to your presence.” When Súryaprabha had heard this from the mouth of Prahasta, he passed that night in happiness, though he remained sleepless in his bed.

In the morning he went to the court of Prahláda, the king of the Asuras, with Sunítha and Maya and his ministers, to visit him. Then [429]Prahláda said to Sunítha after showing him respect—“I will give to this Súryaprabha my daughter Mahalliká, for I must shew him some hospitable entertainment which will be agreeable to you.” Sunítha received with joy this speech of Prahláda’s. Then Prahláda made Súryaprabha ascend an altar-platform, in the middle of which a fire was burning, and which was adorned with lofty jewelled pillars illuminated by the brightness of the flame, and there gave him his daughter, with splendour worthy of the imperial throne of the Asuras. And he gave to his daughter and her bridegroom heaps of valuable jewels, obtained by his triumph over the gods, resembling the summit of mount Meru. And then Mahalliká boldly said to Prahláda—“Father, give me also those twelve companions whom I love.” But he answered her—“Daughter, they belong to my brother, for they were taken captive by him, and I have no right to give them away.” And Súryaprabha, after the marriage feast was ended, entered at night the bridal chamber with Mahalliká.

And the next morning, when Prahláda had gone to the hall of assembly with his followers, Amíla, the king of the Dánavas, said to Prahláda and the others—“To-day you must all come to my house, for I intend to entertain there this Súryaprabha, and I will give him my daughter Kalávatí, if you approve.” This speech of his they all approved, saying, “So be it.” Then they all went in a moment to the second under-world, where he dwelt, with Súryaprabha, Maya and others. There Amíla gave by the usual ceremony to Súryaprabha his daughter, who had previously given herself. Súryaprabha went through the marriage ceremony in the house of Prahláda, and surrounded by the Asuras who had feasted, spent the day in tasting the enjoyments which they provided for him.

On the next day, Durároha, a prince of the Asuras, invited and conducted them all to his own under-world, the fifth. There, by way of hospitality, he gave to Súryaprabha his own daughter Kumudávatí, as the others had done, in the prescribed manner. There Súryaprabha spent the day in enjoyment with all these united. And at night he entered the apartment of Kumudávatí. There he spent that night in the society of that lovely and loving woman, the beauty of the three worlds.

And the next morning, Tantukachchha invited and conducted him, surrounded with his companions, headed by Prahláda, to his palace in the seventh under-world. There that king of the Asuras gave him his daughter Manovatí, adorned with splendid jewels, bright as molten gold. There Súryaprabha spent a highly agreeable day, and passed the night in the society of Manovatí.

And the next day, Sumáya, a prince of the Asuras, after presenting an invitation, conducted him with all his friends to his under-world, the sixth; there he too gave him his daughter by name Subhadrá, with body black as a [430]stalk of durbá grass, like a female incarnation of the god of Love; and Súryaprabha spent that day with that black maiden, whose face was like a full moon.

And the next day, king Bali, followed by the Asuras, in the same way led that Súryaprabha to his own under-world, the third. There he gave him his own daughter named Sundarí, with complexion lovely as a young shoot, and resembling a cluster of mádhaví flowers. Súryaprabha then spent that day with that pearl of women in heavenly enjoyment and splendour.

The next day, Maya also in the same way re-conducted the prince, who was in the fourth under-world, to his own palace, which possessed curiously adorned jewelled terraces, was constructed by his own magic power, and on account of its refulgent splendour seemed to be new every moment. There he gave him his own daughter, named Sumáyá, whose beauty was the wonder of the world, who seemed to be his own power incarnate, and he did not think that she ought to be withheld from him on account of his being a mere mortal. The fortunate Súryaprabha remained there with her. Then the prince divided his body by his magic science, and lived at the same time with all those Asura ladies, but with his real body he lived principally with his best beloved Mahalliká, the daughter of the Asura Prahláda.

And one night, when he was happy in her presence, he asked the noble Mahalliká in the course of conversation—“My dear, those two female friends, who came with you, where are they? I never see them. Who are they, and where have they gone?” Then Mahalliká said—“You have done well to remind me. My female friends are not two only, but twelve in number, and my father’s brother carried them off from Indra’s heaven. The first is named Amṛitaprabhá, the second Keśiní, these are the auspiciously marked daughters of the hermit Parvata. And the third is Kálindí, and the fourth Bhadraká, and the fifth is the noble Kamalá with beautiful eyes. These three are the daughters of the great hermit Devala. The sixth is named Saudáminí and the seventh Ujjvalá, these are both of them daughters of the Gandharva Háhá. The eighth is by name Pívará, the daughter of the Gandharva Húhú. And the ninth is by name Anjaniká, the daughter of the mighty Kála. And the tenth is Keśarávalí, sprung from the Gaṇa Pingala. And the eleventh is Máliní by name, the daughter of Kambala, and the twelfth is Mandáramálá the daughter of a Vasu. They are all heavenly nymphs, born from Apsarases, and, when I was married, they were taken to the first under-world, and I must bestow them on you, in order that I may be always with them. And this I promised them, for I love them. I spoke too to my father, but he refused to give them, out of regard for his brother.” When Súryaprabha heard this, he said to her with a downcast expression—“My beloved, you are very magnanimous, [431]but how can I do this?” When Súryaprabha said this to her, Mahalliká said in anger—“In my presence you marry others, but my friends you do not desire, separated from whom I shall not be happy even for one moment.” When she said this to him, Súryaprabha was pleased and consented to do it. Then that daughter of Prahláda immediately took him to the first under-world and gave him those twelve maidens. Then Súryaprabha married those heavenly nymphs in order, commencing with Amṛitaprabhá. And after asking Mahalliká’s leave, he had them taken by Prabhása to the fourth under-world and concealed there. And Súryaprabha himself went there secretly with Mahalliká, but he went to the hall of Prahláda, as before, to take his meals.

There the king of the Asuras said to Sunítha and Maya—“Go all of you to visit the two goddesses Diti and Danu.” They said “So be it,” and immediately Maya, Sunítha and Súryaprabha left the lower world, accompanied by the Asuras in order of precedence, and ascended the chariot Bhútásana, which came to them on being thought of, and repaired to the hermitage of Kaśyapa situated on a ridge of mount Sumeru. There they were announced by hermits who shewed them all courtesy, and after entering they beheld in due order Diti and Danu together, and bowed their heads at their feet. And those two mothers of the Asuras cast a favourable look upon them and their followers, and after shedding tears and kissing them joyfully upon their heads,18 and bestowing their blessing upon them, said to Maya: “Our eyes are to-day blessed, having seen this thy son Sunítha restored to life, and we consider thee one whose merits have procured him good fortune. And beholding with heart-felt satisfaction this prosperous Sumundíka, born again in the character of Súryaprabha, possessed of heavenly beauty and of extraordinary virtue, destined to be successful and glorious, abounding in unmistakeable marks of future greatness, we openly adore him here with our bodies. Therefore rise up quickly, darlings, and visit Prajápati here, our husband; from beholding him you shall obtain success in your objects, and his advice will be helpful to you in your affairs.” When Maya and the others received this order from the goddesses, they went as they were commanded, and beheld the hermit Kaśyapa in a heavenly hermitage. He was like pure molten gold in appearance, full of brightness, the refuge of the gods, wearing matted locks yellow as flame, irresistible as fire. And approaching, they fell at his feet with their followers, in order; then the hermit gave them the customary blessing, and after making them sit down, out of delight at their [432]arrival said to them—“I am exceedingly glad that I have beheld all you my sons; thou art to be praised, Maya, who, without diverging from the good path, art a treasure-house of all sciences; and thou art fortunate, Sunítha, who hast recovered thy life though lost, and thou, O Súryaprabha, art fortunate, who art destined to be the king of the sky-goers. So you must all continue now in the path of righteousness, and hearken to my word, by means of which you will obtain the highest fortune, and taste perpetual joys, and by which you will not again be conquered by your enemies; for it was those Asuras, that transgressed law, that became a prey for the discus of the vanquisher of Mura. And those Asuras, Sunítha, that were slain by the gods, are incarnate again as human heroes. He who was thy younger brother Sumundíka, has been born indeed now as Súryaprabha. And the other Asuras, who were your companions, have been born as his friends; for instance, the great Asura, named Śambara, has been born as his minister Prahasta. And the Asura, named Triśiras, has been born as his minister named Siddhártha. And the Dánava, named Vátápi, is now his minister Prajnáḍhya. And the Dánava, named Ulúka, is now his companion named Śubhankara, and his present friend Vítabhíti was in a former birth a foe of the gods, named Kála. And this Bhása, his minister, is an incarnation of a Daitya by name Vishaparvan, and his minister Prabhása is an incarnation of a Daitya named Prabala. He was a great-hearted Daitya with a frame composed of jewels, who, when asked by the gods, though they were his enemies, hewed his body to pieces, and so passed into another state of existence, and from that body of his all the jewels in the world have originated. The goddess Durgá was so pleased at that, that she granted him a boon accompanied by another body, by virtue of which he has now been born as Prabhása, mighty, and hard to be overcome by his enemies. And those Dánavas, who formerly existed under the names of Sunda and Upasunda, have been born as his ministers Sarvadamana and Bhayankara. And the two Asuras, who used to be called Vikaṭáksha and Hayagríva, have been born as his two ministers here, Sthirabuddhi and Mahábuddhi. And the others connected with him, these fathers-in-law, ministers and friends of his, are also incarnations of Asuras, who have often vanquished Indra and his crew. So your party has again gradually acquired strength. Be of good courage; if you do not depart from the right, you shall obtain the highest prosperity.” While the ṛishi Kaśyapa was saying this, all his wives, the daughters of Daksha, headed by Aditi, arrived at the time of the mid-day sacrifice. When they had given their blessing to Maya and the others, who bowed before them, and had performed their husband’s orders for the day, Indra also came there with the Lokapálas19 to visit the sage. And Indra, [433]after saluting the feet of Kaśyapa and his wives and after having been saluted by Maya and the others, looking angrily at Súryaprabha, said to Maya,—“This is the boy, I suppose, that is desirous of becoming emperor of the Vidyádharas; how is he satisfied with so very little, and why does he not desire the throne of heaven?” When Maya heard this, he said, “The throne of heaven was decreed to you by Śiva, and to him was appointed the sovereignty of the sky-goers.”20 When Indra heard this, he said with an angry laugh—“This would be but a small matter for this comely shape of a youth who is furnished with such auspicious marks.” Then Maya answered him—“If Śrutaśarman deserves the sovereignty of the Vidyádharas, then surely this shape of his deserves the throne of heaven.” When Maya said this, Indra was angry, and rose and uplifted his thunderbolt, and then the hermit Kaśyapa made a threatening noise of anger. And Diti and the other wives became enraged, and their faces were red with anger, and they loudly cried, “Shame!” Then Indra, afraid of being cursed, withdrew his weapon, and sat down with bowed head. Then Indra fell at the feet of that hermit Kaśyapa, the sire of gods and Asuras, who was surrounded by his wives, and after striving to appease him, made the following representation with hands folded in supplication: “O reverend one, this Súryaprabha is attempting to take away from Śrutaśarman the sovereignty of the Vidyádharas, which I bestowed on him. And Maya is exerting himself in every way to procure it for Súryaprabha.” When Prajápati heard that, he said, seated with Diti and Danu,—“Thou lovest Śrutaśarman, O Indra, but Śiva loves Súryaprabha, and his love cannot be fruitless, and he long ago ordered Maya to do what he has done. So, what is all this outcry that thou art making against Maya, what offence has he committed herein? For he is one who abides in the path of right, wise, discreet, submissive to his spiritual superior. The fire of my wrath would have reduced thee to ashes, if thou hadst committed that sin, and thou hast no power against him; dost thou not recognise his might?” When that hermit with his wives said that, Indra was abashed with shame and fear, and Aditi said—“What is that Śrutaśarman like? Let him be brought here and shown to us.” When Indra heard this, he sent Mátali,21 and had brought there immediately that Śrutaśarman, the prince of the sky-goers. The wives of Kaśyapa, when they had seen that Śrutaśarman, who prostrated himself, looked at Súryaprabha and said to the hermit Kaśyapa—“Which of these two is the richer in beauty and in auspicious marks?” Then that chief of hermits said, “Śrutaśarman is not even equal to his minister Prabhása, much less is he equal to that incomparable one. For this Súryaprabha is furnished with various heavenly marks of such excellence, that, if he were to make the attempt, he would find even the throne of Indra easy to obtain.” When [434]they heard that speech of Kaśyapa’s, all there approved it, and said—“So it is.” Then the hermit gave Maya a boon in the hearing of great Indra—“Because, my son, thou didst remain undaunted, even when Indra lifted up his weapon to strike, therefore thou shalt remain unharmed by the plagues of sickness and old age, which are strong as the thunderbolt. Moreover these two magnanimous sons of thine, who resemble thee, shall always be invincible by all their enemies. And this son of mine Suvásakumára, resembling in splendour the autumn moon, shall come when thou thinkest of him, and assist thee in the night of calamity. When the hermit had thus spoken, his wives and the ṛishis and the Lokapálas in the same way gave boons to them, to Maya and the rest, in the assembly. Then Aditi said to Indra—“Desist, Indra, from thy improper conduct, conciliate Maya, for thou hast seen to-day the fruit of discreet conduct, in that he has obtained boons from me.” When Indra heard that, he seized Maya by the hand and propitiated him, and Śrutaśarman, eclipsed by Súryaprabha, was like the moon in the day. Then the king of the gods immediately prostrated himself before Kaśyapa his spiritual guide, and returned as he came, accompanied by all the Lokapálas; and Maya and the others, by the order of that excellent hermit, departed from his hermitage to meet success in their proposed undertaking.

In old times there was an excellent Dánava named Namuchi, who was devoted to charity and very brave, and did not refuse to give anything to anybody that asked, even if he were his enemy. He practised asceticism as a drinker of smoke for ten thousand years, and obtained as a favour from Brahmá, that he should be proof against iron, stone, and wood. Then he frequently conquered Indra and made him flee, so the ṛishi Kaśyapa entreated him, and made him make peace with the gods. Then the gods and Asuras, as their enmity was at an end, deliberated together, and went to the ocean of milk, and churned it with the mountain Mandara. And as Vishṇu and the other gods received Lakshmí and other things as their shares, so Namuchi gained the horse Uchchhaiḥśravas; and the other gods and Asuras received other various shares, appointed by Brahmá, of the things that rose from the sea, when churned. And the amṛita at last came up at the end of the churning, and the gods stole it, so a quarrel again took place between them and the Asuras. Then, as fast as the gods killed an Asura in their light with them, the horse Uchchhaiḥśravas immediately restored him to life by smelling him. The consequence was that the gods found it impossible to conquer the Daityas and Dánavas. Then Vṛihaspati said in secret to Indra, who was in despair: “There is only one expedient left, adopt it without delay; go to Namuchi yourself, [445]and ask him for that excellent horse, for he will certainly give it to you, though you are his enemy, sooner than mar the glory of open-handedness, which he has been accumulating since his birth.” When the preceptor of the gods said that to him, great Indra went with the gods and craved as a boon that horse Uchchhaiḥśravas from Namuchi. Then the great-hearted Namuchi reflected, “I never turn back a suppliant, so I will not turn back Indra; and how can I, as long as I am Namuchi, refuse to give him the horse? If the glory of generosity, which I have long been acquiring in the worlds, were to wither, what would be the use to me of prosperity, or life?” Accordingly he gave the horse to Indra, although Śukra warned him not to do it. Then Indra, after he had given the horse, lulled him to security, and as he could not be slain by any other weapon, killed him with foam of the Ganges, in which he had placed a thunderbolt. Alas! terrible in the world is the thirst for enjoyment, carried away by which even gods do not shrink from unbecoming and infamous conduct. When Danu, the mother of Namuchi, heard this, being afflicted with grief, she made by virtue of her asceticism a solemn resolve for the allaying of her sorrow, “May that mighty Namuchi be again born in my womb, and may he again become invincible by the gods in battle.” Then he was again conceived in her womb, and born as an Asura composed all of jewels, named Prabala on account of his strength. Then he performed asceticism, and satisfying supplicants even with his life, became successful, and as prince of the Dánavas conquered Indra a hundred times. Then the gods took counsel together, and came to him, and said to him: “By all means give us your body for a human sacrifice.”9 When he heard that, he gave them his own [446]body, although they were his enemies; noble men do not turn their backs on a suppliant, but bestow on him even their lives. Then that Dánava Prabala was cut to pieces by the gods, and he has been again born in the world of men with the body of Prabhása.

“So Prabhása was first Namuchi, and then he was Prabala, and then he became Prabhása, therefore on account of his merit he is hard for his enemies to conquer. And that cave of herbs, which belonged to that Prabala, is for that reason the property of Prabhása, and is at his command with its servants. And below it there is in Pátála10 the mansion of Prabala, and in it there are his twelve head-wives beautifully adorned, and various jewels, and many kinds of weapons, and a wishing-stone, and a hundred thousand warriors, and also horses. This all belongs to Prabhása, and was acquired by him in a former life. Such a hero is Prabhása; in him nothing is wonderful.” When they heard this from the hermit’s son, Súryaprabha and his followers, with Maya and Prabhása, went immediately to that cavern belonging to Prabhása, that led down to Pátála, for the purpose of securing the jewels. Prabhása alone went in by that entrance, and secured his former wives, and the wishing-stone, and the horses, and the Asura warriors, and coming out again with all his wealth, he gave great satisfaction to Súryaprabha. Then that Súryaprabha, having quickly obtained what he wished, returned to his own camp with Maya and Sunítha and Prabhása, followed by Sumeru and the other kings and the ministers. There, after the Asuras and kings and others had gone to their own quarters, he again was consecrated for the fight, restraining his passions, and spent the rest of the night on a bed of kuśa grass.