Part 6

But it happened that the king's son was present at their conversation, and heard what the merchant said. And an overpowering passion instantly came upon him for that lady of the ruddy lips. And thinking of nothing else, he went to bed at night, and fell asleep, and dreamed a dream. He thought that he mounted a horse, and rode without ceasing at full gallop, till he came to the shore of the sea. And there dismounting in haste, he entered a ship, and set sail for Lanka. And the ship carried him swiftly over the sea, and on arriving, he leaped out, and ran quickly through the streets, till he came to the palace of the daughter of the Rakshas. And as he reached it, that instant the sun set on one side of the sky, and the moon rose, like another sun, in the opposite quarter, and, lit up with his[3] radiance all the front of the palace. And he looked, and lo! there on the terrace he saw before him that daughter of the Rakshas, illuminated by the amorous moon, whom she rivalled in beauty; and on the yellow disc of her face her two lips shone like two leaves of fire. And the king's son, unable to bear the lustre of their beauty, fell down in a swoon. But in his swoon he saw before him those lips without intermission, and they swelled up till they became like two huge mountains, and then, breaking into innumerable pairs which filled the sky like the stars, they crowded in upon him, and he felt them gently kissing him all over. And on a sudden, he saw the palace again before him, and he entered it, and saw the daughter of the Rakshas at the end of a long hall, and he ran up to her and sank down at her feet. But she, bending over him, approached her lips to his cheek. And as they came nearer and nearer, they suddenly became a pair of hideous jaws, with lips thin and green as a blade of grass, and a double row of teeth white as ivory and sharp as saws, and a black pit between. And as they loomed larger and larger upon him out of the darkness, he uttered a loud shriek--and awoke.

So now tell me, Princess, why did that King's son shriek? And Rasakósha ceased. Then the Princess said with a smile: He was afraid of being bitten.

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

[1] _i.e._ 'red lipped.'

[2] Ceylon: reputed to be the home of a certain kind of demons called Rakshasa.

[3] The moon is not feminine in Sanskrit.

DAY 15.

Then the King said to Rasakósha: My friend, that merchant was a liar; for no lips in the world could match the beauty of those of my beloved. Alas! that the sweetness of her smile should be the means of conveying such bitterness to my soul, as she answers your questions with unerring dexterity, and so annihilates my hopes each day. And now but seven days remain, and the thought of losing her is like poison in the draught of nectar which I drink daily from her beauty. Even the portrait is becoming hateful to me, for it mocks me with its scorn, and assuredly my life will be extinct before the morning. So the King passed the night in a state of wretchedness, gazing at the portrait. And when the sun rose, he rose also, and got somehow through the day, by the help of Rasakósha and the garden. Then when the sun set, they went again to the hall of audience. And there they saw the Princess, clad in a copper-coloured robe, and a bodice of burnished silver, and her crown and other ornaments, sitting on her throne. And her eyes sparkled when she saw the King, who sank upon a couch, speechless and fascinated, under the spell of her beauty. Then Rasakósha came forward and stood before her, and began again:

Lady, once upon a time a young and handsome bee, that had till then grown up at home and been fed by his parents, set out for the first time in his life on an expedition to fetch flower-nectar for the purpose of making honey. And attracted by its fragrance he flew to a red lotus, growing on a pool in the forest, and was about to drain her of her sweetness. But the lotus closed her flower, and would not let him enter, saying: O bee, you come here, after the manner of your _caste_, insolently pushing into me, and seeking to rob me of my nectar, expecting to get all for nothing. Learn that you must buy my nectar of me. Then the bee buzzed and said: What shall I give you for it? What is there that you can want? Is it not enough for you to blow and bloom on this pool, scenting the air? Then the lotus said: There is still something wanting. Out upon you, foolish bee! You, a bee, not to know what I want! Go away, and find out, and then come back to me, if you want any of my nectar.

Then the bee buzzed violently in anger, and flew away, to find out what the lotus wanted. And he saw a beetle busily grubbing in the earth at the foot of a tree. So he said: O beetle, tell me what the lotus wants. But the beetle answered: What is a lotus to me? Go elsewhere; I have no leisure. So the bee flew off and saw a spider, building a web in a branch. And he asked him. And the spider said: What she wants is doubtless a fly. But the bee thought: It cannot be a fly. This spider judges others by himself. And seeing a cloud floating in the air above him, he flew up and asked it: O cloud, what does the lotus want? The cloud said: Rain-drops. So the bee flew back and offered water to the lotus. But she said: I get that from the cloud and from the pool, not from you. Try again. So he flew away, and saw a sunbeam playing on a blade of grass, and asked it what the lotus wanted. The sunbeam said: Warmth. So the bee flew back bringing with him a fire-fly, and tried to warm the lotus. But she said: I get warmth from the sun, not from you. Try again. Then the bee flew off again, and saw an owl blinking in a tree; and he buzzed in his ear and roused him, and said: O owl, tell me what the lotus wants. The owl said: Sleep. And the bee flew back, and said to the lotus: I will lull you to sleep by humming to you, and fanning you with my wings. But the lotus answered: I get sleep from the night, not from you. Try again.

Then the bee in despair flew away, crying aloud: What in the world can this niggardly and capricious lotus want of me? And as fate would have it, his cry was overheard by an old hermit, who lived in the forest, and knew the language of all beasts and birds. And he called to the bee, and said: O thou dull-witted bee, this is what the lotus wants: and he told him Then the bee was delighted, and flew away to the lotus, and gave her what she wanted And she opened her flower, and he went in and stole her nectar.

Now tell me, Princess, what did the bee give the lotus? And Rasakósha ceased. And the Princess blushed[1], and said: He gave her a kiss.

And when she had spoken, she rose up and went out without looking at the King, and the King's heart went with her. But the King and Rasakósha returned to their own apartments.

[1] This is not a strict translation. Hindoo ladies, as far as my experience goes, do not blush: they 'exhibit shame.' But as the emotion is clearly the same, I have employed the English equivalent.

DAY 16.

Then the King said to Rasakósha in ecstasy and despair: My friend, though owing to the answer of the Princess five days only now remain to me, yet I would not have had to-day's answer otherwise for all my kingdom; and freely do I forgive you. Oh! her confusion when she spoke almost broke my heart in twain, and if I dared, I would venture to think that she does not view me with indifference. But alas! how am I to survive the period of separation! For all virtue has gone out of the portrait, and from snow to cool my fever, it has now become a fire to increase it. And the King passed the night in a state of apprehension, alternately gazing at and flinging aside the portrait. And when the sun rose, he rose also, and hardly managed to get through the day with the aid of Rasakósha and the garden. And when the sun set, they went again to the hall of audience. And there they saw the Princess, clad in a robe of pearl-grey, and a bodice studded with agates, and her crown and other ornaments, sitting on her throne. And she looked shyly at the King, who sank upon a couch, speechless and fascinated, under the spell of her beauty. Then Rasakósha came forward and stood before her, and began again:

Lady, outside the wall of a certain city there was an old sacred banian tree. And in its hollow root there lived a black cobra. And every day it used to come out and lie in the sun before the tree, coiled round upon itself, and the people brought it offerings of milk and sweetmeats.

Now in that city there lived a very rich jewel merchant, who had a very beautiful daughter. And she was very fond of gems and precious stones, of which she possessed a very great number. But there was one which she had not got, and that was the jewel in the head of a snake. And this she desired so much that she thought all her other jewels of no account in comparison with it. And she heard of the sacred cobra, and being filled with cupidity, she hired a man of the Dómba caste to go by night and kill it, and bring her the gem in its hood. And when she had obtained it, she considered that she had obtained the fruit of her birth, and she valued it above all her other jewels, and wore it incessantly as a crest-jewel in her hair.

But Wásuki[1] heard of the slaughter of his subject, and he was wroth, and determined to punish the criminal. So he assumed the form of a man, and went to that city. And he made enquiries, till at length he discovered that a certain merchant's daughter possessed the hood-gem of a snake. Then the lord of snakes assumed the form of a young and handsome jewel merchant. And he hired a house, close to that of the jewel merchant, and giving out that he was travelling on business, he lived magnificently, and gave feasts and banquets to all whom he met. And becoming acquainted with that jewel merchant, he charmed him by his wealth and accomplishments, and gave him many rare and inestimable jewels. And finally, he asked him for the hand of his daughter in marriage. And the merchant joyfully consented, thinking that nowhere in the world could he find such another son-in-law. And when he told his daughter, she was beside herself with delight, for she had seen that young merchant from a window, and heard of his great wealth and accomplishments; and she thought she was going to get as it were the very ocean itself for a husband[2].

Then an auspicious day was chosen, and the preparations for the wedding went on: and every day the lord of snakes sent baskets of jewels to his bride, whose senses almost left her in her joy. And at last the day came, and the nuptial ceremony was over, and the bridegroom went with his bride into the nuptial chamber. And he lifted her on to the marriage bed, and called her by her name. And as she turned towards him, he approached her slowly, with a smile on his face. And she looked and saw, issuing from his mouth and disappearing alternately, a long tongue, thin, forked, and quivering like that of a snake.

And in the morning the musicians played to waken the bride and bridegroom. But the day went on, and they never came forth. Then the merchant, her father, and his friends, after waiting a long time, became alarmed, and went and broke the door, which was closed with a lock. And there they saw the bride lying dead in the bed, alone, and on her bosom were two small marks. And they saw no bridegroom. But a black cobra crept out of the bed, and disappeared through a hole in the wall[3].

So now, Princess, tell me, what was there in the snake's hood-jewel to make that merchant's daughter so desirous of it? And Rasakósha ceased. Then the Princess said: The attraction lay not in the jewel itself, nor its magic properties. But in this that she had not got it. For this is the nature of women, that they make light of what they have, and sigh for what they have not got.

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

[1] The king of the snakes.

[2] _i.e._ 'the mine, or receptacle of jewels,' a common appellation of the sea.

[3] The _dénouement_ of this story has a most singular resemblance to that of Prosper Merimée's _Lokis_. But apparently he drew that admirable story (as he did his _Carmen_ and his _Venus_) from older sources, of Lithuanian, Gipsy, possibly even Hindoo origin.

DAY 17.

Then the King said to Rasakósha: My friend, all doubt is over: my doom is sealed: for the intellect of the Princess is invincible. And yet unless my desire blinds me, she intended that sigh to point at me the significance of her words. Oh! the fear of losing her almost deprives me of my reason, and breaking loose like a _must_ elephant from every restraint I shall destroy you, as he does his friend the _mahout_, by the most terrible of deaths. And yet my own lot will be worse than any death: for I shall die by inches, starving in the sight of food. Out upon the portrait that has brought me to ruin, and on the painter that painted it! For now I see clearly that it is not in the least like her; for she is kind, and only compelled by destiny in the form of her own intellect to ruin hopes that she would perhaps otherwise encourage. So the King passed the night in a state of exhaustion, averting his gaze forcibly from the portrait. And when the sun rose, he rose also, and passed the day with difficulty in the garden, aided by Rasakósha. Then when the sun set, they went again to the hall of audience. And there they saw the Princess, clad in a robe of russet[1] and a bodice studded with amber[2], and her crown and other ornaments, sitting on her throne. And she looked at the King with eyes whose lids were red with want of sleep, and he sank upon a couch, speechless and fascinated, under the spell of her beauty. Then Rasakósha came forward and stood before her, and began again:

Lady[3], there was once a king, who laughed at his kingly duties, and passed his time in evil courses, lying in bed, neglecting Brahmans, drinking wine, hunting, and idling in the society of fair women. And whosoever ventured to remonstrate with him, him he straightway banished from his kingdom. And as time went on, he grew worse and worse, for dissatisfaction and satiety came over him, and the only refuge open to him from their torture lay in drowning reflection by still more abominable orgies.

Then it happened that one day he went a-hunting. And the ardour of the chase drew him far out of his way, so that when the sun fell, he was deep in the forest, far from his palace. And while he was considering where he should pass the night, he came upon the hut of an aged hermit. So leaving his followers in the forest, he remained in the hut of that hospitable hermit for the night. And after making his supper on roots and fruits, he lay down to sleep on a bed of leaves and _Kusha_ grass.

And in his sleep he had a vision. He thought he found himself on the bank of a great river, lit up by the sun where he stood, but emerging from black darkness, and running into it again in a circle. And he held in his hand a seed. And digging a hole, he planted that seed, and watered it from the river, and it became a shoot, and grew rapidly into a tall tree. And the tree put forth leaves, and blossoms, and at last a single fruit. And the fruit grew larger and larger, till it was as big as a gourd: and it became green as an emerald, and then red as a ruby, and shone in the sun: and its weight caused it to sink down within reach of his hand. So he put out his hand, and plucked, and ate it.

And in an instant he saw a colossal hand stretched out of the darkness, and it grasped him and whisked him away, and suspended him over an abyss by a slender string. And looking down, he gazed into unfathomable depths, and looking up, he saw a vulture pecking at the string with its beak; and an icy chill froze his heart, while burning fire tortured his extremities, and black darkness enveloped him: and it seemed to him that infinite ages passed in each instant of ineffable agony. Then on a sudden he awoke with a cry, and saw only that old hermit standing in the moonlight that fell through the roof, meditating, and muttering to himself.

Then he lay down again on the bed, and slept and dreamed again. And again it seemed to him that he planted a seed, and watered it on the bank of that river: and again it became a tree, and put out leaves and blossoms and a fruit, which as before grew green and red, and sank down into his hand. And he plucked and ate it again. And in an instant, a feeling of inexpressible bliss flowed in upon his soul, and he sank into a deep sleep, and lay as if he were dead, till that old hermit roused him in the morning with the sun streaming in through the door of the hut.

Then that king went home and changed his ways.

So now tell me, Princess, why? And Rasakósha ceased. Then the Princess said: He was afraid. For the tree was the tree of his own evil actions, and the eating of its fruit the ripening of their consequences, dooming him to a punishment of which the agony he endured in his dream was but a faint shadow. But had he lived otherwise, and accumulated virtue rather than vice, he would have obtained ultimately the bliss of emancipation, resembling the deep sleep which came upon him and obliterated his individuality, the second time he slept.

And when the Princess had spoken, she turned and looked at the King with tears in her eyes, and rose up and went out, and the King's heart went with her. But the King and Rasakósha returned to their own apartments.

[1] _Kapisha_.

[2] _Trinamani_, a gem that attracts grass.

[3] This story is only the embodiment of an idea familiar to every Hindoo, but in the original it is very pithily told.

DAY 18.

Then the King said to Rasakósha: My friend, now in very truth am I eating the fruit of my own crimes in a former birth, since four days only remain; and well did you say that I am suspended by the heels over an unfathomable abyss, with ice at my heart. For only too well do I see that the Princess will stand the test, seeing that the sharp arrows of your cunning questions rebound from her as if, instead of a jewelled bodice, she was clad in a coat of mail. And the nectar of the portrait has become a poison, which will certainly put an end to me before morning. So the King passed the night in a state of despondency, with his back to the portrait. And when the sun rose, he rose also, and hardly contrived to pass the day by the help of Rasakósha and the garden. Then when the sun set, they went again to the hall of audience. And there they saw the Princess, clad in a robe of Indian red[1], and a bodice studded with sea-gems, and her crown and other ornaments, sitting on her throne. And she looked at the King, and drooped her head like a flower, and the King sank upon a couch, speechless and fascinated, under the spell of her beauty. Then Rasakósha came forward and stood before her, and began again:

Lady, a certain lover was bewailing the death of his mistress, and he exclaimed: O Death, thou art strong; but O Love, thou art stronger. And it happened that Yama[2] heard him. So he said to the god who has a row of bees for a bowstring[3]: Hear what nonsense that foolish fellow is prattling. But Kamadéwa replied: It is not nonsense, but the truth. I am the stronger. So a dispute arose between them, as to which of them was the stronger. And after a while, Kamadéwa said: What is the use of talking? Let us put the matter to the test, and make trial of our power. And Yama said: So be it. And they chose for the subjects of their experiments three things: a hero, a _nyagródha_[4] tree, and the heart of a sage.

Then Yama went first to the tree, and smote its roots with death. But as fast as they died, the branches, inspired by Káma, let down roots from above, and they struck into the earth, and became new trunks, and grew up and produced new branches, which did the same continually. So after a while Yama was tired and stopped, and there was the tree as strong as ever.

Then Kámadéwa said: See, I have conquered. But Yama said: Wait and see. And he went to the hero, and struck him down when he was fighting in the front of the battle, and he died. But Smara[5] inspired the people of that country; and they mourned for that hero, and built him a splendid pillar; and poets sang his glorious deeds, and mothers called their children by his name, and they worshipped him as an incarnation of deity in the temples.

Then Kámadéwa said: See, again I have conquered. Acknowledge that I am the stronger. But Yama said: Wait and see. And he went to the sage, as he was practising terrible austerities in the forest, and struck his heart and killed it. But even as he did so, Desire sprang up in it[6] again ever anew, and ever fresh attachments to the objects of sense, and so the battle went on continually in the heart of that sage, as it alternately became dead to the world, and then again alive, and subject to the influence of the pleasures of mundane existence.

Then Kámadéwa said: See, once more I am proved to be the strongest. The victory is mine. Confess that you are beaten. But Yama said: For all that I am the stronger, and that lover was a babbler. And Kámadéwa laughed at him and mocked him.

So now tell me, Princess, which is the stronger? And Rasakósha ceased. Then the Princess turned very pale[7], and said in a low voice: Kámadéwa is cunning, and like a dishonest gambler, loaded his dice to win. For in particular instances and limited times, he appears to be the stronger. And therefore it was that he challenged Yama, knowing very well that all instances must of necessity be limited to a place and time. But nevertheless Yama is stronger than he. For he is unlimited, being Time itself without beginning or end[8], and that power, whose nature it is to be unsusceptible of bounds, can no more be exhibited by particular instances than the ceaseless flow of Ganges can be contained in a single jar.

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

[1] Lóhita. The sea-gem is perhaps some kind of pearl.

[2] The god of death (pronounce Yum).

[3] Káma, or Kámadéwa, the god of love. His names are innumerable.

[4] 'Down-grower,' the banian, which lets down roots from its branches.

[5] A name for Love which also means memory.

[6] One of the common names of Love is 'the mind-born.'

[7] She turned pale, possibly because she saw that her love for the King must have an end: but still more probably because she was afraid of offending the God of Love by not deciding in his favour.

[8] Kála, Time, is another name for Yama. The answer of the Princess is clever in the extreme.

DAY 19.