Part 14

“If on the fourteenth day of the waxing moon,” replied Jīvaka, “a fair-haired man dies and is burnt at the cemetery; and if at that time an ichneumon and a lizard are fighting with one another and fall into the fire; and if you eat both of them, and then drink of the water of the rain poured down by Mahesvara on the cemetery; and if you afterwards partake of kodrava porridge and curdled milk mixed with butter, in that case you will recover. It was because I thought of all this that I told you that the remedy would be a difficult one to find.”

Then the man said, “Your knowledge is excellent, for these are the very things of which I have partaken.” And he joyfully exclaimed, “O king, as Jīvaka deserves to be king of the physicians, let him be appointed to that office.”

And so Jīvaka was for the second time installed as king of the physicians.

At the time when Ajātaśatru, impelled by Devadatta, the friend of vice, deprived of his life his father, the lawful king, he fell ill with an internal tumour. He called upon the physicians to cure him. They replied, “O king, as your elder brother is here, Jīvaka, the king of the physicians, wherefore should we cure you?” So the king told his ministers to call in Jīvaka. This was done, and the king charged him to remove the tumour, which he undertook to do.

Jīvaka reflected that the tumour might yield to one of two influences, either that of excessive joy or that of excessive wrath. And that as it would be impossible to arouse excessive joy within so sinful a man, it would be necessary at all risks to excite in him excessive wrath. So he told the king that he could heal him, provided that the king would feed on Prince Udajibhadra’s flesh.

When the king heard this he became furious, and cried, “Very good! I have killed my father, and you want to put Udajibhadra to death. Then if I die of this complaint you will be king.”

Jīvaka replied, “Such are the means of effecting a cure; in no other way can I restore you to health.”

When the king had given his consent, Jīvaka brought Prince Udajibhadra before the king, robed in all stately array, and said, “O king, take pains to look well at Prince Udajibhadra, for after this you will not be able to see him again.” Having thus exhibited him, he took him to his own house and there hid him away.

He then went to the cemetery of Śitavana in search of human flesh. There was no lack of corpses there, and from one of these corpses he took some flesh and carried it away with him. This he prepared with the most excellent materials, and then he served it up to the king at dinner-time. When King Ajātaśatru had received the bowl of flesh-broth, and was preparing to partake of it, Jīvaka seized it, hit him over the head with it, and said to him, “O evil-doer, you have taken the life of your own father, and now you want to feed on the flesh of your own son.”

The king cried in his wrath, “If this be so, why have you put him to death?”

As he thus broke out in anger, his tumour gave way, and discharged upwards and downwards, its contents coming to light mixed with blood from the wound. When the king saw that, he fell fainting to the ground. But after he had been sprinkled with water he came to himself, and then, when he had bathed and partaken of strengthening nourishment, he recovered his health.

After that, Jīvaka brought before the king Prince Udajibhadra arrayed in all state, and touched the king’s feet and said, “O king, here stands Prince Udajibhadra. I would not deprive an ant of its life, not to speak of the prince. But as it was only by this contrivance that the king’s life could be saved, therefore did I contrive it.” The king marvelled greatly, and gave orders to his ministers to install Jīvaka for the third time as the king of the physicians. The ministers set him upon an elephant and with great pomp installed him for the third time as king of the physicians.

VII.

VIŚĀKHĀ. [99]

Mṛgadhara, the first minister of King Prasenajit of Kośala, after he had married a wife of birth like unto his own, had seven sons. To six of these he gave names at his pleasure, but the youngest one he called Viśākha.

After his wife’s death he arranged marriages for his six elder sons, but they and their wives gave themselves up to dress, and troubled themselves in no wise with household affairs.

The householder Mṛgadhara was sitting one day absorbed in thought, resting his cheek upon his arm. A Brahman, who was on friendly terms with him, saw him sitting thus absorbed in thought, and asked him what was the cause of his behaviour. He replied, “My sons and their wives have given themselves up to dress, and do not trouble themselves about household affairs, so that the property is going to ruin.”

“Why do you not arrange a marriage for Viśākha?”

“Who can tell whether he will make things better, or bring them to still greater ruin?”

“If you will trust to me, I will look for a maiden for him.”

The minister consented, and the Brahman went his way. In the course of his researches he came to the land of Champā. In it there lived a householder named Balamitra, whose daughter Viśākhā was fair to see, well proportioned, in the bloom of youth, intelligent and clever. Just as the Brahman arrived, she and some other girls who were in quest of amusement were setting out for a park. On seeing the girls, he thought that he would like to look at them a little. So he followed slowly after them, occupied in regarding them. The girls, who were for the most part of a frivolous nature, sometimes ran, sometimes skipped, sometimes rolled about, sometimes laughed, sometimes spun round, sometimes sang, and did other undignified things. But Viśākhā, with the utmost decorum, at an even pace walked slowly along with them. When they came to the park, the other girls undressed at the edge of the tank, entered into it, and began to sport. But Viśākhā lifted up her clothes by degrees as she went into the water, and by degrees let them down again as she came out of the water, so circumspect was she in her behaviour. After their bath, when the girls had assembled at a certain spot, they first partook of food themselves, and then gave to their attendants to eat; but Viśākhā first of all gave food to the persons in attendance, and then herself began to eat.

When the girls had finished their eating and drinking and had enjoyed the charm of the park, they went away. As there was water to be waded through on the road, the girls took off their boots and walked through it, but Viśākhā kept her boots on. They went a little farther and came to a wood. Into this Amra wood she entered, keeping her parasol up, though the others had discarded theirs. Presently a wind arose together with rain, and the other girls took shelter in a temple, but Viśākhā remained in the open air. The Brahman, who had followed her, and had noted her characteristics and her behaviour, marvelled greatly and began to question her, saying—

“O maiden, whose daughter are you?”

“I am Balamitra’s daughter.”

“O maiden, be not angry if I ask you a few questions.”

She smiled at first, and then said, “O uncle, why should I be angry? Please to ask them.”

“While these girls, as they went, were all running, skipping, rolling, turning round, singing, and doing other undignified things, you wended your way slowly, decorously, and in a seemly manner, reaching the park together with them.”

Viśākhā replied, “All girls are a merchandise which their parents vend. If in leaping or rolling I were to break an arm or a leg, who then would woo me? I should certainly have to be kept by my parents as long as I lived.”

“Good, O maiden; I understand.”

He said to her next, “These girls took off their clothes at a certain place, and went into the water and sported in it unclothed, but you lifted up your clothes by degrees as you went deeper into the water.”

“O uncle, it is necessary that women should be shame-faced and shy, and so it would not be well that any one should look upon me unclothed.”

“O maiden, who would see you there?”

“O uncle, you would have seen me there yourself.”

“Good, O maiden; that also I comprehend.”

He said to her further, “These girls first took food themselves and then gave to the persons in attendance; but you first gave food to the persons in attendance, and then took your own.”

“O uncle, that was for this reason: we, reaping the fruits of our merits, constantly have feast-days; but they, reaping the fruits of their trouble, very seldom obtain great things.”

“Good, O maiden; I comprehend this also.”

He asked her, moreover, “While all the world wears boots on dry land, why did you keep yours on in the water?”

“O uncle, the world is foolish. It is precisely when one is in water that one should wear boots.”

“For what reason?”

“On dry land one can see tree-stems, thorns, stones, prickles, fragments of fish-scales or shells of reptiles, but in the water none of these things can be seen. Therefore we ought to wear boots in the water and not upon dry land.”

“Good, O maiden; this also I understand.”

Then he asked her this question: “These girls kept their parasols up in the sun; you kept yours up in the wood under the shade of the trees. What was the meaning of that?”

“O uncle, the world is foolish. It is precisely when in a wood that one must keep a parasol up.”

“For what reason?”

“Because a wood is always full of birds and monkeys. The birds let fall their droppings and pieces of bones, and the monkeys their muck and scraps of the fruit they eat. Besides, as they are of a wild nature, they go springing from bough to bough, and bits of wood come falling down. When one is in the open this does not happen, or, if it takes place, it is but seldom. Therefore a parasol must be kept open in a wood; in the open it is not necessary to do so.”

“Good, O maiden; this also I comprehend.”

Presently he said, “These girls took refuge in a temple when the wind arose with rain, but you remained in the open air.”

“O uncle, one certainly ought to remain in the open air and not take refuge in a temple.”

“O maiden, what is the reason for that?”

“O uncle, such empty temples are never free from orphans, bastards, and sharpers. If one of them were to touch me on a limb or joint as I entered such a temple, would not that be unpleasant to my parents? Moreover, it is better to lose one’s life in the open than to enter an empty temple.”

Full of delight at the demeanour of the maiden, the Brahman betook himself to the dwelling of the householder Balamitra and said, desiring to obtain the maiden, “May it be well! May it be good!”

The people of the house said, “O Brahman, it is not yet the time for asking; but what do you ask for?”

“I ask for your daughter.”

“On whose behalf?”

“On behalf of the son, Viśākha by name, of Mṛgadhara, the first minister of Śrāvastī.”

They replied, “It is true that we and he are of the same caste, but his country lies too far away.”

The Brahman said, “It is precisely in a far-away country that a man should choose a husband for his daughter.”

“How so?”

“If she is married in the neighbourhood, joy increases when news comes that she is prosperous; but if a misfortune occurs, a man’s property may be brought to nought, he being exhausted by gifts, sacrifices, and tokens of reverence.”

They said, “This being so, we will give our daughter.”

Thereupon the Brahman, having uttered a wish for a happy result, returned to Śrāvastī, and there, after recovering from the fatigue of the journey, went to see the minister, Mṛgadhara, and described to him the maiden’s youth, beauty, and intelligence, as well as her demeanour and manner of eating. Then he said, “With great toil have I wandered through many lands and cities, and with much trouble have I found her. Now go and fetch her.”

The first minister, Mṛgadhara, took note of the day and hour, and found that the stars were propitious. Then he set forth and fetched away Viśākhā with great pomp as his son’s spouse. The mother gave her daughter, when she was leaving for her husband’s land, the following counsel: “O daughter, always honour the sun and the moon, pay attention to the fire, wipe dirt off the mirror, and wear white clothes. You shall take but not give. You shall keep your word. When you rise up, you shall yield your place to none. You shall partake of savoury food. You shall sleep tranquilly. You shall apply a ladder.”

When Mṛgadhara heard this, he thought that the girl had received a quite wrong piece of advice, and that he must dissuade her from following it and give her proper directions. The loving mother, with troubled heart and eyes full of tears, embraced her daughter, and said with sorrowful voice, “O daughter, this is the last time that I shall see you.”

Viśākhā replied by way of admonition, “O mother, were you born here? Is not the maiden rather born in the house of her relatives? Is that house your home? Is it not rather this one here? Although I was born here, I shall live there. As that which unites undoubtedly underlies separation, be pleased not to wail but rather to keep silence.”

After that Mṛgadhara went his way.

Viśākhā and her husband with the attendants from her house went on board a ship. Soon afterwards a mare which had thrown a foal was to be brought on board the ship. As it felt that its foal would be restless on land, it resisted, and could not be got on board. This gave rise to much noise. When Viśākhā heard it she asked what was the cause. Being told how it arose, she gave directions that the foal should be brought on board first, in which case the mare would follow of its own accord. Her orders were obeyed, and the mare went on board. Mṛgadhara asked the men why they had come so late.

“Because the mare would not come on board.”

“Then how was it induced to come?”

“It did so after the Champā maiden had told us how to manage, and we had embarked the foal before the mare.”

“The Champā maiden is wise.”

On their way, the travellers had on one occasion chosen their quarters for the night, and Mṛgadhara’s tent was pitched under the projecting part of a hill. When Viśākhā saw it she asked to whom it belonged. “To Mṛgadhara,” was the reply. “Move it away from there,” she said. “Why should it be moved?” “Because,” she replied, “if the projecting part of the hill were to fall while he was asleep, he would certainly be crushed to death. Then I should all my life be exposed to the annoyance of having people say that my husband married a wife, whose father-in-law died on the way before she entered his house.”

After the bed had been moved away the projecting mass of the hill fell down. A great crowd came running together, full of anxiety lest the householder should have been crushed. But he exclaimed, “Honoured sirs, here am I; be not afraid, but look after my bed.” “It has been removed,” was the reply. “Who did that?” he asked. “Viśākhā,” they replied. He said, “The Champā maiden is wise.”

Later on, when they had taken up their quarters in an old park, and Mṛgadhara’s couch had been prepared in an empty temple, Viśākhā saw it and asked whose it was. “That is the master’s couch,” was the reply. “Move it away,” she said. “Why so?” “Because,” she replied, “if the temple were to fall down he would be crushed to death, and trouble would come upon me.”

After the couch had been removed the temple fell down, and people came running up, and so forth as before.

By and by they reached Śrāvastī, and after they had recovered from the fatigues of the journey and presented ornaments to friends, relatives, and connections, Viśākhā began to attend to the domestic affairs of the family. As Mṛgadhara’s daughters-in-law took it in turns to look after the food for the household, Viśākhā received instructions to provide it on the seventh day. As the time drew near for her turn to come, she daily rolled into pellets and desiccated what remained over of the perfumes used by her husband and his parents. Of the powder which she thus each day obtained she took some out of the box; the rest she mixed with oil and divided it into equal portions. When her turn came next day, she took care that spirituous liquors were prepared, and she renewed the freshness of her own and her husband’s faded garlands. When the morning came, she bestowed upon the labourers oranges, perfumes, flowers, and meat and drink. They were greatly pleased, and thought that, after a long time, the householder’s old wife had looked after them. And in the course of the day they did a double amount of work.

When Mṛgadhara inspected the work towards evening and saw that much had been done, he asked if additional day-labourers had been employed. Being told that this was not the case, he asked what the reason was that a double amount of work had been accomplished. The reply was, “O master, as is the food so is the labour.” “What is the meaning of that?” he asked. Whereupon a full account was given to him of how everything had come to pass.

Mṛgadhara’s sons spoke about this to their wives, who said, “If we, like Viśākhā, were to steal things from the house and thereby give pleasure to the day-labourers, the master and the labourers would be pleased with us too.” Whereupon Mṛgadhara said to Viśākhā, “O daughter, in what manner did you prepare the food?” She told him all about it. Mṛgadhara was much pleased, asked her to manage the affairs of the household, and ordered all the people of the house to perform, according to Viśākhā’s wishes, whatsoever tasks she might allot to them. She thus became the mistress of the house, and as she was excellent in her behaviour and in her whole nature, all the people of the house rejoiced.

At another time it happened that some geese from Uttarakurudvīpa flew over the house, carrying rice which had grown without any ploughing or sowing having taken place. The geese in Rājagṛha saw them and cackled, and they in their turn cackled, not being able to subdue the force of instinct, so that some of the ears of rice fell on the roofs of Rājagṛha. The king distributed them among the ministers, and Mṛgadhara gave his share to Viśākhā. She placed them in a box and afterwards handed them over to the husbandmen. They were greatly pleased, and prepared a small field for them. And after it had been sowed with their seed at the fitting time and the deity had sent down rain, there grew up splendid rice, answering to the seed. Next year, moreover, they had a very abundant harvest, and in the following year a still more abundant one. Consequently all the granaries were filled with the rice brought by the geese.

When it came to pass that Prasenajit, the king of Kośala, was attacked by an illness, and all the physicians were summoned and consulted, they gave it as their opinion that if some of the rice brought by the geese could be found, and soup were to be made of it, and the king were to partake thereof, in that case he would recover. So the king called the ministers together, and asked them what they had done with the ears of rice which the geese had brought, and which he had given to them. Some of them said, “O king, we gave them to the temple;” and others, “We threw them into the fire;” or others, “We fastened them up in the vestibule.” But Mṛgadhara said, “I gave them to Viśākhā. I will inquire what she has done with them.” When he asked Viśākhā she replied, “O master, does some one wish to partake of the geese-brought rice?”

“As the king is ill, the doctors have prescribed for him the rice which the geese brought hither.”

Then Viśākhā filled a golden vase with the geese-brought rice and sent it to the king. The king ate thereof and recovered.

On another occasion some country folks came bringing a mare and her foal. As they could not tell which was the mare and which the foal, the king ordered the ministers to examine them closely, and to report to him on the matter. The ministers examined them both for a whole day, became weary, and arrived at no conclusion after all. When Mṛgadhara went home in the evening, Viśākhā touched his feet and said, “O master, wherefore do ye return so late?” He told her everything that had occurred. Then Viśākhā said, “O master, what is there to investigate in that? Fodder should be laid before them in equal parts. The foal, after rapidly eating up its own share, will begin to devour its mother’s also; but the mother, without eating, will hold up her head like this. That is the proper test.”

Mṛgadhara told this to the ministers, who applied the test according to these instructions, and after daybreak they reported to the king, “This is the mother, O king, and that is the foal.” The king asked how they knew that.

“O king, the case is so and so.”

“How was it you did not know that yesterday?”

“O king, how could we know it? Viśākhā has instructed us since.”

Said the king, “The Champā maiden is wise.”

It happened that a man who was bathing had left his boots on the bank. Another man came up, tied the boots round his head, and began to bathe likewise. When the first man had done bathing and came out of the water, he missed the boots. The other man said, “Hey, man, what are you looking for?”

“My boots.”

“Where are your boots? When you have boots, you should tie them round your head, as I do, before going into the water.”

As a dispute arose between the two men as to whom the boots belonged to, they both had recourse to the king. The king told the ministers to investigate the case thoroughly, and to give the boots to the proper owner. The ministers began to investigate the case, and examined first the one man and then the other. Each of the men affirmed that he was the owner. While these assertions were being made, the day came to an end, and in the evening the ministers returned home wearied out, without having brought the matter to a satisfactory conclusion. Viśākhā questioned Mṛgadhara, and he told her all about it, whereupon she said, “O master, what is there to investigate? Say to one of them, ‘Take one of the boots,’ and to the other man, ‘Take the other boot.’ The real owner will say in that case, ‘Why should my two boots be separated?’ But the other, the man to whom they do not really belong, will say, ‘What good do I gain by this if I only get one boot?’ That is the proper test to apply.”

Mṛgadhara went and told this to the ministers, and so forth, as is written above, down to the words, “The king said, ‘The Champā maiden is wise.’”

It happened that some merchants brought a stem of sandal-wood to the king as a present, but no one knew which was the upper end of it and which the lower. So the king ordered his ministers to settle the question. They spent a whole day in examining the stem, but they could make nothing of it. In the evening they returned to their homes. Mṛgadhara again told Viśākhā all about the matter, and she said, “O master, what is there to investigate? Place the stem in water. The root end will then sink, but the upper end will float upwards. That is the proper test.”

Mṛgadhara communicated this to the ministers, and so forth, as is written above, down to the words, “The king said, ‘The Champā maiden is wise.’”

There was a householder in a hill-village who, after he had married in his own rank, remained without either son or daughter. As he longed earnestly for a child, he took unto himself a concubine. Thereupon his wife, who was of a jealous disposition, had recourse to a spell for the purpose of rendering that woman barren. But as that woman was quite pure, she became with child, and at the end of nine months bare a son. Then she reflected thus: “As the worst of all enmities is the enmity between a wife and a concubine, and the stepmother will be sure to seek for a means of killing the child, what ought my husband, what ought I to do? As I shall not be able to keep it alive, I had better give it to her.”