The Kathá Sarit Ságara; or, Ocean of the Streams of Story
the Hindi version she dies of snake-bite.] She is brought back to
life by a good beating. The first suitor opens the grave, the second
advises the use of the cudgel, the third carries it out.
This method of restoring people, who die suddenly, to life by a good
beating, is found in a Persian story, professing to be derived from
a book "Post nubila Phoebus," in which the physician bears the name
of Kati, and asserts that he learnt the method from an old Arab. The
story is found in Epistolæ Turcicæ et Narrationes Persicæ editæ et
Latine conversæ a Joh. Ury. Oxonii, 1771, 4o, pp. 26 and 27. This
collection, which contains not the least hint of its origin, is
particularly interesting as it contains the VIIIth story of the
Siddhikür; "The Painter and the Wood-carver." [See Sagas from the Far
East, p. 97.] The Episode of the stealing of the magic book is found,
quite separated from the context, in many MS. versions of the Gesta
Romanorum: see Appendix to Oesterley's edition. (Oesterley's Baitál
Pachísí, pp. 183-185.)
CHAPTER LXXVII.
(Vetála 3.)
Then the heroic king Trivikramasena again went to the asoka-tree,
to fetch the Vetála. And he found him there in the corpse, and
again took him up on his shoulder, and began to return with him in
silence. And as he was going along, the Vetála, who was on his back,
said to him, "It is wonderful, king, that you are not cowed with this
going backwards and forwards at night. So I will tell you another
story to solace you, listen."
Story of the king, and the two wise birds.
There is on the earth a famous city named Pátaliputra. In it there
lived of old time a king named Vikramakesarin, whom Providence made
a storehouse of virtues as well as of jewels. And he possessed a
parrot of godlike intellect, knowing all the sástras, that had
been born in that condition owing to a curse, and its name was
Vidagdhachúdámani. And the prince married as a wife, by the advice of
the parrot, a princess of equal birth, of the royal family of Magadha,
named Chandraprabhá. That princess also possessed a similar hen-maina,
of the name of Somiká, remarkable for knowledge and discernment. And
the two, the parrot and the maina, remained there in the same cage,
assisting with their discernment their master and mistress.
One day the parrot became enamoured of the maina, and said to
her, "Marry me, fair one, as we sleep, perch, and feed in the same
cage." But the maina answered him, "I do not desire intimate union with
a male, for all males are wicked and ungrateful." The parrot retorted,
"It is not true that males are wicked, but females are wicked and
cruel-hearted." And so a dispute arose between them. The two birds then
made a bargain that, if the parrot won, he should have the maina for
wife, and if the maina won, the parrot should be her slave, and they
came before the prince to get a true judgment. The prince, who was
in his father's judgment-hall, heard the point at issue between them,
and then said to the maina, "Tell me, how are males ungrateful?" Then
the maina said, "Listen," and in order to establish her contention,
proceeded to relate this story illustrating the faults of males.
The maina's story. [288]
There is on the earth a famous city, of the name of Kámandakí. In
it there was a rich merchant, of the name of Arthadatta. And he had
a son born to him, of the name of Dhanadatta. When his father died,
the young man became dissipated. And rogues got round him, and plunged
him in the love of gambling and other vices. In truth the society
of the wicked is the root of the tree of vice. In a short time his
wealth was exhausted by dissipation, and being ashamed of his poverty,
he left his own country, to wander about in foreign lands.
And in the course of his travels, he reached a place named
Chandanapura, and desiring food, he entered the house of a certain
merchant. As fate would have it, the merchant, seeing that he was a
handsome youth, asked him his descent and other things, and finding
out that he was of good birth, entertained him, and adopted him as
a protégé. And he gave him his daughter Ratnávalí, with a dower,
and thenceforth Dhanadatta lived in his father-in-law's house.
And in the course of some days, he forgot in his present happiness
his former misery, and having acquired wealth, and longing for fresh
dissipation, he wished to go back to his own land. Then the rascal
with difficulty wrung a permission from his unwilling father-in-law,
whose daughter was his only child, and taking with him his wife,
covered with ornaments, accompanied by an old woman, set out from that
place, with a party of three in all. And in course of time he reached
a distant wood, and on the plea that there was danger of robbers,
he took those ornaments from his wife and got them into his own
possession. Alas! Observe that the heart of ungrateful males, addicted
to the hateful vices of dicing and drabbing, is as hard as a sword.
Then the villain, being determined to kill his wife, though she was
virtuous, for the sake of her wealth, threw her and the old woman into
a ravine. And after he had thrown them there, he went away. The old
woman was killed, but his wife was caught in a mass of creepers and did
not die. And she slowly climbed up out of the chasm, weeping bitterly,
supporting herself by clinging to grass and creepers, for the appointed
end of her life had not yet come. And asking her way, step by step,
she arrived, by the road by which she came, at the house of her father,
with difficulty, for her limbs were sorely bruised. When she arrived
there suddenly, in this state, her mother and father questioned her
eagerly. And the virtuous lady weeping told this tale, "We were robbed
on the way by bandits, and my husband was dragged away bound; the old
woman died, but I survived, though I fell into a ravine. Then I was
dragged out of the ravine by a certain benevolent traveller, who came
that way, and by the favour of destiny I have arrived here." When
the good Ratnávalí said this, her father and mother comforted her,
and she remained there, thinking only of her husband.
And in course of time her husband Dhanadatta, who had gone back to his
own country, and wasted that wealth in gambling, said to himself, "I
will go and fetch more wealth, begging it from my father-in-law, and I
will tell him that I have left his daughter in my house here." Thinking
thus in his heart, he set out for that house of his father-in-law,
and when he drew near, his wife beheld him from a distance, and she
ran and fell at his feet, though he was a villain. For, though a
husband is wicked, a good wife does not alter her feelings towards
him. And when he was frightened, she told him all the fictitious
story she had previously told her parents about the robbery, her
fall, and so on. Then he entered fearlessly with her the house of his
father-in-law; and his father-in-law and mother-in-law, when they saw
him, welcomed him joyfully. And his father-in-law called his friends
together, and made a great feast on the occasion, exclaiming, "It is
indeed a happy thing, that my son-in-law has been let go with life
by the robbers." Then Dhanadatta lived happily with that wife of his
Ratnávalí, enjoying the wealth of his father-in-law. But, fie! what
the cruel man did one night, though it should not be told for shame,
must still for the story's sake be related. He killed his wife when
asleep in his bosom, and took away all her ornaments, and then went
away unobserved to his own country.
"So wicked are males!" When the maina had said this, the king said
to the parrot--"Now say your say."--Then the parrot said--"King,
females are of intolerable audacity, immoral and wicked; hear a tale
in proof of it."
The parrot's story. [289]
There is a city of the name of Harshavatí, and in it there was a
leading merchant named Dharmadatta, possessed of many crores. And
that merchant had a daughter named Vasudattá, matchless in beauty,
whom he loved more than his life. And she was given to an excellent
young merchant named Samudradatta, equal to her in rank, distinguished
for wealth and youth, who was an object that the eyes of lovely women
loved to feast on, as the partridges on the rays of the moon, and
who dwelt in the city of Támraliptí which is inhabited by honourable
men. Once on a time, the merchant's daughter, while she was living
in her father's house, and her husband was in his own country,
saw at a distance a certain young and good-looking man. The fickle
woman, deluded by Mára, [290] invited him by means of a confidante,
and made him her secret paramour. And from that time forth she spent
every night with him, and her affections were fixed upon him only.
But one day the husband of her youth returned from his own land,
appearing to her parents like delight in bodily form. And on that day
of rejoicing she was adorned, but she would have nothing to say to her
husband in spite of her mother's injunctions, but when he spoke to her,
she pretended to be asleep, as her heart was fixed on another. And then
her husband, being drowsy with wine, and tired with his journey, was
overpowered by sleep. In the meanwhile, as all the people of the house,
having eaten and drunk, were fast asleep, a thief made a hole in the
wall and entered their apartment. At that very moment the merchant's
daughter rose up, without seeing the thief, and went out secretly,
having made an assignation with her lover. When the thief saw that,
his object being frustrated, he said to himself, "She has gone out in
the dead of night adorned with those very ornaments which I came here
to steal; so I will watch where she goes." When the thief had formed
this intention, he went out, and followed that merchant's daughter
Vasudattá, keeping an eye on her, but himself unobserved.
But she, with flowers and other things of the kind in her hands,
went out, accompanied by a single confidante, who was in the secret,
and entered a garden at no great distance outside the city.
And in it she saw her lover, who had come there to meet her, hanging
dead on a tree, with a halter round his neck, for the city-guards
had caught him there at night and hanged him, on the supposition
that he was a thief. Then she was distracted and beside herself, and
exclaiming, "I am ruined," she fell on the ground and lamented with
plaintive cries. Then she took down her dead paramour from the tree,
and placing him in a sitting position, she adorned him with unguents
and flowers, and though he was senseless, embraced him, with mind
blinded by passion and grief. And when in her sorrow she raised up his
mouth and kissed it, her dead paramour, being animated by a Vetála,
suddenly bit off her nose. Then she left him in confusion and agony,
but still the unfortunate woman came back once more, and looked at
him to see if he was still alive. And when she saw that the Vetála
had left his body, and that he was dead and motionless, she departed
slowly, weeping with fear and humiliation.
In the meanwhile the thief, who was hidden there, saw all, and said
to himself, "What is this that this wicked woman has done? Alas! the
mind of females is terrible and black like a dark well, unfathomable,
exceedingly deep for a fall. [291] So I wonder what she will do
now." After these reflections, the thief again followed her at a
distance, out of curiosity.
She went on and entered her own chamber, where her husband was asleep,
and cried out weeping, "Help! Help! This wicked enemy, calling himself
a husband, has cut off my nose, though I have done nothing wrong." Then
her husband, and her father, and the servants, hearing her repeated
cries, woke up, and arose in a state of excitement. Then her father,
seeing that her nose had been recently taken off, was angry, and