Chapter II: Introduction: , by Charles Woodward Hutson (2)

But Tilottama, returning to the Brahmaloka, received the commendation of the gods, and kindly praise from Brahma, Father of Worlds and Men, who bade her ask for whatsoever grace she most desired. But she asked him only that she might dwell forever in that world of splendors and of light, which the blessed inhabit. And the Universal Father made answer, saying: "Granted is thy prayer, O most seductive among created beings! thou shalt dwell in the neighborhood of the sun, yet not among the gods, lest mischief be wrought. And the dazzle of thy beauty shall hinder the eyes of mortals from beholding thee, that their hearts be not consumed because of thee. Dwell therefore within the heaven of the sun forevermore."

And Brahma, having restored to Indra the dominion of the Three Worlds, withdrew into the infinite light of the Brahmaloka.

[Footnote 1: According to the exordium in the _Adi-Parva_ of the _Mahabharata_, this now most gigantic of epics at first consisted of 24,000 slokas only. Subsequent additions swelled the number of its distiches to the prodigious figure of 107, 389.--L. H.]

THE BRAHMAN AND HIS BRAHMANI

The wise will not attach themselves unto women; for women
sport with the hearts of those who love them, even as with
ravens whose wing-feathers have been plucked out.... There
is honey in the tongues of women; there is nought in their
heart save the venom halahala.... Their nature is mobile as
the eddies of the sea; their affection endures no longer
than the glow of gold above the place of sunset: all venom
within, all fair without, women are like unto the fruit of
the goundja.... Therefore the experienced and wise do avoid
women, even as they shun the water-vessels that are placed
within the cemeteries....

In the "Panchopakhyana," and also in that "Ocean of the Rivers of Legend," which is called in the ancient Indian tongue "Kathasaritsagara," may be found this story of a Brahman and his Brahmani:

...Never did the light that is in the eyes of lovers shine more tenderly than in the eyes of the Brahman who gave his life for the life of the woman under whose lotus-feet he laid his heart. Yet what man lives that hath not once in his time been a prey to the madness inspired by woman? ...

He alone loved her; his family being loath to endure her presence--for in her tongue was the subtle poison that excites sister against brother, friend against friend. But so much did he love her that for her sake he abandoned father and mother, brother and sister, and departed with his Brahmani to seek fortune in other parts. Happily his guardian Deva accompanied him--for he was indeed a holy man, having no fault but the folly of loving too much; and the Deva, by reason of spiritual sight, foresaw all that would come to pass.

As they were journeying together through the elephant-haunted forest, the young woman said to her husband: "O thou son of a venerable man, thy Brahmani dies of thirst; fetch her, she humbly prays thee, a little water from the nearest spring." And the Brahman forthwith hastened to the running brook, with the gourd in his hand; but when he had returned with the water, he found his beloved lying dead upon a heap of leaves. Now this death was indeed the unseen work of the good Deva.

So, casting the gourd from him, the Brahman burst into tears, and sobbed as though his soul would pass from him, and kissed the beautiful dead face and the slender dead feet and the golden throat of his Brahmani, shrieking betimes in his misery, and daring to question the gods as to why they had so afflicted him. But even as he lamented, a voice answered him in syllables clear as the notes of a singing bird: "Foolish man! wilt thou give half of thy life in order that thy Brahmani shall live again?"

And he, in whom love had slain all fear, answered untremblingly to the Invisible: "Yea, O Narayana, half of my life will I give unto her gladly." Then spake the Invisible: "Foolish man! pronounce the three mystic syllables." And he pronounced them; and the Brahmani, as if awaking from a dream, unclosed her jewel-eyes, and wound her round arms about her husband's neck, and with her fresh lips drank the rain of his tears as the lips of a blossom drink in the dews of the night.

So, having eaten of fruits and refreshed themselves, both proceeded upon their way; and at last, leaving the forest, they came to a great stretch of gardens lying without a white city--gardens rainbow-colored with flowers of marvelous perfume, and made cool by fountains flowing from the lips of gods in stone and from the trunks of elephants of rock. Then said the loving husband to his Brahmani: "Remain here a little while, thou too sweet one, that I may hasten on to return to thee sooner with fruits and refreshing drink."...

Now in that place of gardens dwelt a youth, employed to draw up water by the turning of a great wheel, and to cleanse the mouths of the fountains; and although a youth, he had been long consumed by one of those maladies that make men tremble with cold beneath a sky of fire, so that there was little of his youthfulness left to him excepting his voice. But with that voice he charmed the hearts of women, as the juggler charms the hooded serpent; and, seeing the wife of the Brahman, he sang that she might hear.

He sang as the birds sing in the woods in pairing time, as the waters sing that lip the curves of summered banks, as the Apsarases sang in other kalpas; and he sang the songs of Amarou--Amarou, sweetest of all singers, whose soul had passed through a century of transmigrations in the bodies of a hundred fairest women, until he became the world's master in all mysteries of love. And as the Brahmani listened, Kama transpierced her heart with his flower-pointed arrows, so that, approaching the youth, she pressed her lips upon his lips, and murmured, "If thou lovest me not, I die."

Therefore, when the Brahman returned with fruits and drink, she coaxed him that he should share these with the youth, and even prayed him that he should bring the youth along as a traveling companion or as a domestic.

"Behold!" answered the Brahman, "this young man is too feeble to bear hardship; and if he fall by the wayside, I shall not be strong enough to carry him." But the Brahmani answered, "Nay! should he fall, then will I myself carry him in my basket, upon my head"; and the Brahman yielded to her request, although marveling exceedingly. So they all traveled on together.

Now one day, as they were reposing by a deep well, the Brahmani, beholding her husband asleep, pushed him so that he fell into the well; and she departed, taking the youth with her. Soon after this had happened, they came to a great city where a famous and holy king lived, who loved all Brahmans and had built them a temple surrounded by rich lands, paying for the land by laying golden elephant-feet in lines round about it. And the cunning Brahmani, when arrested by the toll-collectors and taken before this king--still bearing the sick youth upon her head in a basket--boldly spake to the king, saying: "This, most holy of kings, is my dearest husband, a righteous Brahman, who has met with affliction while performing the good works ordained for such as he; and inasmuch as heirs sought his life, I have concealed him in this basket and brought him hither." Then the king, being filled with compassion, bestowed upon the Brahmani and her pretended husband the revenues of two villages and the freedom thereof, saying: "Thou shalt be henceforth as my sister thou comeliest and truest of women."

But the poor Brahman was not dead; for his good Deva had preserved his life within the well-pit, and certain travelers passing by drew him up and gave him to eat. Thus it happened that he presently came to the same village in which the wicked Brahmani dwelt; and, fearing with an exceeding great fear, she hastened to the king, and said, "Lo! the enemy who seeketh to kill my husband pursueth after us."

Then said the king, "Let him be trampled under foot by the elephants!"

But the Brahman, struggling in the grasp of the king's men, cried out, with a bitter cry: "O king! art thou indeed called just, who will not hearken to the voice of the accused? This fair but wicked woman is indeed my own wife; ere I be condemned, let her first give back to me that which I gave her!"

And the king bade his men stay their hands. "Give him back," he commanded, in a voice of tempest, "that which belongs to him!"

But the Brahmani protested, saying, "My lord, I have nought which belongs to him." So the king's brow darkened with the frown of a maharajah.

"Give me back," cried the Brahman, "the life which I gave thee, my own life given to thee with the utterance of the three mystic syllables--the half of my own years."

Then, through exceeding fear of the king, she murmured, "Yea, I render it up to thee, the life thou gavest me with the utterance of the three mystic syllables." And fell dead at the king's feet.

Thus the truth was made manifest; and hence the proverb arose:

She for whom I gave up family, home, and even the half of my
life, hath abandoned me, the heartless one! What man may put
faith in women?

BAKAWALI

There is in the Hindustani language a marvelous tale written
by a Moslem, but treating nevertheless of the ancient gods
of India, and of the Apsarases and of the Rakshasas. "The
Rose of Bakawali" it is called. Therein also may be found
many strange histories of fountains filled with magical
waters, changing the sex of those who bathe therein;
and histories of flowers created by witchcraft--never
fading--whose perfumes give sight to the blind; and, above
all, this history of love human and superhuman, for which a
parallel may not be found....

...In days when the great Rajah Zainu'l-Mulk reigned over the eastern kingdoms of Hindostan, it came to pass that Bakawali, the Apsaras, fell in love with a mortal youth who was none other than the son of the Rajah. For the lad was beautiful as a girl, beautiful even as the god Kama, and seemingly created for love. Now in that land all living things are sensitive to loveliness, even the plants themselves--like the Asoka that bursts into odorous blossom when touched even by the foot of a comely maiden. Yet was Bakawali fairer than any earthly creature, being a daughter of the immortals; and those who had seen her, believing her born of mortal woman, would answer when interrogated concerning her, "Ask not us! Rather ask thou the nightingale to sing of her beauty."

Never had the youth Taju'l-Mulk guessed that his beloved was not of mortal race, having encountered her as by hazard, and being secretly united to her after the Gandharva fashion. But he knew that her eyes were preternaturally large and dark, and the odor of her hair like Tartary musk; and there seemed to transpire from her when she moved such a light and such a perfume that he remained bereft of utterance, while watching her, and immobile as a figure painted upon a wall. And the lamp of love being enkindled in the heart of Bakawali, her wisdom, like a golden moth, consumed itself in the name thereof, so that she forgot her people utterly, and her immortality, and even the courts of heaven wherein she was wont to dwell.

In the sacred books of the Hindus there is much written concerning the eternal city Amaranagar, whose inhabitants are immortal. There Indra, azure-bearded, dwells in sleepless pleasure, surrounded by his never-slumbering court of celestial bayaderes, circling about him as the constellations of heaven circle in their golden dance about Surya, the sun. And this was Bakawali's home, that she had abandoned for the love of a man.

So it came to pass one night, a night of perfume and of pleasure, that Indra started up from his couch like one suddenly remembering a thing long forgotten, and asked of those about him: "How happens it that Bakawali, daughter of Firoz, no more appears before us?" And one of them made answer, saying: "O great Indra, that pretty fish hath been caught in the net of human love! Like the nightingale, never does she cease to complain because it is not possible for her to love even more; intoxicated is she with the perishable youth and beauty of her mortal lover; and she lives only for him and in him, so that even her own kindred are now forgotten or have become to her objects of aversion. And it is because of him, O Lord of Suras and Devas, that the rosy one no longer presents herself before thy court."

Then was Indra wroth; and he commanded that Bakawali be perforce brought before him, that she might render account of her amorous folly. And the Devas, awaking her, placed her in their cloud-chariot, and brought her into the presence of Indra, her lips still humid with mortal kisses, and on her throat red-blossom marks left by human lips. And she knelt before him, with fingers joined as in prayer; while the Lord of the firmament gazed at her in silent anger, with such a frown as he was wont to wear when riding to battle upon his elephant triple-trunked. Then said he to the Devas about him: "Let her be purified by fire, inasmuch as I discern about her an odor of mortality offensive to immortal sense. And even so often as she returns to her folly, so often let her be consumed in my sight."...

Accordingly they bound the fairest of Apsarases, and cast her into a furnace furious as the fires of the sun, so that within a moment her body was changed to a white heap of ashes. But over the ashes was magical water sprinkled; and out of the furnace Bakawali arose, nude as one newly born, but more perfect in rosy beauty even than before. And Indra commanded her to dance before him, as she was wont to do in other days.

So she danced all those dances known in the courts of heaven, curving herself as flowers curve under a perfumed breeze, as water serpentines under the light; and she circled before them rapidly as a leaf-whirling wind, lightly as a bee, with myriad variations of delirious grace, with ever-shifting enchantment of motion, until the hearts of all who looked upon her were beneath those shining feet, and all cried aloud: "O flower-body! O rose-body! O marvel of the Garden of Grace! Blossom of daintiness! O flower-body!"

Thus was she each night obliged to appear before Indra at Amaranagar, and each night to suffer the fiercest purification of fire, forasmuch as she would not forsake her folly; and each night also did she return to her mortal lover, and take her wonted place beside him without awaking him, having first bathed her in the great fountain of rosewater within the court.

But once it happened that Taju'l-Mulk awoke in the night, and reaching out his arms found she was not there. Only the perfume of her head upon the pillow, and odorous garments flung in charming formlessness upon every divan....

When she returned, seemingly fairer than before, the youth uttered no reproach, but on the night following he slit up the tip of his finger with a sharp knife, and filled the wound with salt that he might not sleep. Then, when the aerial chariot descended all noiselessly, like some long cloud moon-silvered, he arose and followed Bakawali unperceived. Clinging underneath the chariot, he was borne above winds even to Amaranagar, and into the jeweled courts and into the presence of Indra. But Indra knew not, for his senses were dizzy with sights of beauty and the fumes of soma-wine.

Then did Taju'l-Mulk, standing in the shadow of a pillar, behold beauty such as he had never before seen--save in Bakawali--and hear music sweeter than mortal musician may ever learn. Splendors bewildered his eyes; and the crossing of the fretted and jeweled archwork above him seemed an inter-crossing and interblending of innumerable rainbows. But when it was given to him, all unexpectedly, to view the awful purification of Bakawali, his heart felt like ice within him, and he shrieked. Nor could he have refrained from casting himself also into that burst of white fire, had not the magical words been pronounced and the wizard-water sprinkled before he was able to move a limb. Then did he behold Bakawali rising from her snowy cinders--shining like an image of the goddess Lakshmi in the fairest of her thousand forms--more radiant than before, like some comet returning from the embraces of the sun with brighter curves of form and longer glories of luminous hair....

And Bakawali danced and departed, Taju'l-Mulk likewise returning even as he had come....

But when he told her, in the dawn of the morning, that he had accompanied her in her voyage and had surprised her secret, Bakawali wept and trembled for fear. "Alas! alas! what hast thou done?" she sobbed; "thou hast become thine own greatest enemy. Never canst thou know all that I have suffered for thy sake--the maledictions of my kindred, the insults of all belonging to my race. Yet rather than turn away my face from thy love, I suffered nightly the agonies of burning; I have died a myriad deaths rather than lose thee. Thou hast seen it with thine own eyes!... But none of mankind may visit unbidden the dwelling of the gods and return with impunity. Now, alas! the evil hath been done; nor can I devise any plan by which to avert thy danger, save that of bringing thee again secretly to Amaranagar and charming Indra in such wise that he may pardon all."...

So Bakawali the Apsaras suffered once more the agony of fire, and danced before the gods, not only as she had danced before, but so that the eyes of all beholding her became dim in watching the varying curves of her limbs, the dizzy speed of her white feet, the tossing light of her hair. And the charm of her beauty bewitched the tongues of all there, so that the cry, "O flower-body!" fainted into indistinguishable whispers, and the fingers of the musicians were numbed with languor, and the music weakened tremblingly, quiveringly, dying down into an amorous swoon.

And out of the great silence broke the soft thunder of Indra's pleased voice: "O Bakawali! ask me for whatever thou wilt, and it shall be accorded thee. By the Trimurti, I swear!"... But she, kneeling before him, with bosom still fluttering from the dance, murmured: "I pray thee, divine One, only that thou wilt allow me to depart hence, and dwell with this mortal whom I love during all the years of life allotted unto him." And she gazed upon the youth Taju'l-Mulk.

But Indra, hearing these words, and looking also at Taju'l-Mulk, frowned so darkly that gloom filled all the courts of heaven. And he said: "Thou, also, son of man, wouldst doubtless make the same prayer; yet think not thou mayst take hence an Apsaras like Bakawali to make her thy wife without grief to thyself! And as for thee, O shameless Bakawali, thou mayst depart with him, indeed, since I have sworn; but I swear also to thee that from thy waist unto thy feet thou shalt remain a woman of marble for the space of twelve years.... Now let thy lover rejoice in thee!"...

...And Bakawali was placed in the chamber of a mined pagoda, deep-buried within the forests of Ceylon; and there did she pass the years, sitting upon a seat of stone, herself stone from feet to waist. But Taju'l-Mulk found her and ministered unto her as to the statue of a goddess; and he waited for her through the long years.

The ruined pavement, grass-disjointed, trembled to the passing tread of wild elephants; often did tigers peer through the pillared entrance, with eyes flaming like emeralds; but Taju'l-Mulk was never weary nor afraid, and he waited by her through all the weary and fearful years.

Gem-eyed lizards clung and wondered; serpents watched with marvelous chrysolite gaze; vast spiders wove their silvered lace above the head of the human statue; sunset-feathered birds, with huge and flesh-colored beaks, hatched their young in peace under the eyes of Bakawali.... Until it came to pass at the close of the eleventh year--Taju'l-Mulk being in search of food--that the great ruin fell, burying the helpless Apsaras under a ponderous and monstrous destruction beyond the power of any single arm to remove.... Then Taju'l-Mulk wept; but he still waited, knowing that the immortals could not die.

And out of the shapeless mass of ruins there soon grew a marvelous tree, graceful, dainty, round-limbed like a woman; and Taju'l-Mulk watched it waxing tall under the mighty heat of the summer, bearing flowers lovelier than that narcissus whose blossoms have been compared to the eyes of Oriental girls, and rosy fruit as smooth-skinned as maiden flesh.

So the twelfth year passed. And with the passing of its last moon, a great fruit parted itself, and therefrom issued the body of a woman, slender and exquisite, whose supple limbs had been folded up within the fruit as a butterfly is folded up within its chrysalis, comely as an Indian dawn, deeper-eyed than ever woman of earth--being indeed an immortal, being an Apsaras--Bakawali reincarnated for her lover, and relieved from the malediction of the gods.

NATALIKA

The story of a statue of sable stone among the ruins of
Tirouvicaray, which are in the Land of Golconda that was....
When the body shall have mouldered even as the trunk of a
dead tree, shall have crumbled to dust even as a clod of
earth, the lovers of the dead will turn away their faces and
depart; but Virtue, remaining faithful, will lead the soul
beyond the darknesses....

The yellow jungle-grasses are in the streets of the city; the hooded serpents are coiled about the marble legs of the gods. Bats suckle their young within the ears of the granite elephants; and the hairy spider spins her web for ruby-throated humming-birds within the chambers of longs. The pythons breed within the sanctuaries, once ornate as the love-songs of Indian poets; the diamond eyes of the gods have been plucked out; lizards nestle in the lips of Siva; the centipedes writhe among the friezes; the droppings of birds whiten the altars.... But the sacred gateway of a temple still stands, as though preserved by the holiness of its inscriptions:

The Self-existent is not of the universe.... Man may not
take with him aught of his possessions beyond the grave;
let him increase the greatness of his good deeds, even as
the white ants do increase the height of their habitation.
For neither father nor mother, neither sister nor brother,
neither son nor wife, may accompany him to the other world;
but Virtue only may be his comrade...

And these words, graven upon the stone, have survived the wreck of a thousand years.

Now, among the broken limbs of the gods, and the jungle grasses, and the monstrous creeping plants that seem striving to strangle the elephants of stone, a learned traveler wandering in recent years came upon the statue of a maiden, in black granite, marvelously wrought. Her figure was nude and supple as those of the women of Krishna; on her head was the tiara of a princess, and from her joined hands escaped a cascade of flowers to fall upon the tablet supporting her exquisite feet. And on the tablet was the name NATALIKA; and above it a verse from the holy Ramayana, which signifies, in our tongue, these words:

...For I have been witness of this marvel, that by crushing
the flowers in her hands, she made them to exhale a sweeter
perfume.

And this is the story of Natalika, as it is told in the chronicle of the Moslem historian Ferista:

More than a thousand years ago there was war between the Khalif Oualed and Dir-Rajah, of the Kingdom of Sindh. The Arab horsemen swept over the land like a typhoon; and their eagle-visaged hordes reddened the rivers with blood, and made the nights crimson with the burning of cities. Brahman ab ad they consumed with fire, and Alan and Dinal, making captives of the women, and putting all males to the edge of the scimitar. The Rajah fought stoutly for his people and for his gods; but the Arabs prevailed, fearing nothing, remembering the words of the Prophet, that "Paradise may be found in the shadow of the crossing of swords." And at Brahmanabad, Kassim, the zealous lieutenant of the Khalif, captured the daughter of the Rajah, and slew the Rajah and all his people.

Her name was Natalika. When Kassim saw her, fairer than that Love-goddess born from a lotus-flower, her eyes softer than dew, her figure lithe as reeds, her blue-black tresses rippling to the gold rings upon her ankles---he swore by the Prophet's beard that she was the comeliest ever born of woman, and that none should have her save the Khalif Oualed. So he commanded that a troop of picked horsemen should take her to Bagdad, with much costly booty--jewelry, delicate and light as feathers, ivory carving miraculously wrought (sculptured balls within sculptured balls), emeralds and turquoises, diamonds and rubies, woofs of cashmere, and elephants, and dromedaries. And whosoever might do hurt to Natalika by the way, would have to pay for it with his head, as surely as the words of the Koran were the words of God's Prophet.

When Natalika came into the presence of the Khalif of Bagdad, the Commander of the Faithful could at first scarcely believe his eyes, seeing so beautiful a maiden; and starting from his throne without so much as looking at the elephants and the jewels and the slaves and the other gifts of Kassim, he raised the girl from her knees and kissed her in the presence of all the people, vowing that it rather behooved him to kneel before her than her to kneel before him. But she only wept, and answered not....

And before many days the Khalif bade her know that he desired to make her his favorite wife; for since his eyes had first beheld her he could neither eat nor sleep for thinking of her. Therefore he prayed that she would cease her weeping, inasmuch as he would do more to make her happy than any other might do, save only the Prophet in his paradise.

Then Natalika wept more bitterly than before, and vowed herself unworthy to be the bride of the Khalif, although herself a king's daughter; for Kassim had done her a grievous wrong ere sending her to Bagdad....

Oualed heard the tale, and his mustaches curled with wrath. He sent his swiftest messengers to India with a sealed parchment containing orders that Kassim should leave the land of Sindh forthwith and hasten to Bassora, there to await further commands. Natalika shut herself up alone in her chamber to weep; and the Khalif wondered that he could not comfort her. But Kassim, leaving Sindh, wondered much more why the Commander of the Faithful should have recalled him, notwithstanding the beauty of the gifts, the loveliness of the captives, the splendor of the elephants. Still marveling, he rode into Bassora, and sought the governor of that place. Even while he was complaining there came forth mutes with bow-strings, and they strangled Kassim at the governor's feet.

Days went and came; and at last there rode into Bagdad a troop of fierce horsemen, to the Khalif s palace. Their leader, advancing into Oualed's presence, saluted him, and laid at his feet a ghastly head with blood-bedabbled beard, the head of the great captain, Kassim.

"Lo!" cried Oualed to Natalika, "I have avenged thy wrong; and now, I trust, thou wilt believe that I love thee, and truly desire to set thee over my household as my wife, my queen, my sweetly beloved!"

But Natalika commenced to laugh with a wild and terrible laugh. "Know, O deluded one," she cried, "that Kassim was wholly innocent in that whereof I accused him, and that I sought only to avenge the death of my people, the murder of my brothers and sisters, the pillage of our homes, the sacrilegious destruction of the holy city Brahmanabad. Never shall I, the daughter of a Kshatrya king, ally myself with one of thy blood and creed. I have lived so long only that I might be avenged; and now that I am doubly avenged, by the death of our enemy, by thy hopeless dream of love for me, I die!" Piercing her bosom with a poniard, she fell at the Khalif s feet.

But Natalika's betrothed lover, Udayah-Rajah, avenged her even more, driving the circumcised conquerors from the land, and slaughtering all who fell into his hands. And the cruelties they had wrought he repaid them a hundred-fold.

Yet, growing weary of life by reason of Natalika's death, he would not reign upon the throne to which he had hoped to lift her in the embrace of love; but, retiring from the world, he became a holy mendicant of the temple of Tirouvicaray....

And at last, feeling his end near, he dug himself a little grave under the walls of the temple; and ordered the most skilful sculptors to make the marble statue of his beloved, and that the statue should be placed upon his grave. Thus they wrought Natalika's statue as the statues of goddesses are wrought, but always according to his command, so that she seemeth to be crushing roses in her fingers. And when Udayah-Rajah passed away, they placed the statue of Natalika above him, so that her feet rest upon his heart.

I have been witness of this marvel, that by crushing the
flowers within her hands she made them to exhale a sweeter
perfume!

Were not those flowers the blossoming of her beautiful youth, made lovelier by its own sacrifice?

The temple and its ten thousand priests are gone. But even after the lapse of a thousand years a perfume still exhales from those roses of stone!

THE CORPSE-DEMON

There is a book written in the ancient tongue of India, and
called "Vetálapanchavinsati," signifying "The Twenty-Five
Tales of a Demon."... And these tales are marvelous above
all stories told by men; for wondrous are the words of
Demons, and everlasting.... Now this Demon dwelt within a
corpse, and spake with the tongue of the corpse, and gazed
with the eyes of the corpse. And the corpse was suspended by
its feet from a tree overshadowing tombs....

Now on the fourteenth of the moonless half of the month
Bhadon, the Kshatrya king Vikramaditya was commanded by a
designing Yogi that he should cut down the corpse and bring
the same to him. For the Yogi thus designed to destroy the
king in the night....

And when the king cut down the corpse, the Demon which was
in the corpse laughed and said: "If thou shouldst speak once
upon the way, I go not with thee, but return unto my tree."
Then the Demon began to tell to the king stories so strange
that he could not but listen. And at the end of each story
the Demon would ask hard questions, threatening to devour
Vikramaditya should he not answer; and the king, rightly
answering, indeed avoided destruction, yet, by speaking,
perforce enabled the Demon to return to the tree.... Now
listen to one of those tales which the Demon told:

O King, there once was a city called Dharmpur, whose rajah Dharmshil built a glorious temple to Devi, the goddess with a thousand shapes and a thousand names. In marble was the statue of the goddess wrought, so that she appeared seated cross-legged upon the cup of a monstrous lotus, two of her four hands being joined in prayer, and the other two uplifting on either side of her fountain basins, in each of which stood an elephant spouting perfumed spray. And there was exceeding great devotion at this temple; and the people never wearied of presenting to the goddess sandal-wood, unbroken rice, consecrated food, flowers, and lamps burning odorous oil.

Now from a certain city there came one day in pilgrimage to Devi's temple, a washerman and a friend with him. Even as he was ascending the steps of the temple, he beheld a damsel descending toward him, unrobed above the hips, after the fashion of her people. Sweet as the moon was her face; her hair was like a beautiful dark cloud; her eyes were liquid and large as a wild deer's; her brows were arched like bows well bent; her delicate nose was curved like a falcon's beak; her neck was comely as a dove's; her teeth were like pomegranate seeds; her lips ruddy as the crimson gourd; her hands and feet soft as lotus-leaves. Golden-yellow was her skin, like the petals of the champa-flowers; and the pilgrim saw that she was graceful-waisted as a leopard. And while the tinkling of the gold rings about her round ankles receded beyond his hearing, his sight became dim for love, and he prayed his friend to discover for him who the maiden might be.... Now she was the daughter of a washerman.

Then did the pilgrim enter into the presence of the goddess, having his mind filled wholly by the vision of that girl; and prostrating himself he vowed a strange vow, saying: "O Devi, Mahadevi--Mother of Gods and Monster-slayer--before whom all the divinities bow down, thou hast delivered the earth from its burdens! thou hast delivered those that worshiped thee from a thousand misfortunes! Now I pray thee, O Mother Devi, that thou wilt be my helper also, and fulfill the desire of my heart. And if by thy favor I be enabled to marry that loveliest of women, O Devi, verily I will make a sacrifice of my own head to thee." Such was the vow which he vowed.

But having returned unto his city and to his home, the torment of being separated from his beloved so wrought upon him that he became grievously sick, knowing neither sleep nor hunger nor thirst, inasmuch as love causes men to forget all these things. And it seemed that he might shortly die. Then, indeed, his friend, being alarmed, went to the father of the youth, and told him all, so that the father also became fearful for his son. Therefore, accompanied by his son's friend, he went to that city, and sought out the father of the girl, and said to him: "Lo! I am of thy caste and calling, and I have a favor to ask of thee. It has come to pass that my son is so enamoured of thy daughter that unless she be wedded to him he will surely die. Give me, therefore, the hand of thy daughter for my dear son." And the other was not at all displeased at these words; but, sending for a Brahman, he decided upon a day of good omen for the marriage to be celebrated. And he said: "Friend, bring thy son hither. I shall rub her hands with turmeric, that all men may know she is betrothed."

Thus was the marriage arranged; and in due time the father of the youth came with his son to the city; and after the ceremony had been fulfilled, he returned to his own people with his son and his daughter-in-law. Now the love these young people held each for the other waxed greater day by day; and there was no shadow on the young man's happiness saving the memory of his vow. But his wife so caressed and fondled him that at last the recollection of the oath faded utterly away.

After many days it happened that the husband and wife were both invited to a feast at Dharmpur; and they went thither with the friend who had before accompanied the youth upon his pilgrimage. Even as they neared the city, they saw from afar off the peaked and gilded summits of Devi's temple. Then the remembrance of his oath came back with great anguish to that young husband. "Verily," he thought within his heart, "I am most shameless and wicked among all perjurers, having been false in my vow even to Devi, Mother of Gods!"

And he said to his friend: "I pray thee, remain thou here with my wife while I go to prostrate myself before Devi."

So he departed to the temple, and bathed himself in the sacred pool, and bowed himself before the statue with joined hands. And having performed the rites ordained, he struck himself with a sword a mighty blow upon his neck, so that his head, being separated from his body, rolled even to the pillared stem of the marble lotus upon which Devi sat.

Now after the wife and the dead man's friend had long waited vainly, the friend said: "Surely he hath been gone a great time; remain thou here while I go to bring him back!" So he went to the temple, and entering it beheld his friend's body lying in blood, and the severed head beneath the feet of Devi. And he said to his own heart: "Verily this world is hard to live in!... Should I now return, the people would say that I had murdered this man for the sake of his wife's exceeding beauty." Therefore he likewise bathed in the sacred pool, and performed the rites prescribed, and smote himself upon the neck so that his head also was severed from his body and rolled in like manner unto Devi's feet.

Now, after the young wife had waited in vain alone for a long while, she became much tormented by fear for her husband's sake, and went also to the temple. And when she beheld the corpses and the reeking swords, she wept with unspeakable anguish, and said to her own heart: "Surely this world is hard to live in at best; and what is life now worth to me without my husband? Moreover, people will say that I, being a wicked woman, murdered them both, in order to live wickedly without restraint. Let me therefore also make a sacrifice!"...

Saying these words, she departed to the sacred pool and bathed therein, and, having performed the holy rites, lifted a sword to her own smooth throat that she might slay herself. But even as she lifted the sword a mighty hand of marble stayed her arm; while the deep pavement quivered to the tread of Devi's feet. For the Mother of Gods had arisen, and descended from her lotus seat, and stood beside her. And a divine voice issued from the grim lips of stone, saying, "O daughter! Dear hast thou made thyself to me! Ask now a boon of Devi!" But she answered, all-tremblingly, "Divinest Mother, I pray only that these men may be restored to life." Then said the goddess, "Put their heads upon their bodies."

And the beautiful wife sought to do according to the divine command; but love and hope and the fear of Devi made dizzy her brain, so that she placed her husband's head upon the friend's neck, and the head of the friend upon the neck of her husband. And the goddess sprinkled the bodies with the nectar of immortality, and they stood up, alive and well, indeed, yet with heads wonderfully exchanged.

Then said the Demon: "O King Vikramaditya! to which of these
two was she wife? Verily, if thou dost not rightly answer,
I shall devour thee." And Vikramaditya answered: "Listen!
in the holy Shastra it is said that as the Ganges is chief
among rivers, and Sumeru chief among mountains, and the
Tree of Paradise chief among trees, so is the head chief
among the parts of the body. Therefore she was the wife of
that one to whose body her husband's head was joined."...
Having answered rightly, the king suffered no hurt; but
inasmuch as he had spoken, it was permitted the corpse-demon
to return to the tree, and hang suspended therefrom above
the tombs.

...And many times, in like manner, was the Demon enabled to
return to the tree; and even so many times did Vikramaditya
take down and bind and bear away the Demon; and each time
the Demon would relate to the king a story so wild, so
wonderful, that he could not choose but hear.... Now this is
another of those tales which the Demon told:

O King, in the city of Dharmasthal there lived a Brahman, called Kesav; and his daughter, who was beautiful as an Apsaras, had rightly been named Sweet Jasmine-Flower, Madhumalati. And so soon as she was nubile, her father and her mother and her brothers were all greatly anxious to find her a worthy husband.

Now one day the father and the brother and the mother of the girl each promised her hand to a different suitor. For the good Kesav, while absent upon a holy visit, met a certain Brahman youth, who so pleased him that Kesav promised him Madhumalati; and even the same day, the brother, who was a student of the Shastras, met at the house of his spiritual teacher another student who so pleased him that he promised him Madhumalati; and in the meantime there visited Kesav's home another young Brahman, who so delighted the mother that she promised him Madhumakti. And the three youths thus betrothed to the girl were all equal in beauty, in strength, in accomplishments, and even in years, so that it would not have been possible to have preferred any one of them above the rest. Thus, when the father returned home, he found the three youths there before him; and he was greatly troubled upon learning all that had taken place. "Verily," he exclaimed, "there is but one girl and three bridegrooms, and to all of the three has our word been pledged; to whom shall I give Madhumalati?" And he knew not what to do.

But even as he was thinking, and gazing from one to the other of the three youths, a hooded serpent bit the girl, so that she died.

Forthwith the father sent out for magicians and holy men, that they might give back life to his daughter; and the holy men came together with the magicians. But the enchanters said that, by reason of the period of the moon, it was not possible for them to do aught; and the holy men avowed that even Brahma himself could not restore life to one bitten by a serpent. With sore lamentation, accordingly, the Brahman performed the funeral rites; and a pyre was built, and the body of Madhumalati consumed thereupon.

Now those three youths had beheld the girl in her living beauty, and all of them had been madly enamoured of her; and each one, because he had loved and lost her, resolved thenceforth to abandon the world and forego all pleasure in this life. All visited the funeral pyre; and one of them gathered up all the girl's bones while they were yet warm from the flame, and tied them within a bag, and then went his way to become a fakir. Another collected the ashes of her body, and took them with him into the recesses of a forest, where he built a hut and began to live alone with the memory of her. The last indeed took no relic of Madhumalati, but, having prayed a prayer, assumed the garb of a Yogi, and departed to beg his way through the world. Now his name was Madhusudam.

Long after these things had happened, Madhusudam one day entered the house of a Brahman, to beg for alms; and the Brahman invited him to partake of the family repast. So Madhusudam, having washed his hands and his feet, sate him down to eat beside the Brahman; and the Brahman's wife waited upon them. Now it came to pass, when the meal was still but half served, that the Brahman's little boy asked for food; and being bidden to wait, he clung to the skirt of his mother's dress, so that she was hindered in her duties of hospitality. Becoming angry, therefore, she seized her boy, and threw him into the fireplace where a great fire was; and the boy was burned to ashes in a moment. But the Brahman continued to eat as if nothing had happened; and his wife continued to serve the repast with a kindly smile upon her countenance.

And being horror-stricken at these sights, Madhusudam arose from his sitting-place, leaving his meal unfinished, and directed his way toward the door. Then the Brahman kindly questioned him, saying: "O friend, how comes it that thou dost not eat? Surely both I and my wife have done what we could to please thee!"

And Madhusudam, astonished and wroth, answered: "How dost thou dare ask me why I do not eat? How might any being, excepting a Rakshasa, eat in the house of one by whom such a demon-deed hath been committed?"

But the Brahman smiled, and rose up and went to another part of the house, and returned speedily with a book of incantations--a book of the science of resurrection. And he read but one incantation therefrom, when, lo! the boy that had been burned came alive and unscorched from the fire, and ran to his mother, crying and clinging to her dress as before.

Then Madhusudam thought within himself: "Had I that wondrous book, how readily might I restore my beloved to life!" And he sat down again, and, having finished his repast, remained in that house as a guest. But in the middle of the night he arose stealthily, and purloined the magical book, and fled away to his own city.

And after many days he went upon a pilgrimage of love to the place where the body of Madhumalati had been burned (for it was the anniversary of her death), and arriving he found that the other two who had been betrothed to her were also there before him. And lifting up their voices, they cried out: "O Madhusudam! thou hast been gone many years and hast seen much. What hast thou learned of science?"

But he answered: "I have learned the science that restores the dead to life." Then they prayed him, saying, "Revive thou Madhumalati!" And he told them: "Gather ye her bones together, and her ashes, and I will give her life."

And they having so done, Madhusudam produced the book and read a charm therefrom; and the heap of ashes and cindered bones shaped itself to the command, and changed color, and lived, and became a beautiful woman, sweet as a jasmine-flower--Madhumalati even as she was before the snake had bitten her!

But the three youths, beholding her smile, were blinded by love, so that they began to wrangle fiercely together for the sake of her....

Then the Demon said: "O Vikramaditya! to which of these was
she wife? Answer rightly, lest I devour thee."

And the king answered: "Truly she was the wife of him who
had collected her ashes, and taken them with him into the
recesses of the forest, where he built a hut and dwelt alone
with the memory of her."

"Nay!" said the Demon; "how could she have been restored to
life had not the other also preserved her bones? and despite
the piety of those two, how could she have been resurrected
but for the third?"

But the king replied: "Even as the son's duty is to preserve
the bones of his parents, so did he who preserved the
bones of Madhumalati stand to her only in the place of a
son. Even as a father giveth life, so did he who reanimated
Madhumalati stand to her only in the place of a father. But
he who collected her ashes and took them with him into the
recesses of the forest, where he built a hut and dwelt alone
with the memory of her, he was truly her lover and rightful
husband."

...Many other hard questions the Demon also asked,
concerning men who by magic turned themselves into women,
and concerning corpses animated by evil spirits; but the
king answered all of them save one, which indeed admitted of
no answer:

O Vikramaditya, when Mahabal was rajah of Dharmpur, another monarch strove against him, and destroyed his army in a great battle, and slew him. And the wife and daughter of the dead king fled to the forest for safety, and wandered there alone. At that time the rajah Chandrasen was hunting in the forest, and his son with him; and they beheld the prints of women's feet upon the ground. Then said Chandrasen: "Surely the feet of those who have passed here are delicate and beautiful, like those of women; yet I marvel exceedingly that there should be women in this desolate place. Let us pursue after them; and if they be beautiful, I shall take to wife her whose feet have made the smallest of these tracks, and thou shalt wed the other."

So they came up with the women, and were much charmed with their beauty; and the rajah Chandrasen married the daughter of the dead Mahabal, and Chandrasen's son took Mahabat's widow to wife. So that the father married the daughter of the mother, and the son the mother of the daughter...

And the Demon asked: "O Vikramaditya, in what manner were
the children of Chandrasen and his son related by these
marriages?" But the king could not answer. And because he
remained silent the Demon was pleased, and befriended him
in a strange and unexpected manner, as it is written in the
"Vetálapanchavinsati."

THE LION

Intelligence is better than much learning; intelligence is
better than science; the man that hath not intelligence
shall perish like those who made unto themselves a lion.
...And this is the story of the lion, as related by the holy
Brahman Vishnousarman in the "Panchopakhyana."

In days of old there were four youths of the Brahman caste--brothers, who loved each other with strong affection, and had resolved to travel all together into a neighboring empire to seek fortune and fame.

Of these four brothers three had deeply studied all sciences, knowing magic, astronomy, alchemy, and occult arts most difficult to learn; while the fourth had no knowledge whatever of science, possessing intelligence only.

Now, as they were traveling together, one of the learned brothers observed: "Why should a brother without knowledge obtain profit by our wisdom? Traveling with us he can be only a burden upon us. Never will he be able to obtain the respect of kings, and therefore must he remain a disgrace to us. Rather let him return home."

But the eldest of all answered: "Nay! let him share our good luck; for he is our loving brother, and we may perhaps find some position for him which he can fill without being a disgrace to us."

So they journeyed along; and after a time, while passing through a forest, they beheld the bones of a lion scattered on the path. These bones were white as milk and hard as flint, so dry and so bleached they were.

Then said he who had first condemned the ignorance of his brother: "Let us now show our brother what science may accomplish; let us put his ignorance to shame by giving life to these lion-bones, and creating another lion from them! By a few magical words I can summon the dry bones together, making each fit into its place." Therewith he spake the words, so that the dry bones came together with a clattering sound--each fitting to its socket--and the skeleton rejointed itself together.

"I," quoth the second brother, "can by a few words spread tendons over the bones--each in its first place--and thicken them with muscle, and redden them with blood, and create the humors, the veins, the glands, the marrow, the internal organs, and the exterior skin." Therewith he spake the words; and the body of the lion appeared upon the ground at their feet, perfect, shaggy, huge.

"And I," said the third brother, "can by one word give warmth to the blood and motion to the heart, so that the animal shall live and breathe and devour beasts. And ye shall hear him roar."

But ere he could utter the word, the fourth brother, who knew nothing about science, placed his hand over his mouth. "Nay!" he cried, "do not utter the word. That is a lion! If thou givest him life, he will devour us."

But the others laughed him to scorn, saying: "Go home, thou fool! What dost thou know of science?"

Then he answered them: "At least, delay the making of the lion until thy brother can climb up this tree." Which they did.

But hardly had he ascended the tree when the word was spoken, and the lion moved and opened his great yellow eyes. Then he stretched himself, and arose, and roared. Then he turned upon the three wise men, and slew them, and devoured them.