Part 26 (1/2)

Now one day the king's infant son died, and when he was grieved at it, all his servants came and crowded round him. And among them the servant, named Prasanga, out of pure sorrow, said to the king as follows, though his two friends tried to prevent him, ”We have been your servants, your Highness, for a long time, and you have never given us anything, nevertheless we have remained here because we had hopes from your son; for we thought that, although you have never given us anything, your son would certainly give us something. If Fate has carried him off, what is the use of remaining here now? We will immediately take our departure.” Thus he exclaimed, and fell at the feet of the king, and went out with his two friends. The king reflected--”Ah! though these men had fixed their hopes on my son, they have been faithful servants to me, so I must not abandon them.” Thereupon he immediately had Prasanga and his companions summoned, and loaded them so with wealth that poverty did not again lay hold on them.

”So you see, men have various dispositions, for that king did not give at the proper season, but did give in the unseasonable hour of calamity.” When Gomukha, skilful in story-telling, had said this, he went on, at the instigation of the son of the sovereign of Vatsa, to tell the following tale:

Story of king Kanakavarsha and Madanasundari.

There was in old time on the banks of the Ganges an excellent city, named Kanakapura, the people of which were purified in the water of the river; and which was a delightful place on account of its good government. In this city the only imprisonment seen was the committing to paper of the words of poets, the only kind of defeat was the curling in the locks of the women, the only contest was the struggle of getting the corn into the granary. [758]

In that city there dwelt in old time a glorious king, named Kanakavarsha, who was born to Priyadarsana, the son of Vasuki, king of the snakes, by the princess Yasodhara. Though he bore the weight of the whole earth, he was adorned with innumerable virtues, he longed for glory, not for wealth, he feared sin, not his enemy. He was dull in slandering his neighbour, but not in the holy treatises; there was restraint in the high-souled hero's wrath, not in his favour; he was resolute-minded; he was n.i.g.g.ardly in curses, not in gifts; he ruled the whole world; and such was his extraordinary beauty that all women, the moment they saw him, were distracted with the pain of love.

Once on a time, in an autumn, that was characterized by heat, that maddened elephants, that was attended by flocks of swans, and delighted the subjects with rejoicings, [759] he entered a picture-palace which was cooled by winds that blew laden with the scent of lotuses. There he observed and praised the display of pictures, and in the meanwhile there entered the warder, who said to the king--

”Your majesty, an unequalled painter has arrived here from Ujjayini, boasting himself to be matchless in the art of painting. His name is Roladeva, and he has to-day set up a notice at the palace gate to the above effect.” When the king heard that, he felt respect for him, and ordered him to be introduced, and the warder immediately went and brought him in. The painter entered, and beheld the king Kanakavarsha amusing himself in private with looking at pictures, reclining his body on the lap of beautiful women, and taking in carelessly crooked fingers the prepared betel. And the painter Roladeva made obeisance to the king, who received him politely, and sitting down said slowly to him--”O king, I put up a notice princ.i.p.ally through the desire of beholding your feet, not out of pride in my skill, so you must excuse this deed of mine. And you must tell me what form I am to represent on canvas, let not the trouble I took in learning this accomplishment be thrown away, O king.” When the painter said this to the king, he replied, ”Teacher, paint anything you will, let us give our eyes a treat: what doubt can there be about your skill?”

When the king said this, his courtiers exclaimed--”Paint the king: what is the use of painting others, ugly in comparison with him?” When the painter heard this, he was pleased, and painted the king, with aquiline nose, with almond-shaped fiery eye, with broad forehead, with curly black hair, with ample breast, glorious with the scars of wounds inflicted by arrows and other weapons, with handsome arms resembling the trunks of the elephants that support the quarters, with waist capable of being spanned with the hand, as if it had been a present from the lion-whelps conquered by his might, and with thighs like the post for fastening the elephant of youth, and with beautiful feet, like the shoots of the asoka. And all, when they beheld that life-like likeness of the king, applauded that painter, and said to him; ”We do not like to see the king alone on the picture-panel, so paint on it one of these queens by his side, carefully choosing one, that will be a worthy pendant to him; let the feast of our eyes be complete.”

When they said this, the painter looked at the picture and said, ”Though there are many of these queens, there is none among them like the king, and I believe there is no woman on the earth a match for him in beauty, except one princess--listen, I will tell you about her.

”In Vidarbha there is a prosperous town named Kundina, and in it there is a king of the name of Devasakti. And he has a queen named Anantavati, dearer to him than life, and by her there was born to him a daughter named Madanasundari. How could one like me presume to describe her beauty with this one single tongue, but so much will I say. When the Creator had made her, through delight in her he conceived a desire to make another like her, but he will not be able to do it even in the course of yugas. That princess, alone on the earth, is a match for this king in shape, beauty and refinement, in age and birth. For I, when I was there, was once summoned by her by the mouth of a maid, and I went to her private apartments. There I beheld her, freshly anointed with sandal unguent, having a necklace of lotus-fibres, tossing on a bed of lotuses, being fanned by her ladies-in-waiting with the wind of plantain leaves, pale and emaciated, exhibiting the signs of love's fever. And in these words was she dissuading her ladies occupied in fanning her,--'O my friends, away with this sandal unguent and these breezes wafted by plantain leaves; for these, though cool, scorch up unhappy me.' And when I saw her in this state, I was troubled to divine the reason, and after doing obeisance, I sat down in front of her. And she said, 'Teacher, paint such a form as this on canvas and give it me.'

”And then she made me paint a certain very handsome youth, slowly tracing out the form on the ground with trembling, nectar-distilling hand, to guide me. And when I had so painted that handsome youth, I said to myself--'She has made me paint the G.o.d of Love in visible form; but, as I see that the flowery bow is not represented in his hand, I know that it cannot be the G.o.d of Love, it must be some extraordinarily handsome young man like him. And her outburst of love-sickness has to do with him. So I must depart hence, for this king, her father Devasakti, is severe in his justice, and if he heard of this proceeding of mine, he would not overlook it.' Thus reflecting, I did obeisance to that princess Madanasundari, and departed, honoured by her.

”But when I was there, O king, I heard from her attendants, as they talked freely together, that she had fallen in love with you from hearing of you only. So I have secretly taken a picture of that princess on a sheet of canvas, and have come here quickly to your feet. And when I beheld your majesty's appearance, my doubt was at an end, for it was clearly your majesty that the princess caused to be painted by my hand. And as it is not possible to paint her twice, such as she is, I will not represent her in the picture as standing at your side, though she is equal to you in beauty.”

When Roladeva said this, the king said to him--”Then shew her as she is represented on the canvas you have brought with you.” Then the painter looked out a piece of canvas which was in a bag, and shewed the king Madanasundari in a painting. And the king Kanakavarsha, seeing that even in a painting she was wonderfully beautiful, immediately became enamoured of her. And he loaded that painter with much gold, and taking the picture of his beloved, retired into his private apartments. There he remained with his mind fixed on her alone, abandoning all occupations, and his eyes were never satisfied with gazing on her beauty. It seemed as if the G.o.d of love was jealous of his good looks, for now that he had obtained an opportunity, he tormented him, smiting him with his arrows and robbing him of his self-control. And the love-pain, which he had inflicted on women enamoured of his handsome shape, was now visited on that king a hundredfold.

And in the course of some days, being pale and emaciated, he told to his confidential ministers, who questioned him, the thought of his heart. And after deliberating with them, he sent to the king Devasakti, as amba.s.sador, to ask for the hand of his daughter, a trustworthy Brahman of good birth, named Sangamasvamin, who was skilled in affairs, knew times and seasons, and could speak in a sweet and lofty style. That Sangamasvamin went to Vidarbha with a great retinue, and entered the city of Kundina. And there he had a formal interview with the king Devasakti, and on behalf of his master asked for the hand of his daughter. And Devasakti reflected--”I must give away this daughter of mine to some one, and this king Kanakavarsha has been described as my equal, and he asks for her; so I will give her to him.” Accordingly he granted the prayer of Sangamasvamin, and the king displayed to the amba.s.sador the astonis.h.i.+ng elegance in the dance of his daughter Madanasundari. Then the king sent away, after honouring him, and promising to give his daughter, that Sangamasvamin, who was charmed with his sight of her. And he sent with him a counter-amba.s.sador to say, ”Fix an auspicious moment and come here for the marriage. And Sangamasvamin returned, accompanied by the counter-amba.s.sador, and told the king Kanakavarsha that his object was effected. Then the king ascertained a favourable moment, and honoured that amba.s.sador, and heard from him over and over again how Madanasundari was in love with him. And then the king Kanakavarsha set out for the city of Kundina, in order to marry her, with mind at ease on account of his own irresistible valour, mounted on the horse Asikala, [760] and he smote the Savaras that inhabited the border-forests, and took the lives of living creatures, like lions and other wild beasts. And he reached Vidarbha, and entered that city of Kundina, with king Devasakti, who came out to meet him. Then he entered the king's palace, in which preparations had been made for the marriage, robbing the ladies of the city of the feast which he had given to their eyes. And there he rested a day with his retinue, pleased at the n.o.ble reception which king Devasakti gave him. And on the next day Devasakti gave him his daughter Madanasundari, together with all his wealth, retaining only his kingdom.

And king Kanakavarsha, after he had remained there seven days, returned to his own city with his recently-married bride. And when he arrived with his beloved, giving joy to the world, like the moon with the moonlight, that city was full of rejoicing. Then that queen Madanasundari was dearer than life to that king, though he had many wives, as Rukmini is to Vishnu. And the wedded couple remained fastened together by their eyes with lovely eyelashes, which were fixed on one another's faces, resembling the arrows of love. And in the meanwhile arrived the lion of spring, with a train of expanding filaments for mane, tearing to pieces the elephant of female coyness. And the garden made ready blossoming mango-plants, by way of bows for the G.o.d of Love, with rows of bees clinging to them by way of bowstring. And the wind from the Malaya mountain blew, swaying the love-kindled hearts of the wives of men travelling in foreign lands, as it swayed the suburban groves. And the sweetly-speaking cuckoos seemed to say to men, ”The br.i.m.m.i.n.g of the streams, the flowers of the trees, the digits of the moon wane and return again, but not the youth of men. [761]

Fling aside coyness and quarrelling, and sport with your beloved ones.”

And at that time king Kanakavarsha went with all his wives to a spring-garden, to amuse himself. And he eclipsed the beauty of the asokas with the red robes of his attendants, and with the songs of his lovely ladies the song of the cuckoos and bees. There the king, though all his wives were with him, amused himself with Madanasundari in picking flowers and other diversions. And after roaming there a long time, the king entered the G.o.davari with his wives to bathe, and began the water-game. His ladies surpa.s.sed the lotuses with their faces, with their eyes the blue water-lilies, with their b.r.e.a.s.t.s the couples of Brahmany ducks, with their hips the sandbanks, and when they troubled the bosom of the stream, it showed frowns of anger in the form of curling waves. Then the mind of Kanakavarsha took pleasure in them, while they displayed the contours of their limbs in the splas.h.i.+ng-game. And in the ardour of the game, he splashed one queen with water from his palms on her breast.

When Madanasundari saw it, she was jealous, and got angry with him, and in an outburst of indignation said to him, ”How long are you going to trouble the river?” And going out of the water, she took her other clothes and rushed off in a pa.s.sion to her own palace, telling her ladies of that fault of her lover's. Then king Kanakavarsha, seeing her state of mind, stopped his water-game, and went off to her apartments. Even the parrots in the cages warned him off in wrath, when he approached, and entering he saw within the queen afflicted with wrath: with her downcast lotus-like face supported on the palm of her left hand, with tear-drops falling like transparent pearls. And she was repeating, with accents charming on account of her broken speech, in a voice interrupted with sobs, shewing her gleaming teeth, this fragment of a Prakrit song: ”If you cannot endure separation, you must cheerfully abandon anger. If you can in your heart endure separation, then you must increase your wrath. Perceiving this clearly, remain pledged to one or the other; if you take your stand on both, you will fall between two stools.” And when the king saw her in this state, lovely even in tears, he approached her bashfully and timidly. And embracing her, though she kept her face averted, he set himself to propitiate her with respectful words tender with love. And when her retinue signified her scorn with ambiguous hints, he fell at her feet, blaming himself as an offender. Then she clung to the neck of the king, and was reconciled to him, bedewing him with the tears that flowed on account of that very annoyance. And he, delighted, spent the day with his beloved, whose anger had been exchanged for good-will, and slept there at night.

But in the night he saw in a dream his necklace suddenly taken from his neck, and his crest-jewel s.n.a.t.c.hed from his head, by a deformed woman. Then he saw a Vetala, with a body made up of the limbs of many animals, and when the Vetala wrestled with him, he hurled him to earth. And when the king sat on the Vetala's back, the demon flew up with him through the air, like a bird, and threw him into the sea. Then, after he had with difficulty struggled to the sh.o.r.e, he saw that the necklace was replaced on his neck, and the crest-jewel on his head. When the king had seen this, he woke up, and in the morning he asked a Buddhist mendicant, who had come to visit him as an old friend, the meaning of the dream. And the mendicant answered clearly--”I do not wish to say what is unpleasant, but how can I help telling you when I am asked? The fact that you saw your necklace and crest-jewel taken away, means that you will be separated from your wife and from your son. And the fact that, after you had escaped from the sea, you found them again, means that you will be reunited with them, when your calamity comes to an end.” Then the king said, ”I have not a son as yet, let him be born first.” Then the king heard from a reciter of the Ramayana, who visited his palace, how king Dasaratha endured hards.h.i.+p to obtain a son; and so there arose in his mind anxiety about obtaining a son, and the mendicant having departed, the king Kanakavarsha spent that day in despondency.

And at night, as he was lying alone and sleepless upon his bed, he saw a woman enter without opening the door. She was modest and gentle of appearance, and, when the king bowed before her, she gave him her blessing and said to him: ”Son, know that I am the daughter of Vasuki the king of the snakes, and the elder sister of thy father, Ratnaprabha by name. I always dwell near thee, invisible, to protect thee, but to-day, seeing thee despondent, I have displayed to thee my real form. I cannot bear to behold thy sorrow, so tell me the cause.” When the king had been thus addressed by his father's sister, he said to her: ”I am fortunate, mother, in that you shew me such condescension. But know that my anxiety is caused by the fact that no son is born to me. How can people like myself help desiring that, which even heroic saints of old days, like Dasaratha and others, desired for the sake of obtaining svarga.” When the Nagi [762] Ratnaprabha heard this speech of that king, she said to her brother's son; ”My son, I will tell thee an admirable expedient, carry it out. Go and propitiate Kartikeya with a view to obtain a son. I will enter thy body, and by my power thou shalt support the rain of Kartikeya falling on thy head to impede thee, difficult to endure. And after thou hast overcome a host of other impediments, thou shalt obtain thy wish.” When the Nagi had said this, she disappeared, and the king spent the night in bliss.

The next morning he committed his realm to the care of his ministers, and went, desiring a son, to visit the sole of Kartikeya's foot. There he performed a severe penance to propitiate that lord, having power given him by the Nagi that entered his body. Then the rain of k.u.mara [763] fell on his head like thunderbolts, and continued without ceasing. But he endured it by means of the Nagi that had entered his body. Then Kartikeya sent Ganesa to impede him still further. And Ganesa created in that rain a very poisonous and exceedingly terrible serpent, but the king did not fear it. Then Ganesa, invincible [764]

even by G.o.ds, came in visible form, and began to give him bites on the breast. Then king Kanakavarsha, thinking that he was a foe hard to subdue, proceeded, after he had endured that ordeal, to propitiate Ganesa with praises.

”Honour to thee, O G.o.d of the projecting belly, adorned with the elephant's ornament, whose body is like a swelling pitcher containing success in all affairs! Victory to thee, O elephant-faced one, that makest even Brahma afraid, shaking the lotus, which is his throne, with thy trunk flung up in sport! Even the G.o.ds, the Asuras, and the chief hermits do not succeed, unless thou art pleased, the only refuge of the world, O thou beloved of Siva! The chief of the G.o.ds praise thee by thy sixty-eight sin-destroying names, calling thee the pitcher-bellied, the basket-eared one, [765] the chief of the Ganas, the furious mast elephant, Yama the noose-handed, the Sun, Vishnu, and Siva. With these names to the number of sixty-eight, corresponding to so many parts of the body, do they praise thee. And when one remembers thee, and praises thee, O Lord, fear produced by the battle-field, by the king's court, by gambling, by thieves, by fire, by wild beasts, and other harms, departs.” With these laudatory verses, and with many others of the same kind, king Kanakavarsha honoured that king of impediments. And the conqueror of impediments said, ”I will not throw an impediment in thy way, obtain a son,” and disappeared then and there from the eyes of that king.

Then Kartikeya said to that king, who had endured the rain; ”Resolute man, I am pleased with thee, so crave thy boon.” Then the king, delighted, said to the G.o.d, ”Let a son be born to me by thy favour.” Then the G.o.d said, ”Thou shalt have a son, the incarnation of one of my Ganas, and his name shall be Hiranyavarsha on the earth.” And then the rider on the peac.o.c.k summoned him to enter his inmost shrine, in order to shew him special favour. [766] Thereupon the Nagi left his body invisibly, for females do not enter the house of Kartikeya through dread of a curse. Then king Kanakavarsha entered the sanctifying temple of that G.o.d, armed only with his human excellence. When the G.o.d saw that he was deprived of the excellence he formerly had, because he was no longer inhabited by the Nagi, he reflected--”What can this mean?” And Kartikeya, perceiving by his divine meditation, that that king had performed a very difficult vow by the secret help of the Nagi, thus cursed him in his wrath: ”Since thou didst make use of deceit, intractable man, thou shalt be separated from thy son, as soon as he is born, and from thy queen. When the king heard this curse, terrible as a thunderstroke, he was not amazed, but being a mighty poet, praised that G.o.d with hymns. Then the six-faced G.o.d, pleased with his well turned language, said to him; ”King, I am pleased with thy hymns; I appoint thee this end of thy curse; thou shalt be separated from thy wife and son for one year, but after thou hast been saved from three great dangers, thou shalt come to an end of the separation.” When the six-faced G.o.d had said this, he ceased to speak, and the king, satisfied with the nectar of his favour, bowed before him, and went to his own city.