Chapter 8 - The story of Mahauṣadha and Viśākhā

[Source: Kah-gyur, vol. xi. fol. 53-87.]

In olden times Janaka ruled as king in the land of Videhā. He took unto himself a beautiful spouse, who bore him a son, to whom, as food and drink were abundant in the land, the name of Annapāna [Food-Drink] was given. When he had grown up, he proved strong, resolute, and irascible. The queen became arrogant on account of her son, and no longer complied with the king’s wishes. This greatly troubled the king, and he, by the advice of his ministers, determined to choose another wife. The ministers called his attention to the daughter of the king of Aparāntaka. Although he was not on friendly terms with that king, his ministers gave him encouragement, and undertook to arrange the matter. The king of Aparāntaka granted his daughter, on the condition that if she gave birth to a son, that son was to be recognised as the heir to the throne. Her loveliness made her very agreeable to the king, and he promised her the fulfilment of her wishes. So she likewise demanded that the son whom she expected should enjoy the succession to the throne. To the king this was as it were a stab in the heart, and he suffered great disquiet at the thought of how he should pass over Annapāna, his bold and comely son, the fruit of a marriage with one of equal birth. The ministers remarked his anxiety, and he informed them of its cause. They stated that as the king of Aparāntaka had granted his daughter only on this condition, and as it was as yet uncertain whether she would give birth to a son or a daughter, King Janaka ought to grant her the desired promise.

Ā son was born, to whom the name of Rājyābhinanda was given, on account of the longing for royal power which had been entertained even before his birth. He grew up, but still his father did not proclaim him his successor. At length the youth’s grandfather sent a message to King Janaka, and threatened to make his appearance with a mighty army. The ministers recommended that Rājyābhinanda should be proclaimed successor, and that Annapāna should be put to death. Janaka refused to comply with such a demand. Murderers of fathers, it was true, had been met with, but it was an unheard of thing that a father should kill his son. Nor would he consent to his being mutilated, that being equivalent to death. As little would he agree to his being banished; but he invested the younger prince with the right of succession.

When Annapāna heard of this, he went to his mother, informed her of the evil tidings, and told her that he was about to go to Pañcāla. And thither he went. With wearied limbs he lay down to rest in the shade of a tree. There the king’s people found him. Astonished by his beauty, they brought him to the king, to whom he told the story of his fortunes. The king gave him the hand of his daughter, and bestowed lands upon him. The son who was born of this marriage was named Bahvannapāna.

Annapāna fell ill and died, and the king gave his daughter, along with her son, to the Purohita, with whom she lived happily. One day a cock crowed near the house. A Brahman who happened to be there, and who was skilled in omens, heard it crow and said, “He who eats the flesh of this cock will become king.”^[1] The Purohita heard these words, and, after asking the Brahman some questions, took the cock and killed it. Then he said to his wife, “Have this cock cooked immediately. I will eat it when I come back from the king’s palace.” Then he betook himself to the palace.

While he was there, the boy Bahvannapāna came back from school hungry, and could not find his mother. He said to himself, “What has been cooked for us? what sort of food?” In his mothers absence he looked about, and saw the cock in a saucepan with its head uppermost. So he cut off the head and ate it. His mother came in presently and said, “Who has eaten the head?” The boy replied that he had eaten it. His mother gave him some food and sent him to school.

After a time the Purohita also came and asked for food. When he saw that the cock’s head had disappeared, he asked where it was. His wife said, “The boy has eaten it.” He ate up the rest of the cock, but remained in doubt as to which of the two would become king, he who had eaten the bird’s whole body, or he who had eaten only a bird incomplete as to the parts of its body. In order to remove this doubt, he called in for the second time the Brahman who was skilled in omens. The Brahman asserted that he who had eaten the head would become king, but that he also would become king who should kill him who had eaten the head, and should eat his head.

Therefore the Purohita determined to put the boy to death. But as he saw that he could not do this without the boy’s mother remarking it, he resolved to take her opinion about the matter. With many friendly words he addressed her in a cajoling manner: “O good one, is it better that your husband or your son should become king?” Quickly recognising the complicated nature of the situation, she reflected that if she said it would be better for her son to become king, she would be at variance with her husband. So she said, in accordance with his view of the matter, that it would be better for her husband to become king. But as she was very shrewd and intelligent, she perceived that he wished to kill her son on account of the cock’s head, and she determined to save her son at any rate. So she told her son that, as he had acted wrongly in eating the cock’s head, he must leave the country with all speed, and betake himself to his grandfather’s land, where he had relatives. The son fled to Videha, and there, tormented with hunger and thirst, he lay down one day in order to sleep under a tree in a park.

A little before that time Rājyābhinanda had been attacked by a malady of which, in spite of the efforts of the physicians, he could not be cured. He succumbed to it, and thereby was the reigning family brought to an end.

Now it was part of the royal statutes that until a new king had been chosen the corpse of the late king could not be honoured with funeral ceremonies. Accordingly the ministers, the other officials of the court, the Brahmans, and the interpreters of signs, set out to look for a person distinguished by the force of his virtuous merits. Under a tree outside the city, a tree the shadow of which never moved from his body, they found an extremely handsome youth with a lion-like breast. When the six ministers had looked at him, they exclaimed in astonishment, “Never have we seen any one who equalled this man in force of virtuous merit. As he is extremely handsome, and is well provided with signs, we will invest him with the sovereignty.” Having thus spoken, and having agreed thereupon, they aroused him from his sleep. He awoke and asked, “Why must I get up?” They replied, “In order to be proclaimed king.” He said, “Ought a slumbering king to be awakened in this manner?” The ministers said, “How then ought he to be awakened?” The youth replied, “He ought to be awakened with song and cymbals and beat of drum.” On hearing this, they came to the conclusion that he truly sprang, not from an inferior, but from a noble family, and they asked him, “Who are you? whose noble son are you?” Then the youth rose up lion-like and said, “Annapāna was the son of Janaka, king of Videha, and I am Annapāna’s son, Bah-vannapāna.” Thereupon the six ministers smiled and said, “We have actually lighted upon our own prince.”

In the midst of a great multitude, with conjurations, and with song and cymbals and beat of drum, they conducted him into the city, and there they consecrated him as king. As the extinct royal family was renewed in him, he also received the name of Janaka, and his former name of Bahvannapāna fell into disuse. After they had thus invested him with the sovereignty, they came to the conclusion that he was of a simple nature, and they despised him to such a degree that he had no power at all.

King Bahvannapāna once went forth in order to inspect his realm. Whenever he asked to whom villages, towns, and hill-places belonged, he was always told that they belonged to the six ministers. Thereupon he perceived that he could command only food and clothing, but that beyond that he had no power. When he had plunged into a sea of thought, trying to think out what he should do, a deity consoled him, saying that he ought not to be sorrowful. In his own country, in the hill-village Pūrṇakatshtshha [?Pūrṇakaccha?], a son named Mahauṣadha was about to be born to the head-man, Pūrṇa. This son he ought to make his minister, who would gain possession of the realm and restore it to him, and turn out fortunate and advantageous to him. The king sent forth men to seek out this Pūrṇa, and to learn whether his wife had a son or not. The men returned with the information that the village head-man really existed, and that his wife was with child. Then the king wrote to him and made him come to him, conferred upon him the village, and bade him henceforth carefully watch over the child, which was as yet in its mother’s womb, so that none of its limbs might suffer any injury. When the boy came into the world and his birth-feast was celebrated, the name of Mahauṣadha (Great Remedy) was given to him at the request of his mother, inasmuch as she, who had long suffered from illness, and had been unable to obtain any relief from the time of the boy’s conception, had been cured by him.

As the boy was sitting on his father’s shoulder one day, and was being carried for a bath from the middle of the street to a tank, the father saw a piece of fish lying before him. Taking it for a precious stone, he tried to lift it up with his toes. Then said Mahauṣadha, “Dear father Pūrṇa, you think that a precious stone has been dropped here. Gazing with open eyes at the piece of fish, you fancy that it is a precious stone. Test it, dear father Pūrṇa. It is no precious stone; only a piece of red fish crushed underfoot. Vaiśravaṇa^[2] is not accustomed to be so careless.”

When they had come to the tank, and Pūrṇa and Mahauṣadha had laid their clothes on the bank and had gone into the water to bathe, the father wanted to lay hold of a crane which was resting on a lotus, but when he drew near the bird flew away. Then Mahauṣadha said, “From the lotus flew the crane away. The crane flew away, the lotus remained. Only see, father dear, how the crane flies away from the lotus.”

On another occasion the father went to the river Ganges to bathe, carrying his son as before on his shoulder. When they had left their clothes on the shore and had gone into the water, they saw a metal basin floating on the water with a goose sitting upon it. Then said Mahauṣadha, “The river Ganges supports the metal basin, on the metal basin rests a goose. Look, O father dear, at the metal basin with the goose carried along by the river Ganges.”

Another time, when Mahauṣadha had gone to the shore to bathe, he saw how a pot, on which was a waterhen, was borne along by the current of the river Ganges. Then he said, “The river Ganges bears along the pot, on the pot sits a water-hen. Only look, father dear, at the pot with the water-hen and the Ganges.”

Again, on another occasion, he saw a ram carried along by the current of the river Ganges with a heron standing upon it, and he said, “The river Ganges bears along a ram, and likewise the heron which stands upon it. Look, father dear, at the rain and the heron borne along by the river Ganges.”

After this it happened one day that Mahauṣadha was at play with the children, and they chose him as their king.^[3] He named some of the boys as his ministers, and they went on playing together. There came along the road an old Brahman with his young wife, on their way to another country. The Brahman stepped aside for a time, and during his absence a rogue, full of desire for the wife, came up to her and said, “Good woman, whither has your father gone?”

“Who?” said the wife.

“He is apparently your grandfather,” replied the rogue.

“What do you mean?” she said.

“He is apparently your great-grandfather,” said the rogue.

“He is not my father, nor my grandfather, nor yet my great-grandfather, but my husband,” said the wife.

Thereupon the rogue said with a smile, “O foolish woman, are you not ashamed to say in the presence of your friends or any other decorous person that this man is your husband? Have you not on this stately earth seen men of divine beauty?”

“Such men are no more to be found.”

“Take me as your husband, and we will live together. Should the old Brahman put in a claim for you, then say to the great assembly, ‘This man is my husband.’”

After the rogue had said this she went off with him. When the Brahman came back, he could not see his wife. He climbed a height, and saw her walking off with another man. He ran after her, and seized one of her hands, the rogue holding on to the other. The Brahman said, “Why are you taking away my wife?”

“She is my wife; do not trouble yourself about her,” replied the rogue.

As the Brahman persisted in saying that she was his wife, a quarrel arose between the two men on the highway, and they pulled the woman this way and that way. But as the rogue was younger and stronger than the Brahman, he dragged her away from him. Being overcome, the Brahman called out in that lonely place for help. At that time Mahauṣadha and the other children were at play in the forest, and they heard his cries for help. The children said to Mahauṣadha, “As you wish to be called the king; and that Brahman is shouting for help, why do not you save him from danger?” So he bade the children bring the parties before him, and he asked them what had occurred. The Brahman said that the other man had forcibly torn away his wife from him, the weaker of the two. On the other hand, the rogue declared that the Brahman lied, and that the woman was his own wife. The woman herself affirmed that the rogue was her husband. Mahauṣadha, who perceived that the Brahman had not become excited without due cause, determined to apply a test.^[4]

“Say, O man, where do you come from along with your wife?”

“From my father-in-law’s,” replied the rogue.

“What did you eat and drink there?”

“We had meat, cakes, sorrel, and wine,” replied the rogue.

“Vomit then, if that be so,” said Mahauṣadha; “we shall see then if that be true or not.”

The rogue put his finger down his throat and vomited, but no such food came to light. Then Mahauṣadha asked the Brahman whence he had come.

“From my father-in-law’s,” replied the Brahman.

“What did you eat there?”

“Curdled milk, porridge, and radishes.”

Him likewise Mahauṣadha ordered to bring up what he had eaten, and the result was that he produced the food in question. As Mahauṣadha now perceived that the rogue had deluded and carried off the Brahman’s wife, he gave orders that he should be chastised by blows from sticks and fists, and that he should then be set fast up to the neck in a hole a man’s stature in depth, and that there should be written on his forehead with peacock’s gall these words—

“He who thus steals a wife, him does Mahauṣadha punish in this wise. He who, like unto the wife-stealer, has stolen a child, an ox, a coverlet, yarn, or the like, such thieves as this shall be arrested up to the number of five hundred, and shall be chastised by blows from sticks and fists, and shall be set up to their necks in a pit, and their names shall be written on their foreheads with peacock’s gall, indicating that Mahauṣadha will thus punish others also who shall commit thefts.”

Now, when the six ministers had exhausted the land, and the king became aware of the fact, the idea came into his mind of finding out of what nature Mahauṣadha really was. He told the ministers that he was going to the chase, and he went with a great following to the hill-villages. When the five hundred rogues who had been set in the pit saw the king, most of them cried out, “O king!” The king heard the cry, and looked around on all sides, but he saw no man, though the cry again resounded. One of the rogues perceived this, and repeated it. The king caught sight of him, and read on his forehead the words written with peacock’s gall: “Whoever has stolen a wife, a child, an ox, a coverlet, and so forth, him does Mahauṣadha punish in this wise.” When Mahauṣadha and the other children heard that the king had seen these things, his heart rejoiced within him, and he thought that although Mahauṣadha was a child, yet in regard to such deeds he had done no wrong. However, he ordered the rogues to be drawn out of the pit, and set them at liberty.

When Pūrṇa heard that the king had come to Pūr-ṇakatshtshha, he went to meet him, bearing a jar full of water, a canopy, banners, and standards. The king said to him, “Pūrṇa, be not afraid. Bring hither your son that I may see him.” Pūrṇa replied, “O king, as the boy is still very young, I will not bring him before the face of the king.” However the king ordered the father to fetch his boy. Then the king gazed upon the exceedingly handsome and spirited boy; but as he was still a child, and had not come to man’s estate, the king let him go back to his father’s house.

Some time later King Janaka wished to test the nature of Mahauṣadha’s intelligence. So he sent a messenger to Pūrṇa, the head-man of the hill-village Pūrṇakatshtshha, with an order to send a rope made of sand one hundred ells long. When the messenger had arrived and communicated the order, Pūrṇa was greatly alarmed. From his birth upwards he had never seen or heard of such a thing, and he would therefore have to expect a reprimand. He became so depressed that Mahauṣadha asked him why he was so ill at ease. The father replied that he was not sure that the king did not mean to punish him, the demand being of such an unheard of kind. Mahauṣadha asked him to send for the messenger, saying that he would reply to the king. Thereupon he said to the messenger, “Make known to the king this my request, without forgetting it. As the people of our country are slow-witted, unintelligent, and stupid, may it please the king to send an ell of that kind of rope as a pattern, like unto which we will twine a hundred, nay, a thousand ells, and will send them to him.” When the messenger had reported this to the king, the king asked whether it was Pūrṇa or his son who had given this answer. The messenger said that it was Mahauṣadha. The king was astonished, and perceived that the commands of the deity were being executed, and that Mahauṣadha would re-establish his power.

As the king wished to put Mahauṣadha a second time to the test, he sent to Pūrṇa, and ordered him to supply some rice which had not been crushed with a pestle, and yet was not uncrushed, and which had been cooked neither in the house nor out of the house, neither with fire nor yet without fire; sending it neither along the road nor yet away from the road, without its being shone upon by the daylight, but yet not in the shade, not together with a woman, but also not with a man, by one not riding, but also not on foot. The messenger came to Pūrṇakatshtshha, sent for Pūrṇa, and, after holding merry converse with him on various subjects, informed him of the king’s orders. Pūma was greatly discomfited. But Mahauṣadha, having found out the cause of his dejection, comforted him, declaring that he would manage the whole affair himself.

Having dried some rice in the sun, he sent for a number of women, and made a man give each of them a handful of grains. These they shelled with their nails, picking out the kernel of each grain without breaking it. When the women had done this, he threw the rice into a pot, and cooked it on the threshold of the house. As he was to cook it without fire and yet not without fire, he cooked it in the sun. In order that it might be conveyed neither along the road nor yet away from the road, he ordered the man who carried it to walk with one foot on the road and the other foot by the side of the road. As it was to be brought neither in the sunlight nor in the shade, he hade the man fasten the pot which held it to the end of a stick, and cover it over with a thin cloth. As the bearer was neither to ride nor to go afoot, he told him to put a shoe on one of his feet and leave the other unshod. And as the bearer was to be neither a man nor a woman, he sent a hermaphrodite.

When the messenger presented himself before the king, and, on being questioned by King Janaka, gave him a full account of the whole matter, the king was greatly pleased, and asked if he had been sent by Pūrṇa or by Mahauṣadha. The messenger replied that he had been sent by the latter, whereupon the king said, “Mahauṣadha is clever, resolute, sharp-witted, and ingenious.”

Some time afterwards the king sent to Pūrṇa, and ordered him to supply a park with kitchen-gardens, fruit-trees, and tanks. When the messenger came to Pūrṇa and told him what were the king’s orders, Pūrṇa again fell into very low spirits. Mahauṣadha begged his father not to distress himself, promising to arrange everything to the king’s satisfaction. Then he sent for the messenger, and told him to give the following reply to the king:—

“As no one among the mountains knows anything about a park of that kind, and therefore no one can construct one, may it please the king to send hither one of the parks belonging to his palace. When my father has seen it, and learnt of what nature it is, he will send one like unto it.”

When the messenger returned with this reply, the king was highly pleased, and when he learnt that it was again Mahauṣadha who had sent it, he perceived that he was very intelligent.

Some time later the king again sent a messenger to Pūrṇa, ordering him to plant a tree, and to send it to him at the end of a year, bearing blossoms and fruits. When the messenger had executed his commission, Pūrṇa again became dejected, but Mahauṣadha comforted him, saying that the matter would not be a difficult one to manage. And he sent a Ricinus shrub, which at the end of a year bore blossoms and fruits. When the king saw it, he asked whether the idea was Pūrṇa’s or Mahauṣadha’s. The messenger named the latter, and the king found nothing more to say in the matter.

Some time later the king sent five hundred oxen to Pūrṇa. These he was to feed and to milk, and he was to send to the king milk, curdled milk, butter, cream, and cheese. When the messenger came to Pūrṇa with these orders, Pūrṇa was greatly troubled, and said to the villagers, “Surely in this matter the king wishes to punish me, seeing that he requires me to milk oxen.” When Mahauṣadha perceived his distress, he comforted him, saying that he would contrive a reply with which the king would be pleased without this thing being accomplished. Then Mahauṣadha gave full directions to a father and son, ordering them to betake themselves to the capital, near the king’s palace. He told the father to wrap up a wooden bowl in a cloth and fasten it over his belly, and then to roll to and fro on the ground and pretend to be crying. And he told the son to utter fervent prayers, to scatter flowers, food, and incense towards the ten parts of the world, and to cry aloud, “May this, my father, propitiously bring forth his child!”

When the father and son, in accordance with these instructions, had drawn nigh unto King Janaka, they did all that they had been told to do. When the king-heard the words, “May he who in the world protects the world preserve my father, and let him propitiously give birth to his child!” he sent some of his men to find out what that meant. They came, and saw a big-bellied man rolling to and fro on the ground and crying, and his son invoking Yama, Vaiśravaṇa, Vasu, and the other kings of the gods. The men reported this to the king, and he sent for the father and son. The son begged that his father might be allowed to bring forth his child. Thereat the king laughed, and said that he had never seen or heard of a man who gave birth to a child.

Then said the youth, “Are things as you say they are?” “Yes!”

“In that case, I ask you wherefore you sent five hundred oxen to Pūrṇakatshtshha, with orders that milk, sour milk, curdled milk, and fresh butter should be obtained from them. Have you ever seen or heard of oxen big with young and producing calves?”

Then the king laughed, and asked who was the originator of this idea, Pūrṇa or Mahauṣadha, or some one else. When the messenger stated that it was Mahauṣadha, the king and his ministers were greatly astonished.

Some time later, the king, in order to apply another test, sent a messenger to Pūrṇakatshtshha with a mule, and ordered Pūrṇa to keep watch over it without tying it up, and to feed it without placing it under a roof. The messenger brought the mule to Pūrṇa, and warned him that he would forfeit his life and limbs in case the mule escaped. When Pūrṇa heard that, he was terrified and fell into very low spirits, as he did not think he was equal to the task. But Mahauṣadha bade him be of good cheer. By day the mule was to be allowed to graze at its will, but at night it was to be guarded by twenty men, five of whom were to look after it during each of the night-watches, one of them sitting on its back, the others holding a leg apiece. After this fashion the twenty men watched it without taking it under a roof.

After a time King Janaka sent a messenger to see how Pūrṇa was treating the mule. He reported to the king the precautions which had been taken. The king perceived that the mule could not escape while it was guarded in that way, so he said that he wished one of the men to be sent for. The minister asked which man was to be summoned. The king said that they were to send for the man who was sitting on the mule’s back. For while the others were asleep he could ride off with the mule. So the king had the watcher sent for who sat on the mule, and the man came away together with the beast.

When Pūrṇa was told next morning that the mule had gone off, he saw that his life was forfeited, and he took to wailing from fear. When Mahauṣadha saw how miserable Pūrṇa was, he began to reflect that hitherto he had found a means of escape on each occasion, but that this time there was none. Of this, however, he said nothing. Although he was much alarmed, yet he devised a plan, and said to his father, “There is still one expedient left for settling this business.” His father asked what it was, and Mahauṣadha replied that he could manage the affair provided Pūrṇa could endure being jeered at. Pūrṇa declared that he was ready to do anything which would prevent his life being taken. Thereupon Mahauṣadha cut the hair of his father’s head so as to form seven strips, and he daubed the head itself with red, black, brown, white, and other paints. Then he and his father mounted an ass and betook themselves to the capital.

When they arrived there, the news spread abroad that Mahauṣadha had come riding upon an ass, and that he had cut his father’s hair into seven strips. When the king and the ministers heard this, they asked, “Why has he, who has the reputation of being so discreet and intelligent, performed so unbecoming an action?” The king and the ministers went out to see if Mahauṣadha had really come in the manner alleged, or if the report was false. When the king and his followers saw that it was really so with him, the ministers said, “Wherefore is Mahauṣadha praised for his judgment, intelligence, and wisdom? In spite of all that, how unbecomingly he has acted!”

The king asked Mahauṣadha why he had thus dishonoured his father. He replied, “I have not dishonoured him, but have honoured him. As I stand much higher than my father on account of my great knowledge, I have shown him honour.”

The king asked, “Are you the better of the two, or is your father the better?”

He replied, “I am the better, my father is the worse.”

The king said, “Never have I seen or heard that the son is better than the father. As it is the father through whom the son becomes known, while the mother feeds him, takes care of him, and brings him up, therefore we hold that the father is altogether the better of the two.”

Then said Mahauṣadha to the king, “Test the matter thoroughly to see if the father is really so or not.”

As the king and the ministers affirmed that it was so, and not otherwise, Mahauṣadha fell at the king’s feet and said, “O king, this being the case, as the mule which you sent us to watch over has run away, but as according to the testimony of the king and the ministers the father is considered better than the offspring, and the father of the mule is the ass, accept this ass as a setoff.”

When the king and the ministers had heard his speech, and perceived the cunning contrivance which it carried out, they were astonished. Whether he had acted becomingly or unbecomingly, it was clear that he was clever. Having thought the matter over, the king was much pleased, and he arrayed Mahauṣadha in fine robes of various kinds, and bestowed upon him the power of a minister, and on the father he conferred that village.

After Mahauṣadha had been appointed a minister, his fame spread abroad throughout the whole city as that of a wise and intelligent man.

Now a very learned Brahman had gone abroad in order to increase his property, after he and his wife had spent all that she had brought along with her; and he returned home with five hundred gold pieces of ancient date. Before entering his house he was desirous of disposing of his money, for none could tell whether his wife might not have taken up with another man during his absence. His wife was of remarkable beauty, and therefore he considered that she might have found favour in the eyes of other men during his absence. So in the evening twilight he went to the cemetery, dug a hole under a Nyagrodha tree, put the money into it, and then went to his home.

Now the wife had a lover, the Brahman Mahākarṇa (Great Ear). The pair had about that time partaken of delicate food, and she had anointed herself with fragrant ointment, and was reposing upon the couch of enjoyment. Just then came the Brahman and called to her to open the door. The woman asked who was there. When he had pronounced his name, she uttered a joyful cry, aroused Mahākarṇa, and hid him under the bed, and then went to open the door. With thorough dissimulation she wept and flung her arms round her husband’s neck, showed him honour and respect, and placed savoury food before him. After partaking of it, he came to the conclusion that the reason of her having provided such a supper must certainly be that she had given herself up to another man. As he was of an ingenuous nature, he asked her, “O good wife, how comes it that you have such food, seeing that this is not a holiday, a festival, or day of public rejoicing?” She replied, “A deity made me aware that you were coming to-day, so I provided this meal on your account.” The Brahman said, “Then it is not I alone who am fortunate. My wife also, it seems, receives tidings from the deity in dreams.”

After he had eaten and washed, he lay down upon the bed to rest, and conversed with his wife about her welfare. Presently she asked him if he had brought anything with him. He said that he had. Thereupon the wife intimated by signs, “Mahākarṇa, let thine ear listen to what is being said.” Then she said, “Where have you put the five hundred gold pieces, as you have not shown them to me?” He replied, “I will show them to you to-morrow.” Then said the wife, “Why have you kept the matter from me, though I am the half of your body?” The honest Brahman said, “I have hidden the money outside the city.” The wife said, “Hear, O Great Ear, where the money has been put.” The Brahman said that he had hidden the money under a Nyagrodha tree in the cemetery. Then said the Brahman’s wife, “As you, my lord, are fatigued and exhausted by the journey and on my account, now go to sleep.”

When she saw that he had gone to sleep, she bade Mahākarṇa act in accordance with what he had heard. Mahākarṇa slipped quietly out of the house, went to the cemetery, dug up the money, and then betook himself to his own house.

When the Brahman went to the cemetery the next day, and found that his money was no longer there, he beat himself on the head and breast, and returned home. His wife, his friends, his brothers, and his relatives asked him what had happened, and he told them everything. They advised him to have recourse to Mahauṣadha. Then the Brahman went wailing to Mahauṣadha, his face streaming with tears, and told him his misfortune. Mahauṣadha remained silent for a moment. Then he asked, “Brahman, at what spot and at what time did you hide the money? Did any one see it? or have you talked about it to any one?” The Brahman gave a full account of the whole affair. Mahauṣadha came to the conclusion that the Brahman’s wife had some other man as a lover, and that what had taken place was due to that man’s contrivance. But he spoke words of comfort to the Brahman, saying that if the money was not found he would pay it to him out of his own purse. Then he asked him if there was a dog in his house. The Brahman replied that there was. Then said Mahauṣadha, “Go and invite eight Brahmans to your house. Invite four of them yourself, and let your wife invite the other four. Tell her that you have made a vow to the god Śiva that if you should accomplish your return prosperously you would entertain eight Brahmans.”

The Brahman followed these instructions, and when the Brahmans had been invited, he went to Mahauṣadha in order to acquaint him with the fact. Then said Mahauṣadha, “When you are about to receive the Brahmans into your house, call this man of mine, and station him at the door when they enter. And during the meal let him stand inside without being occupied in any way.” And to his man he said, “Take note of everything significant. When the Brahmans come in, see which of them the dog barks at, and before whom it wags its tail; for such is the nature of dogs.” Moreover, he ordered the Brahman not to set the food before his guests with his own hands, but to leave that to his wife. He told his man also to pay heed to the Brahman’s wife while she was serving the food, and see to whom she made a sign, at whom she gazed without changing countenance, whom she addressed with a smile, and to whom she served the best fare, and to make him acquainted with all this.

These instructions having been given, the Brahman took the servant home with him and stationed him at the door. Then he told his wife to summon the guests whom she had invited, while he summoned those whom he had invited. As the other guests entered the house one after another, the dog barked. But when Mahākarṇa came in, the dog looked at him, drooped its ears, wagged its tail, and followed after him. When he had entered in and called the dog, the servant learnt that he was Mahākarṇa. Afterwards the servant saw the food distributed, and remarked that the Brahman’s wife, while taking part in the distribution, made a sign with her eyebrows to Mahākarṇa, smiled slightly, fixed her eyes upon him, and supplied him with the best of the food. All that he saw he afterwards reported to Mahauṣadha.

As soon as Mahauṣadha heard these things, he sent for Mahākarṇa, asked him if it was a Brahman’s business to lay hands on the property of others, and ordered him to restore what he had stolen. Mahākarṇa said he thought that Mahauṣadha ought to make himself easy, as he, Mahākarṇa, knew nothing at all about the matter. Thereupon Mahauṣadha gave orders that the evil-doer should be thrown into prison, and left there until his bones became visible. At this threat Mahākarṇa was so terrified that he begged for mercy with a contrite heart, promising to repay all. Going home, he fetched the money, tied up just as it had been, and handed it over to Mahauṣadha, who gave it to the Brahman. The Brahman rejoiced greatly, and seeing that his having recovered what he had lost was entirely due to Mahauṣadha’s powerful assistance, he wished to make manifest his gratitude to him, so he brought him half of the money as a present. Mahauṣadha accepted the present and then returned it to him. When the news of all this became spread throughout the city, the king, the ministers, and the citizens praised Mahauṣadha highly on account of his wisdom, and esteemed themselves fortunate in having such a minister.

After a time it happened that a certain man who had gone on business into another land came back to his own country. Having come to the edge of a tank, he opened his meal-pouch, took out some of the meal, and mixed it with water and partook thereof. After feeding he tied up his pouch and went his way. Now while he was sitting there a snake had crept into the pouch, one of those snakes which emit poison when disturbed. But when the man turned to his pouch after his repast, he tied it up without examining it. Then he flung it across his shoulder and went on to the capital. There a soothsayer informed him that he was in imminent danger of losing his life.

Some time after he had received this information, he regretted that he had not asked the soothsayer on what ground it was based. Having thus reflected, he determined not to go home till he had consulted the minister Mahauṣadha. When he had gone to him and had told him the whole story, Mahauṣadha came to the conclusion that the soothsayer must certainly have given him this piece of information because his pouch contained one of the snakes which emit poison when disturbed Therefore he bade him open his pouch with a piece of wood, in the presence of witnesses, but in some retired place. In that case he would soon learn the ground in question. The man did so, and when the poisonous snake lifted up its head, breathed furiously, and made its outstretched tongue vibrate, Mahauṣadha said, “That is the danger by which you were threatened.”

After a time Mahauṣadha equipped a complete army and went out to take a survey of the land. Whenever he asked to whom the different villages, towns, and cities belonged, the inhabitants replied that they belonged to this or that minister. Then Mahauṣadha perceived that the six ministers had in this manner taken possession of the whole country, and that King Janaka’s rule was restricted to his own food and drink. He asked the king who really was the master of the villages, hill-towns, and cities. The king related to him how the merciful gods had informed him that in the village Pūrṇakatshtshha a son named Mahauṣadha was about to be born to Pūrṇa, and that he, the king, would make Mahauṣadha his first minister, who would recover for him all his power, by which means he would become possessed of complete regal authority.

“Therefore [continued the king] have I provided you with all things necessary while you were still in your mother’s womb, and from that time forth, and have raised you to the rank of first minister. Now by the force of your intelligence shall you fulfil the words of the deity and help me to gain my supremacy.”

Thereupon Mahauṣadha paid honour to the king, and bade him take courage, saying that he would act in such a way that the king would be well pleased. Accordingly he sent for the head-men of the villages, towns, and cities one after another, and assured them that he would arrange matters in such a way that they would be satisfied with him. Much harm had been done to them by those ministers, who had levied out of covetousness immoderate rates and taxes. If they would act in accordance with his instructions, he would be mindful thereof, and would fix moderate taxes, set all other things in order, and help them to secure their welfare. In any case, they ought to revolt, and when the king came with the other ministers, they ought to say that they would not submit until the minister Mahauṣadha should come, but that when he came, they would obey him but no one else.

When he had given them these instructions, and had stirred up the people in all those parts and instigated them to rebellion, so that they recalled their allegiance, the other ministers petitioned the king, and King Janaka sent forth those six ministers together with a great army; but they did not succeed in getting possession of a single village or hill-town. So they sent a messenger to the king with the statement that they could not enforce submission unless the king came himself; but the king also could not obtain the submission of a single hill-town. So, as many men had fallen in battle, the king and the ministers became dejected. Then said the inhabitants of the hill-villages, “If the first minister Mahauṣadha were to come, we would obey him and submit ourselves to him. We have not rebelled against King Janaka, but we have behaved as we have done because the ministers have wrought us injury.”

Thereupon the king sent a messenger to Mahauṣadha, saying, “As we cannot reduce the land to submission, do you come hither.” When Mahauṣadha had looked at the king’s letter, he went at once to the king. When the people of that land saw him, they all paid reverence to him, and he spoke words of encouragement to them, and fixed their taxes according to law, and succoured the poor and lowly and helpless. To the townspeople and the country-folk he gave presents, greeting and embracing them as if they were his parents, brothers, anḍ kinsmen. The old men of the land, and the young people and the women, looked upon him as a son or a brother. To all of them he gave great satisfaction; and then, after lie had finally united all the lands together, he went back to the seat of royalty, together with King Janaka. By means of these deeds he gained an honoured reputation among other kings also. King Janaka was so highly pleased that he gave his daughter in marriage to Mahauṣadha, who lived with her happily.

After a time there came unto King Janaka a king^[5] who had lost his possessions. As King Janaka did not care for him, he betook himself to Mahauṣadha, who received him with compassion and supplied him with means of subsistence.

Some time afterwards a Brahman came to Mahauṣadha and asked him for a measure of barley. Mahauṣadha promised it to him, but intrusted the delivery of it to the overseer of the granary, who kept putting the matter oft' from day to day and gave nothing.

Now it came to pass one day that the king was sitting surrounded by the ministers and the town and country folk at a certain spot where many people paid reverence to him. He asked the ministers to what person a secret might be intrusted, on whom it might be safe to rely. The ministers began to consider. One of them said that a man might intrust a secret to his friend; another, to his wife; a third, to his mother; a fourth, to his sister; a fifth, to his brother. When Mahauṣadha was asked by the king why he did not in his turn express an opinion, he replied, “O king, my opinion is that a man ought not to intrust a secret to any one, but least of all to his wife. This will I prove unto you, O king.”

Some time after this the king’s peacock was missing. Mahauṣadha found it hut hid it away. Then he took another which resembled it and said to his wife, “Have you heard that the king’s peacock up at the palace is missing?” She replied that she had heard about it. Then Mahauṣadha said to her, “Say nothing about it to any one, but cook it quickly, and I will eat it.”^[6] She said to herself, “See now, this man from the hill-village wants to eat the king’s peacock. My father places the utmost confidence in him, and he acts to the king’s hurt.”

Some time afterwards, Mahauṣadha dressed in full array a courtesan who bore a likeness to one of the king’s wives, and brought her to his wife. And he said to his wife, “This is such and such a wife of the king’s. As I am very intimate with her, and you are dear to me, do not mention it to any one.” Thinking that she and Mahauṣadha were living together, the king’s daughter became very angry. And she considered that as he was dishonouring her father, who was quite unaware thereof, it was not right to appoint as first minister a man sprung from a lowly family in a hill-village, and to intrust the whole of the king’s affairs to him, the shameful one. So with a view to seeing that he was put back again into his former place, she went to her father and said, “O father, you have unadvisedly appointed this miscreant first minister, and you placed reliance upon him in an unbecoming manner. He has sinned against the king’s wife, having had to do with such and such a wife of yours. And besides, it is he who has eaten the king’s peacock. Moreover, he has received in a friendly manner and has supplied with all necessaries men coming from a foreign land. But you, O father, have always held him dearer than all others, and no one save him has pleased you.”

In order to sift this matter thoroughly, the king ordered his executioners to put Mahauṣadha to death. Accordingly these men of low caste fastened a karavīra wreath around his neck, beat a drum, the sound of which resembles the voice of an ass, abused him with coarse language and threatened him. Like unto the servants of the god of death, with sharpened weapons in their hands, they led him away to the cemetery. But no man believed that he would be put to death. The townspeople and villagers had their eyes full of tears, and they uttered cries of sorrow and despair, and prayed to the gods, just as if a child of their own were going to be killed; and the poor Kṣatriyas whom Mahauṣadha had received kindly and provided with means of subsistence said to the king’s men, “As we will put this man to death, do ye turn back.”

As he passed out of the city, the Brahman’s wife Ātmavīrā laid hold of the skirt of his robe and said, “You who were to have given me the measure of barley, give it and go.” But Mahauṣadha uttered this śloka: “A king does not become a friend, a hangman has no acquaintances; to women ought no secret to be intrusted; peacock’s flesh ought no one to eat; to the Brahman’s wife Ātmavīrā a man ought not to admit that he possesses a measure of barley.”

As he walked along uttering these words, the executioners said, “Have you, who are endowed with knowledge and excellent wisdom, anything to set forth?”

Mahauṣadha replied, “O king, I have nothing to set forth; but in the despair of anguish I said what was needful.”

“What is that?”

He replied, “A king does not become a friend,” and so forth. And he continued, “O king, I beseech you to listen to me a little. When I said, ‘A king does not become a friend,’ could you not perceive that I said so with reference to earlier times, when you had absolutely no influence over villages, towns, and cities?”

When they had gone somewhat farther, it was suggested to King Janaka that he should again ask Mahauṣadha what he had to set forth. Then the king called to him and questioned him. He replied, “O king, from beṁg one who had merely food, drink, and service, you have by my means become a king ruling the earth, with a realm, an army, and treasures. But you, without recognising what I did for you in early days, are sending me to death, on which account I uttered the words, ‘A king does not become a friend.’ I said also, ‘A hangman has no acquaintances.’ This hangman, if he were to go without bed and clothing to the king in order to obtain the means of living from the king, when he had drawn nigh unto the king, would not be received by him; but I have bestowed land on the hungry fugitive, by means of which he has by this time become prosperous. Now he conducts me to my death, on which account I said, ‘A hangman has no acquaintances.’ As regards the words, ‘To women ought no secret to be intrusted,’ I uttered them for the following reason. When you, O king, sitting one day in the midst of your court, asked whom one might venture to trust, and the ministers replied one’s father, or mother’, or sister, or comrades, but you, O king, said that a man should intrust a secret to his wife, because a man’s wife is the half of his body, then did I entertain the idea of bringing the whole matter before the eyes of the king. In order to provide a test, I hid away the king’s peacock, and took another peacock, which I ate. Then I took from the chamber of the women the ornaments belonging to a certain woman, and hung them around the neck of a certain courtesan, and led her into my house. Be pleased, O king, to look upon that courtesan.”

When the king had placed side by side the courtesan and the designated inmate of his women’s chamber, and had looked upon them both, and had found that there was a remarkable similarity in their appearance, figure, behaviour, and characteristics, so that it was impossible to distinguish one from the other, then the king, after some consideration, perceived that Mahauṣadha was innocent.

“As to the words [continued Mahauṣadha], ‘To the Brahman’s wife Ātmavīrā a man ought not to admit that he possesses a measure of barley,’ I uttered them for this reason. When you had sentenced me to death, and the executioners were leading me away, she called out, ‘Give me the measure of barley,’ and on its account seized me by the skirt of my robe.”

When all this was made clear to the eyes of the king, he rejoiced, and gave orders that Mahauṣadha should be released, and he heaped upon him tokens of honour. Mahauṣadha made obeisance to the king, and then said, “O king, have you learnt what the secrecy of wives is? I have no longer any need of your daughter. I will seek me a wife like unto myself in race, beauty, character, and wisdom.”

When the king had granted him permission, he went to the mountain forest Kakṣa,^[7] in order to find for himself a maiden. He had put on the dress of a Brahman, and carried a water-jug in his right hand, his body being-adorned with the string of sacrifice and covered with the skin of a gazelle, and his face marked with three lines of ointment. When he had gone half-way, darkness came on. A Brahman asked him whence he came.

“From the Videha land,” he replied.

“Whither do you intend to go?”

“To the Kakṣa forest.”

“Do you know any one in whose house you can find shelter?”

Mahauṣadha said that he did not. Then the Brahman took him into his own house and entertained him in a becoming manner. But Mahauṣadha suspected that his host’s wife, who loved another man, was a worthless woman. When he took his departure next day the Brahman said to him, “Consider this house as your own when you come here on your journeyings to and fro.”

“That will I do,” replied Mahauṣadha, and went his way.

About half-way there was a barley-field, and in it he saw a very beautiful maiden, of high race and of great modesty.

As soon as he saw her a longing after her entered into his mind.

“Good maiden,” he asked, “who are you? Whose daughter are you? What is your name?”

“I am Viśākhā,” she replied.

“Whose daughter are you?”

“His who works in wood for all the village.”

Then thought Mahauṣadha, “Her form is fair, but I will now test her intelligence a little.”

He went into a wheat-field, lifted up his hands, and while he flourished his hands on high, he trampled on the wheat with his feet. Then said Viśākhā, “O Pundit, as you have flourished your hands on high, so also ought you to flourish on high your feet.”

“This maiden is clever,” he thought. Then he said with a smile, “You are very brilliant, O maiden, seeing that you have earrings and armlets.”

“The reason is, O Pundit, that both have little oxen,” said Viśākhā.^[8]

Then said Mahauṣadha, “The maiden is of fair form and charming appearance.”

“That is through the favour of the village elder,” replied Viśākhā.

“Where has your father gone?” he asked after a time.

“He has gone to make two roads out of one. After collecting the twigs of the thorn-bushes, he uses them for making the road. In this manner he gives men two roads.”

“Where has your mother gone?”

“To fetch seeds from the fruits of the field.”

“Maiden, shall I take you to be my wife?”

“If the head of the village gives permission,” said the maiden.

“Show me the way,” he said, “by which one can go straight and safely to the Kakṣa forest.”

She pointed out to him a crooked road, and then set out herself along another road. There she took off her clothes beside a tank, shut one eye, and while waiting to see if he would recognise her or not, bowed down upon one side and said, “In the direction of the hand which is used in eating should one go. From the direction of the hand which is not used in eating should one deviate, and so go to the Rice-Soup forest.”

When Mahauṣadha had gone some way along the road indicated to him, he perceived her from afar off, and said, “Fair one with the roguish eyes, having on no garment woven of cotton, but being clothed with the unspun and unweaved, show me how it is possible to go to Kusuma-grāma.”

Thereupon said the maiden, slightly smiling, “Here leave on one side the left-hand road, where there is corn and the palāsa blossoms display themselves; there, O Brahman, must you take your way.”^[9]

He set forth. Coming to the house of Viśākhā’s father, he found that her parents were not at home. So he said to the village head-men, “If you allow it, I will take this woman to be my wife.”

When the head-men of the village heard these words, they immediately with one accord began to upbraid him, saying, “You wretched mendicant Brahman, are not you ashamed to want such a maiden as our Viśākhā? Get away with you at once from this spot. Or must we hand you over to be devoured by fierce dogs?”

Driven away by them, he returned to Viśākhā. While he was still at a distance, she hade him welcome. When he told her of his interview with the village head-men, who had been on the point of beating him, she said, “How and in what manner did you speak?”

When he had told her everything, Viśākhā said to him, “O Brahman, you are not expert in such matters. Have you behaved in the way in which a man ought to propose for a maiden?”

“How else, then, ought one to act?” asked the Brahman.

“First of all,” replied the maiden, “the man must draw near. Then he must gain favour. And if that is granted, he must offer hospitality and organise an entertainment, after which he may bring forward his desire.”

He went away and acted in accordance with this advice, entertaining the village head-men at an excellent banquet. Then he arose and asked for Viśākhā. This time they gave their assent. Just as this point was reached her parents arrived. Then Mahauṣadha and the village head-men asked her parents for her. The parents were of opinion that the matter required consideration.

Then said the village head-men, “What is there to consider about? He is a young, shapely, handsome, learned Brahman, perfectly versed in the Vedas and Vedāngas. So give him your daughter without further consideration.”

Thereupon Mahauṣadha offered hospitality to the Brahmans, and he received the maiden as his wife. The next day he invited his wife’s parents, paid them honour, bestowed upon them raiment and gifts in return for the bride, and then went his way to King Janaka in Videha.

On the way a Brahman entertained him at the festival of the fourteenth day of the half-moon, and gave him as a present a measure of barley, which he poured into a corner of his robe. When he came to the house of his friend he knocked at the door. The Brahman’s wife said, “Who is there?” He replied, “It is I, your husband’s friend.” She replied, “My husband is not at home, and as there is no one else here, I cannot admit any man during his absence. Seek for shelter elsewhere.”

Soon afterwards, while Mahauṣadha was considering how it was that she did not admit him, he saw another man admitted. Then said Mahauṣadha, “There was a reason for my not being admitted.”

While he was still thinking the matter over, the Brahman himself came up from a village and called aloud at the door. When his wife heard her husband’s voice, she considered what she should do, and with some misgivings hid her visitor away in a basket.

After this the two men who were outside entered in and sat down. Then said Mahauṣadha to the Brahman’s wife, “Where shall I put this barley?”

“On the floor,” she replied.

The Brahman said, “Mice might come and eat it.”

He looked under the bed and searched all the ends and corners of the house, but nothing came to light. All at once he saw a basket laid aside, into which he thought the corn might be put.

“Into this basket will I pour the barley,” said Mahauṣadha.

“That basket contains a treasure of mine,” said the Brahman’s wife. “How can barley be put into it?”

“Set aside the treasure in some pot,” said the husband, “then we can pour the barley in here.”

Mahauṣadha also said, “In order that the mice may not render the barley useless, it must be poured in here.”

Then said the Brahman’s wife, who became terrified at the thought of the consequences, “The basket is damp; the barley will get spoilt inside it.”

“You need not be uneasy,” replied Mahauṣadha to the Brahman’s wife. “I will take care that no dampness remains in it, and that the barley is not spoilt.”

Then he stood up, reversed his gazelle skin, and tied the string of sacrifice twice round his neck. Then he went out to fetch wood and water, with the intention of cleansing the basket.

The Brahman’s wife, experiencing the pain of parting from her lover’, and fearṁg that he would be killed, sent a messenger with all speed to his house, in order that, things being so, some one might come from thence immediately. As soon as his father heard the news, he came to Mahauṣadha and said, “I want to purchase this basket.”

“Be of good cheer and take it,” was the reply.

“On what terms?”

“On payment of five hundred gold pieces, not otherwise.”

While thus speaking, Mahauṣadha lighted a lamp close by the basket. But the father, thinking that it would not be well to let the matter become known, opened the door of the house, and had the basket taken up by a strong man and conveyed to his own house.

On the following day Mahauṣadha gave a hundred gold pieces to the man to whom the house belonged, told him what his wife’s character was like, and advised him, after such an occurrence as this, to be on his guard. The remaining four hundred pieces he made over to that Brahman, in order that he might go with them to the Kakṣa forest, and present them to Viśākhā, the maiden whom he had asked in marriage.

“Tell them [he said] that I am no Brahman, but Mahauṣadha, the chief minister of the king of Videha, and that I came in that guise only to carry out my quest. Therefore must they watch carefully over the maiden.”

Having in this way sent the gold pieces and a missive along with them, he himself went to King Janaka.

The Brahman went to the Kakṣa forest, and delivered to Viśākhā the missive and three hundred of the pieces of gold. When Viśākhā perceived that she had not received the fourth hundred, she at once began looking under the bed.

“What are you looking for there?” he asked.

“Men have come from the court of the king,” she replied, “with orders to seize the malefactor, and have gone away. Therefore do I look for him who has not gone.”

Then she took some clay and said to that Brahman, “As I do not know who it is who has thus come here, I should like to try if a foot can go in here or not. So put your foot in here for a while.”

When the Brahman, to avoid being suspected, had inserted his foot into the clay, she suddenly drove a peg^[10] into it.

“Why do you arrest me?” asked the Brahman.

“Because that man sent me four hundred pieces, but you have abstracted a hundred of them,” she replied.

The Brahman was astounded, and thought: “This woman and Mahauṣadha are two demons. Two great demons have combined together.” And he paid her the residue. Then her parents came in, and he said, showing them the gold, “The man is no Brahman. He is the king of Videha’s principal minister, Mahauṣadha.”

When the maiden’s parents and kinsmen heard that, they said that they were allied with a man of power, that they were in that respect very fortunate, and that their family would be made famous by means of Mahauṣadha.

When Mahauṣadha arrived in the city, and the king heard of that, he and the old ministers were greatly pleased.

“How have you fared?” asked the king.

“I have chosen me a wife,” he replied.

“What kind of wife?”

“A very beautiful one,” replied Mahauṣadha, “of perfect intelligence, suitable for me.”

And he asked the king if, as she was of such a nature, he might now marry her.

“Except me,” said the king, “is there any man equal to you? And why? Because you are my chief minister. Therefore marry her to my great pleasure.”

“O king, I will do so.”

Surrounded by the band of ministers, Mahauṣadha invited the Brahmans, householders, and populace to be his guests. Collecting together the rest in great numbers, the elephant-drivers, the horse-drivers, the chariot-drivers, and the goers on foot, he went to the house of his father-in-law in the mountain forest Kakṣa. Having arrived there, he celebrated a great wedding-feast, and after a time he returned to the city with his wife, and lived with her there in love’s delights.

After this there came from the north to King Janaka in Videha five hundred merchants with goods and horses. In that city lived many courtesans, who were wont, by means of their wiles, to despoil of their goods the merchants who came thither. As soon as they heard that merchants had come from the north, they fastened upon them. But the chief of the merchants was very cautious. The most attractive of the women took him in hand, but with no success. Then she called the merchants together, and requested them to render their chief well disposed towards her. But although the merchants and the women took great pains day alter day, yet he did not yield to enticement. Then that courtesan went to the chief and joked and laughed.

“Why do you trouble yourself?” said the chief “You will not entice me.”

“What will you give me,” she asked, “if I do entice you?”

“I will give you five of our best horses. But if you fail to entice me, and you have no money, then you must follow after me.”

Thus ran their talk. But in spite of all her efforts she could not attain her end.

One day the merchants said to their chief, “Do as other people do?”

“I have enjoyed the woman by night in a dream,” replied the chief.^[11]

The merchants repeated this to the woman, who called upon the king’s men to arrest the merchant, saying, “As you have enjoyed my love, pay me five first-rate horses.”

“You lie, disreputable female,” replied the merchant. So they two carried up their dispute to the palace. The king and his court attempted to settle the question.

Evening came, but still they did not succeed. Worn and fretted by hunger, they resolved to postpone the decision of the question, and went to their homes.

When Mahauṣadha came home that evening, Viśākhā said, “My lord, why have you tarried so long to-day?”

He gave her a full account of the whole question which they had not been able to settle.

“If a question remains unsettled by all of you,” she said, “after being thus considered and discussed, how comes it that you hold such a position?”

“Such being the state of affairs,” said Mahauṣadha, “can you, perchance, decide the question?”

“I can,” she replied. “See how great is my judgment! Go and order the five good horses to be placed at the edge of a piece of water. Then let the king and the ministers meet together at that place and give their opinions on the matter. If it turns out that, as the woman says, the merchant has really enjoyed her, then let the five good horses be given to her. But if it be proved that he did so only in a dream, then let her be shown the image of the horses in the water. If she says that she can neither grasp nor use them, then let her be told that, just as it is impossible to grasp that image, so is it also with the fruition of love in a dream.”

All this was carried out. All were astonished at this decision, and the king asked who had been the discoverer of this way of escape. "Whereupon Mahauṣadha replied that Viśākhā had discovered it. Then all perceived that the carpenter’s daughter was exceedingly clever, and her fame spread abroad throughout all lands.

After that a merchant from the north made a present of two mares^[12] to the king, and said, “These two mares, O king, are dam and foal, but which the dam is and which the foal, nobody knows.” When in this case also the king and his court were in difficulties, the carpenter’s daughter Viśākhā settled the question as before, saying that the thick-haired mare was the dam and the soft-haired the foal.

Another time a snake-catcher brought two serpents, one of which was male and the other female, but nobody knew which was which. When Mahauṣadha consulted Viśākhā, she laughed, and wondered how it was that the king’s ministers were unable to solve such a problem. What was needed was to fasten the leaf of a cotton plant to the end of a reed, and to stroke the backs of the serpents with the cotton. The serpent which was unable to endure that stroking would be the male.

On another occasion, a merchant from the south brought a stem of sandal-wood,^[13] of which no one knew the upper end from the lower. Mahauṣadha again consulted his wife, who told him to throw the stem into a pool. The root end would then sink downwards.

Once King Janaka was pleased to try which of his ministers was capable of recognising precious stones. With this intent he caused a gem to be fastened to the top of a standard upon the belvedere, underneath which was a tank. The king promised to give the gem to him who should recognise it; but no one who went into the water, intending to grasp at the light he saw there, was considered entitled to obtain it. When Viśākhā was consulted by her husband, she said that he must look upwards, for that light was only the reflection of the gem attached to the standard, and that it was necessary to go in the direction of the standard in order to obtain the gem.

As Viśākhā was very handsome, the six ministers tried, by means of all sorts of presents of gold, silver, and precious stones, to entice her into making an assignation, but they could not succeed in doing so. As they did not desist, she asked her husband if it was really the custom of the country that every young and handsome woman should be cajoled by other men. He replied that this took place everywhere, for men were greedy after all women, and they were instructed by the women themselves; but that if a woman was prudent, she did not give her consent. Then said Viśākhā, “If I were to bring a man of that kind to harm or disgrace, would any danger arise out of it?” Mahauṣadha said, “Do so, and fear not.” So she told him that he was to feign an illness, and she would turn it to good account. He did so. Then she sent messengers to inform the ministers, who had become acquainted with his indisposition, that she would grant them the fulfilment of their desires. Having caused an image of Mahauṣadha to be made of wood, she dressed it and laid it in his bed. To each of the ministers she sent word to come to her at a certain hour, without letting the others know anything about it. She had also caused six chests to be made, and had distributed them in six of her rooms. Each of the ministers, on his arrival, she hid away in one of the chests. Next day she let the report spread abroad that Mahauṣadha was dead. Thereupon the king and his court, as well as the rest of the people, broke forth into lamentation. But Viśākhā locked the chests and took them to the king, and said, “Now that Mahauṣadha is dead, here are his treasures of gold, silver, and precious stones, sealed with his own signet.” While the king was grieving that these presents should have been made to him on the very day of their owner’s death, Mahauṣadha came into the palace by another way, laughing and adorned with flowers. Having made obeisance to the king, he said, “Do you mean now to take possession of my property, O king, although you have never shadowed me with the canopy of your grace?”

“I have not taken it,” said the king. “It was brought here from your own house.”

“Great king and Mahauṣadha,” said Viśākhā, “there is another world besides this. These are precious stones from it. Take them as a pledge. Great king, these are the men who have dishonoured me, the widow separated from her husband, and have stolen from me my treasure.”

Thereupon Mahauṣadha pointed out the excellent intentions in the minds of the first ministers. When the king had looked in, and had seen the six ministers with their hair and beards shorn, and their hands and feet drawn together’, he laughed and said to Mahauṣadha, “Tell me, whose contrivance is this?”

“It is Viśākhā’s contrivance,” he replied, and then he proceeded to tell the whole story. The king marvelled at the acuteness and resolution shown by Viśākhā, and the cleverness of the carpenter’s daughter Viśākhā obtained praise in all lands.

The king resolved that Mahauṣadha should try to find him a wife of similar discretion, in which case everything would be placed on a good footing both at home and as regards affairs exterior to the palace.

“Where shall I look for her?” asked Mahauṣadha.

“The king of Pañcāla has an exceedingly beautiful daughter called Āuṣadhī,” replied King Janaka. “She is endowed with knowledge and memory, and I have heard that in acuteness she resembles Viśākhā. Obtain her for me as my wife.”

“O king,” said Mahauṣadha, “in this matter must some stratagem be employed, for there is enmity between you and him.”

Then King Janaka sent his ministers and his Purohita in order to make proposals of marriage. The king of Pañcāla called his ministers together and asked them what he should do. They said, “As King Janaka formerly refused to listen to your orders, we must manage so that they may fall into our power. Tell them that you will give your daughter, and that an appointment must be made for the purpose of receiving her, at a certain hour, on such and such a day of the half-moon, at such and such a place.”

Having thus spoken, they went forth and announced that King Janaka was to receive the Princess Auṣadhī.

“When and where?” asked the envoys.

“On such and such a day, at an appointed hour,” was the reply.

Thereupon the king of Pañcāla sent forth invitations to the wedding. And he prepared food and drink, and infused into it divers kinds of poisons. When all was ready, he sent out messengers to the people to come forthwith.

When Mahauṣadha heard that, he said to King Janaka, “It is not fitting that we should act hastily.”

“For what reason?”

“This king is a neighbour who has always been opposed to us, at variance with us. We must send a spy in advance.”

“Whom shall we send?” said the king.

“O king,” said Mahauṣadha, “be at ease. I have a parrot called Caraka,^[14] who is clever and honest. Him will I send. He will return after he has held converse with all.”

“Do so,” said the king.

The parrot flew off, and considered to whom he should draw nigh, with whom he should make friends and hold converse. In spite of looking around on all sides, he could detect nothing, and he had to consider how he should begin the usual style of business. Entering the palace, and there looking about him, he saw a maina^[15] sitting on some timber-work, and flew up to her, and the two birds took pleasure in each other’s company.

She asked him where he came from. He replied, “I come from King Śibi in the north. I was the guardian of a park, and I had as wife an excellent, beautiful, clever, devoted, and sweet-spoken maina. Having flown to a distance one day, she was carried off by a falcon. Full of grief and trouble on this account, I have gone wandering hither and thither, and so have come to where you are. Will not you, O good one, be my wife?”

“Never has it been heard or seen,” she replied, “that a maina became the wife of a parrot. I have heard that really the wife of a parrot is a parrot too.”

Thereupon the parrot tried by other flights in this and that direction to draw nigh unto her, and to render her well disposed towards him, whereby he entered into loving relations with her.

When the parrot saw in the king’s palace many kinds of food, such as honey-puffs and other dainties, being cooked in pans, and many cates made of sugar, he said to the maina, “Wherefore are these things being cooked? Is it likely that we shall get any?” Then he said to the maina in verse, “Of this plentiful fresh oil which is being cooked in the pan, shall we partake? Answer softly, O maina.”

“That which is being cooked in the pan,” replied the maina, “shall not be your food, O clever parrot Caraka. With this food is poison mixed for the benefit of Janaka.”

Then the parrot, employing wisdom, artfully said to the maina, “As it is said that the king of Pañcāla is about to give his daughter to Janaka, and the news of this has been spread abroad in all the land, I ask whose words are truthful? on whose words can reliance be placed?”

“Clever parrot Caraka,” said the maina, “this evil one is not going to give him his daughter. The men of evil purpose seek only to slay him.”

When the parrot Caraka had heard this, having seen and heard, sought and learnt, he returned home, like a merchant who has succeeded in obtaining gains. But to the maina he said, referring to King Śibi, “Now must I go, O good one, in order to let King Śibi know that I have found a soft-spoken maina like unto my wife.”

“O lord,” said the maina, “when you have gone away, and have informed King Sibi, let it be made known after a space of seven days, after no longer lapse of time. Let King Śibi know what are my descent, my family, and my means. For my sake be not lost.”

The parrot flew away, and gave a full account of all these things to Mahauṣadha, who made King Janaka acquainted therewith.

When the king of Pañcāla saw that Janaka was not coming, he equipped a complete army, and went forth against King Janaka, and besieged his capital. The first minister, Mahauṣadha, perceived that there was no withstanding him in fight, so he considered how he could excite discord. By means of sending divers presents to King Śibi’s five hundred ministers he produced dissension. When this had been brought about, Janaka sent envoys to the king of Pañcāla with a message to the effect that, although he was in a position to fight the king of Pañcāla, yet he wished to be reconciled with him, and not to fight with him who was his father-in-law. The king of Pañcāla should know that in King Janaka’s hands lay life and death. But though he could fight with him, yet he would rather not do so. If the king of Pañcāla was in doubt, let him consider that Janaka had sent such and such presents to such and such ministers.

The king of Pañcāla laid hands on those ministers with the presents, and that same evening he returned home. On his arrival there, he ordered the five hundred ministers to be executed, and made their sons ministers in their stead, and he became reconciled with King Janaka.

When Mahauṣadha learnt that the ministers had been put to death, he rejoiced at having brought this about. They being dead, he said to the king, “Now will I go myself to see if I can obtain the princess or not.”

When he had arrived in the land of I’ancāla, the king invited him to enter the city. But he replied that he would stay where he was in the park, or in case he entered the city, he would go to the house of a certain minister. The king of Pañcāla was alarmed at these words, thinking that Mahauṣadha might be wishing again to sow discord between him and his ministers, so he sent to tell him that he might stay where he was if he wished it.

Now the ministers reflected that Mahauṣadha had deprived their fathers of life, and they thought, remembering the old grudge, that if they brought the matter energetically before the king, Mahauṣadha would never return home. So, after they had met together, they said to the king; “It is Mahauṣadha in whom King Janaka has such a source of mental power. When he is at home by the king’s side, no one can injure the king, but while he is here, we might well go forth again to attack King Janaka.”

The king consented thereto, and they set out for King Janaka’s capital with a fully equipped army. King Janaka also made himself ready. Now Mahauṣadha learnt that the king of Pañcāla had invaded King Janaka’s country by such and such a road. After remaining a little longer where he was, he learnt that the treasures of the king of Pañcāla were kept in a certain place, and that the king’s daughter, Auṣadhī by name, lived there also. So he went thither with a small troop of trusty adherents and surrounded the treasury. Entering therein, he emptied it of its contents and carried off the princess along with the gold and precious things. Then he got his army ready, and entered King Janaka’s country from a different side. Thereat King Janaka rejoiced, and so did the ministers, the villagers, and the rest of the people, saying that he had accomplished a great work, and they made him many demonstrations of honour.

When the king of Pañcāla’s ministers heard that Mahauṣadha had arrived with the maiden and the treasure, they abandoned the siege of the capital and returned to their own country; and King Janaka, having obtained the maiden as his wife, lived with her in happiness and love.

After a while, the king of Pañcāla sent a messenger to his daughter, and asked for information as to who it was by whose coming the matter had been found out, and who it was who had brought about the dissensions. She sent word back that it was Mahauṣadha’s parrot named Caraka, which, being endowed with human speech, had spied the matter out. Then the king of Pañcāla desired that it should at any rate be delivered up to him. So with great difficulty she contrived to catch it in a net, and she sent it to her father. The king flew into a passion, upbraided the bird in divers ways, and then ordered it to be killed. The parrot Caraka fell at the king’s feet, and besought him to allow it to die as its father and grandfather had died. The king gave his consent, and asked in what manner its father and grandfather had been put to death. When its tail had been wrapped in cotton and drenched with mustard-oil, and when all this had been set on fire, and the bird was let go to fly up into the air, it set the whole of the royal palace in a blaze,^[16] and then dived under water. When it had returned home, and King Janaka and Mahauṣadha asked it whence it came, it gave them a full account of everything which had taken place, whereat they rejoiced. But the king of Pañcāla, being full of wrath, sent a letter to say that as the parrot had after such a fashion brought about injury, it must be again sent to him without fail. His daughter laid hands on the bird and sent it. The king of Pañcāla in his rage plucked it quite bare, made a mere lump of flesh of it, and with the words, “Go and get eaten,” flung it out of the window. Thereupon a falcon snapped it up. But it besought the falcon, saying, “If you eat me, you will have food for one day only; but if you will let me go, I will take care that you shall receive every day much food and whatever else you need.”

The falcon gave heed to its words, and after the parrot had confirmed them by an oath, it was released. Caraka said, “At such and such a spot is the king’s temple, convey me thither.” The falcon did so. The parrot went inside and crept into a hole.

Next day the Brahmans came to offer sacrifices to the deity. As they were preparing to offer perfumes, incense, food, gifts, and oblations, Caraka cried out, “O Brahmans, to the sinful king of Pañcāla shall ye convey these words of mine: ‘As you have committed such and such a sin, I have inflicted injury upon you. If you do not act in obedience to my words, I will do the same again. You must bring day by day as an offering of food a whole measure full of red raw meat, sesamum, and rice porridge. After that I will consider what is to be done.’”

The Brahman went to the king and told him this. Thereupon the king ordered food-offerings and oblations to be prepared, and came every day with the ministers and the Purohita in order to beseech the deity to say if he were forgiven or not, and to promise that he would act in accordance with the divine commands.

When, after some time, the wings of the parrot Caraka had grown again, it became capable of flying, and felt a desire to take to flight. Then it said, “You, O king, together with the commander of the army, the queen, the prince, and the ministers, must appear before me with heads shorn as smooth as pestles. If ye do so, then will I vouchsafe forgiveness.”

The king took this to heart and behaved accordingly, and the whole party, with heads shorn like pestles, proceeded to the abode of the deity, fell at its feet and begged for pardon. Then the parrot flew aloft, uttering this verse:—

“The doer of the deed is requited. See how the plucker in his turn is plucked! Now he who by himself was plucked has thoroughly well plucked the enemy and all the rest.”

Having thus spoken, Caraka flew away to Mahauṣadha, who asked it whence it came, as he had not seen it for so long a time. It gave a full account of what kind of trick it had played. Mahauṣadha was delighted therewith, and he reported it to King Janaka, who likewise rejoiced greatly, and considered himself fortunate in having so intelligent a minister.

At another time the king, in order to see which of his ministers was the cleverest, took it into his head to summon them, and to give to each of them a dog, with directions to train it to speak with a human voice within a given time. The ministers took the dogs home with them, and managed to rear them properly, but not to teach them to speak.

Mahauṣadha took his dog home, and gave it a place at a little distance from the table, fastening it to a peg. The dog was accustomed to see various kinds of meats, drinks, and soups prepared for Mahauṣadha, but could not get at them. By means of giving it little food and that bad, Mahauṣadha brought it about that the dog was neither dead nor alive, and was lean and gaunt with exhaustion.

After a time the king ordered the dogs to be brought, whether instructed or not instructed. The other ministers, who were not versed in the sciences, had not been able to teach their dogs to speak. Then the king ordered Mahauṣadha to bring the dog which had been handed over to him. When the gaunt, famished dog appeared before the king, he asked why it was so thin. Mahauṣadha replied, “O king, I have given it the same kind of food that I ate myself.” But the dog exclaimed, “O king, that is not true. I am all but dead with hunger.” Thereupon Mahauṣadha said, “After this fashion have I taught the dog to speak.” Whereat the king was highly pleased.

Another time, when the king wished to make a similar trial, he ordered each of the ministers to feed and water a sheep in such a manner that the sheep should become strong without waxing fat.^[17] Five hundred of the ministers were unaware how to set about this matter. They reared their sheep, but the sheep became fat. But Mahauṣadha, while he placed delicate food before his sheep, set up in front of it a wooden wolf which he had provided for the purpose. The sight of the wolf frightened the sheep so much that it grew up strong without becoming fat. When the king saw that the sheep of the other ministers were flourishing and very fat, but that Mahauṣadha’s sheep had become strong without growing fat, he highly commended his wisdom.

On another occasion the king was again desirous of finding out who was possessed of wisdom. The five hundred sons of the ministers were holding a feast in the park. As they sat there eating and drinking, they took to describing marvellous things, each one being called upon to state whatever wondrous thing he had either himself experienced or had heard described while tarrying at home. Then out of friendship they told one another the marvels they had witnessed at home and elsewhere. Ālong with the rest Mahauṣadha’s son was called upon by the young men to relate something. He said that there was a stone in his father’s house which, although it formed the base of a column, would yet, if thrown into water, swim to and fro, and lend itself to rubbing and kneading, and so forth. The youths expressed their opinion that no such marvel existed in any of their houses. As he would not give way, and they doubted his word, he said that he would stake upon it five hundred pieces of gold. He told this to his father, who said, “Son, do not show them the stone.” So when the youths came, he did not show them the stone, and his five hundred gold pieces were forfeited.

After a time Mahauṣadha took some monkeys and gave them a musical training. Then he said to his son, “Go to your comrades and tell them, in reference to your former undertaking about marvels seen at home, that you are willing to stake twice as much money as before on the fact that you can show in your house musical monkeys, capable of dancing and singing and playing on the drum.” In accordance with these instructions the young man, after speaking of other things, passed on to that subject, and said that he had seen such creatures. They declared that they had never either seen or heard of monkeys which performed musically. “What will you give me if I show you some?” he said. They replied, “You have already lost five hundred pieces of gold, and now you will lose a thousand if you cannot show us these monkeys, but have been talking nonsense as before. But if you do show them to us, then we will pay you that sum.” When they had settled this wager, the monkeys were brought into the royal palace, where they played and sang and danced before the king. So the young men were obliged to pay the thousand pieces of gold. The king was greatly astonished; he bad never seen or heard of anything like it before. Thereupon the king, the ministers, and the inhabitants of the city all paid great honour to Mahauṣadha, in that he was wise and clever above all other men.

It happened that there was born unto a very learned Brahman in the land of Videha a very beautiful daughter, whom he determined he would give in marriage to him only who equalled himself in acuteness and knowledge. She received the name of Udumbarikā.

Unto another Brahman there was born a bad-looking-son, unlike his father, and marked with eighteen signs of ugliness. On account of his ugliness his parents, at the time of his birth, gave him the name of Virūpa. As he was so hideous, and his parents were ashamed of his ugliness, they thought it would be of no use to have so bad-looking a creature educated. But when he had grown up, being desirous of instruction, he determined to go to another country in order to study. There he was accepted as a pupil by a Brahman, and he soon made himself master of all the knowledge his teacher possessed.

In consequence of this, Udumbarikā’s father determined, in spite of Virūpa’s ugliness, to give him his daughter to wife. However Virūpa did not dare to draw nigh unto her, but resolved to go back to his own home, in order to live with her there.

When Udumbarikā set eyes upon this paragon of ugliness, she being herself beautiful, she felt ashamed of him. Virūpa set out with her for his own country. On the way their stock of travelling provisions came to an end. Arriving at the edge of a piece of water, they threw themselves down upon the ground, feeling very hungry. A fellow-traveller, having stirred up some meal and water with a bit of wood, began to partake of it, and the woman, tormented by hunger, begged to have some too. Then Virūpa took a handful of meal and partook of it by himself.

“As I also am sorely tormented by hunger,” said Udumbarikā, “I would fain partake of that water.”

“As the early Rishis and law-teachers have forbidden women to partake of such water, I will not give you any,” replied Virūpa.

While they were suffering from hunger in a desert during a time of drought, Virūpa found some dog’s flesh, which he roasted and ate. When Udumbarikā wanted some too, he would not give her any, because the Rishis had forbidden women to partake of such food. Thereupon she gave way to all kinds of wailing, lamenting that she, unhappy one that she was, should be tormented by the pangs of hunger, and asking wherefore, on account of what fault of hers, had her parents wedded her to such a man.

They proceeded farther, and saw a ripe Udumbara tree. Virūpa climbed it and feasted on its fruit. Udumbarikā said he ought not to eat it all himself, but ought to give some to her also. He ate the ripe fruit and threw down to her only what was unripe. She told him he ought not to fling her the unripe fruit only, but ought to give her the ripe fruit also. He replied, “If you want ripe fruit, climb the tree yourself and pluck and eat.”

Tormented by hunger, she climbed up into the tree with difficulty, and there ate some fruit. But Virūpa thought, “What can such a wretched man as I am do with such a wife—I, who can scarcely support myself? She will not so much as look at me.”

Coming down from the tree, he surrounded it with thorns and then went his way.

Now it happened that just at that time King Janaka went out hunting, and he heard in the forest the wailing of Udumbarikā deserted by her husband. Following the sound, he caught sight of the bright-eyed one, who seemed to him like a goddess of the forest. When she had come down from the tree he reposed by her side, and then set her in his chariot, conveyed her to the city, and gave himself up to pleasure with her.

Meanwhile Virūpa, as he walked along by himself, repented of having deserted his wife. So he returned to the Udumbara tree, but found that his wife was not there, and learnt that King Janaka had taken her away with him, and had made her one of his wives. Thereat he was sorely grieved.

He went to the gate of the palace, but he was not admitted within. Then he saw that there were men at work in the courtyard of the palace, and he resolved to carry stone along with them. By this means he gained access to the palace, where he saw his wife and the king in loving converse. He hit upon a plan of speaking with his wife, and he and she discoursed in verse as follows:—

He. “ Golden is the corner-stone. Dost thou rejoice in blaming? Fair one, lovest thou me not? Take, O carpenter, the stone!”

She. “At that spot did I beseech thee. In my memory dwell the words, ‘To women meat is forbidden.’ Me didst thou forsake.”

He. “Beside the Udumbara tree, O fair one, hast thou asked me, born beside the river Ganges. Take, O carpenter, the stone.”

She. “ When I asked for meal and water, thus was I answered: ‘It is not right that a woman should partake thereof.’ Therefore have I hither come.”

He. “ Much has the learned mouth spoken. Speak of the countless golden glitter. Fair one, lovest thou me not? Take, O master, the stone!'”

She. “Unripe was what thou didst give me. The ripe didst thou eat thyself. Mindful of harsh speech do I now sit dallying here.”

He. “Down from the mountain will I dash, poison also will I drink, O Brahman woman. Wailing for thee am I here. Take, O carpenter, the stone!”

She. “Dash thyself down from the mountain, drink thy poison, O Brahman! In love’s time thou didst not love. At home must dalliance take place.”

While they two thus held converse, the king became suspicious, and said, “O queen, as I do not understand what ye are saying to each other, speak to me without fear, that I may hearken to your words.” As the king was completely under her influence, she gave him a full account of everything. The king asked her if she wished to go away with her husband. She did not like to say openly that her husband was repulsive to her, for she was afraid that he, as he was a Brahman, might bring a curse upon her by means of evil spells. Then the king-asked Mahauṣadha what was to be done. Mahauṣadha promised to arrange so that the king would not have to part with her.

“How so?” asked the king.

“As this Brahman,” replied Mahauṣadha, “is a man of very small means, but these women are exceedingly grand, I will speak to him after such and such a fashion. If I suggest it to him, he will look for his wife among your women, without identifying her.”

The Brahman was summoned, and was asked what he was looking for, and why he had entered the palace. He replied that he was looking for his wife, whom the king had brought there.

“Shall you be able to identify your wife?” asked Mahauṣadha.

“Yes,” replied Virūpa.

“I will bring the five hundred women before you,” said Mahauṣadha. “If you pick out from among them one who does not belong to you, your body shall be cut to pieces with weapons.”

Then the king ordered all his wives to appear arrayed in all their bravery, and to make the greatest possible display of ornaments. And the king caused Udumbarikā to be placed at the head of all the women, looking like the spouse of Indra, and surrounded as it were by Apsarases, and situated on a highroad, where sacrifices were brought. Mahauṣadha called the Brahman to the front, and told him to take away his wife if he recognised her. But when Virūpa saw Udumbarikā and the other women adorned with all their bravery, he stood still like a snake charmed by a spell. Like one unable to gaze at the light of day looked the Brahman at the women. Then he saw a female slave, a carrier of water, like unto a Piśācī [or female demon] in appearance, standing at the back behind one of the king’s wives, and he seized her by the hand and said, “This is my wife.”

“If that be so, then take her away with you,” said Mahauṣadha.

The Brahman took her and said, “The excellent loves the excellent, and the mediocre the mediocre; to the crooked one is my heart attached. O fair one, I am like unto a Piśāca, and you too are a Piśācī. Come unto me, O Piśācī. As I am like unto a Piśāca, we will take pleasure together.”

Therefore King Janaka forgave Mahauṣadha all the faults which he had ever committed.

One day the king went into the park with his wives, and enjoyed himself there together with them. One of them took off a string of pearls worth a hundred thousand pieces of money and hung it on a spray of an aśoka tree. While sporting with the king she forgot about it and left it there. At midnight, after she had gone back to the palace with the king, she remembered that she had left her necklace in the forest. Meanwhile it had been carried off to the top of a tree by a female monkey.

The king ordered his men to hasten to the forest and bring back the necklace. They went there, but they did not find it. Now a beggar had gone there in search of the remnants of the food of which other men had made a meal. As he came forth from the forest after partaking of such food, the king’s men arrested him. As no one else was to be seen there, they called on him to render up the necklace. Although he protested that he had not taken it, had not even seen it, yet he was beaten with fists and stakes, and then thrown into prison.

Tormented by hunger, he reflected that, unless he contrived some cunning way of escape, he would die there of starvation. So he said to the jailer that he had, it was true, taken the pearl necklace, but that he had given it to such and such a young merchant. Him also the king’s men summoned, and the two men were set fast connected by wooden fetters.

The merchant used to receive from home dainty food. While he was partaking of it the beggar asked him for some. But the merchant reviled him, saying, “It is all very well for you to accuse me of theft in order that I may nourish you with my food. I will give you none of it.” And having thus spoken, he ate it all up.

After this, when the merchant wished to change his place, and said, “Let us stand up and move,” the beggar replied, “I will not listen to your words; I shall not get up.” Then said the merchant, “Henceforward will I behave so that you will be contented.” Thus with friendly words and with an oath he won over the beggar, and was able to do as he wished.

The next day the merchant sent home orders to provide in future food enough for two persons. Thereat the beggar was highly pleased, and he reflected that in former times he used to wander about the whole city without being able to find the means of filling his belly, but now food and drink in plenty were at hand, and it would be well to call in a courtesan. Accordingly, he accused one of a share in the theft, and the king’s men set her also in the prison. When the beggar was sitting in company with these two prisoners and enjoying food and drink, he said, “Good is it if we get free from here after the space of a dozen years.”

While they so enjoyed themselves a further desire arose within them. They thought that in order to have still more pleasure they must call in a lute-player. So the beggar accused a lute-player also of having taken the string of pearls. Then the king’s men cast him also into the prison.

After some time the others besought the beggar to find some means whereby they might become free, saying that in that case he should want for nothing. He promised to do so, and bethought himself that no one could be of use except Mahauṣadha. So he told the king’s men that Mahauṣadha’s son had likewise taken part in the affair, and they sent for him also.

When Mahauṣadha heard that his son had been imprisoned, he felt that he must certainly go to the palace, for if he did not do so his son would fret himself. On arriving there, he asked the king what offence his son had committed. The king replied that he had been imprisoned on the testimony of the beggar with respect to the stolen pearl necklace. When Mahauṣadha had become fully acquainted with the contrivance of the captives, he said to the king, “The theft has not been committed by any of these people. Let them all go free on my word.” So they were released.

After this he went out to the park, and came to the spot, to the very tree, where they had been before. When he looked closely at the tree, he perceived a female monkey sitting at the top of it. Then he felt sure that this animal had taken the string of pearls, and that it must he enticed to come down by some artifice. So he asked the king to go there with his wife, and when there, to hang a necklace round her neck. When that was done, the monkey, as it sat on the tree-top, hung the pearl necklace round its neck. Then Mahauṣadha told the king’s wife to dance. When she did so, the monkey on the tree-top also began to dance; but still the string of pearls did not fall from off its neck. In order to bring that about, Mahauṣadha asked the king to make his wife, as she danced, hang down her head. Then the monkey also began to dance about with its head hanging down, whereupon the string of pearls fell down from off its neck. Full of joy, the king embraced Mahauṣadha and bestowed much property upon him.

After a time the six ministers assembled together and held counsel as to what was to be done, seeing that whereas they had formerly been esteemed, honoured, and exalted by the king, they had now lost their credit on account of a half-starved, gross-witted upstart. Then some of them said, “Inasmuch as we have hitherto been at variance one with another, therefore have we become destitute of power. Now let us go into the park, and when we have gone there, let us take an oath and bind ourselves by a vow. By that means shall we once more recover our power.”

Mahauṣadha saw them going thither, and reflected that, as they had gone somewhere as if by common consent, they probably had in hand something never seen before. Having suspected this, he sent the parrot Māṭhara^[18] after them, in order that it might find out what they were about, what they said and did.

When they had reached the park and there met together, they began to communicate to each other their faults and secrets, saying, “Now will we lend each other support.”

“I ate the king’s peacock,” said one.

“I sinned with the king’s wife,” said another.

“I will do likewise,” said a third.

After all six of them had revealed their secrets to each other, they partook of food out of the same vessel.

But the parrot Māṭhara reported all it had heard to Mahauṣadha, and he reported it to the king, who banished those ministers from the country.

Footnotes and references:

[1]:

Cf. Gaal, Märchen der Magyaren, Wien, 1882, p. 196. Der Vogel Goldschweif, especially p. 213: Hahn, Gr. und alb. Märchen, Leipzig, 1864, i. 227. Das goldene Huhn: Haltrich,“DeutscheVolksmärchen” Berlin, 1856. “Der seltsame Vogel:” Miklosich, Ueber die Mundarten der Zigeaner, IV. No. vi., Die Diamenten legende Henne.—S.

[2]:

“Vaiśravaṇa, ‘son of Viśravas,’ epithet of Kuvera, the god of wealth.”

[3]:

Cf. “Ardschi-Bord chi-Cān” in Jülg’s Mongol. Märchensammlung Innsbruck, 186S, pp. 197, et seq.—S.

[4]:

Cf. “Śukasaptate,” in the Greek version of Galanos, 4th night, p. 10.—S.

[5]:

Properly speaking a Kṣatriya, as will be seen farther on.—S.

[6]:

As regards the king’s peacock, see the Śukasaptati, 21st night, in Galanos’s translation, p. 34.—S.

[7]:

Among the explanations of kakṣa given in Monier Williams’s Sanskrit Dictionary are “the interior of a forest, a forest of dead trees, a dry wood, &c.”

[8]:

“This seems to refer to the shape of the earrings,” says Professor Schiefner; but the repartee still remains obscure. The same remark may be made about several of Viśākhā’s wise sayings.

[9]:

The obscurity of some of the allusions in this conversation is probably due to the fact that they involve a play upon words which could not always be fully rendered by the translator of the Tibetan text.

[10]:

The German text runs: “Als der Brahmane.... einen Fuss hineinsteckte, schlug sie rasch einen Pflock hinein.” The sense appears to be doubtful.

[11]:

Compare Benfey, Pantschatantra, i, 127, and Liebrecht in Jahrbuch für rom. und engl. Literatur, iii. 147, and in Pfeiffer’s Germania, v. 53.—S.

[12]:

Cf. Śukasaptati, 37th Night, in the translation of Galanos.—S.

[13]:

Cf. Śukasaptati, 38th Night.—S.

[14]:

This appears to be a correct restoration of the Sanskrit name, though the parrot’s name is given further on as Māthara.—S.

[15]:

Śārikā, Gracula religiosa, Predigerkrähe.—S.

[16]:

Cf. Pabst, “Bunte Bilder, d. i. Geschichten in Ehstlands, &c. Reval, 1856, i. 14, and Mannhardt’s “Gennanische Mythenforschungen,” Berlin, 1858, p. 39.—S. Also the burning of Laṅkā in the Rāmāyaṇa, due to the attempt to punish the monkey-general Hanumat by setting his tail on fire.

[17]:

Cf. “Les Avadānas, trad, par Stan. Julien,” Paris, 1859, ii. 48.—S.

[18]:

See note on p. 168.