The Saga of Ardschi-Bordschi and Vikramâditja’s Throne.

The Boy-King.

Long ages ago there lived a mighty king called Ardschi-Bordschi1.

In the neighbourhood of his residence was a hill where the boys who were tending the calves were wont to pass away the time by racing up and down. But they had also another custom, and it was, that whichever of them won the race was king for the day—an ordinary game enough, only that when it was played in this place the Boy-king thus constituted was at once endowed with such extraordinary importance and majesty that every one was constrained to treat him as a real king. He had not only ministers and dignitaries among his playfellows, who prostrated themselves before him and fulfilled all his behests, but whoever passed that way could not choose but pay him homage also.

At last the report of the matter filled all the land, and came also to the ears of the King himself.

Ardschi-Bordschi had the whole matter exposed before him, and he inquired into all the manners and ways of the boys; then he said,—

“If this thing happened every day to one and the same boy, then would I acknowledge in him a Bodhisattva2; but as every day a different boy may win the race, and it would seem that whichever of them is called king is clothed with equal majesty, it appears manifestly to me that the virtue is not in the boy, but in the hill of which he makes his throne.”

Nevertheless the matter troubled the King, and he desired above all things to obtain some certain knowledge concerning it, not seeing how to search it out.

The False Friend1

In the meantime, it had come to pass that one of Ardschi-Bordschi’s subjects had gone out over the sea to search for precious stones. Being detained on his journey beyond the allotted time, he was desirous of making provision for his wife and children whom he had left behind, and, finding that a friend of his company purposed to return home, he trusted to him one of the jewels of which he had become possessed, saying, “When thou comest to the place, deliver this jewel into the hands of my wife, that she may be provided withal until the time of my return. The man, however, sold the jewel and spent the proceeds on his own purposes. When, therefore, the jewel-merchant came home, he inquired of his wife, saying, “By a man named Dsük I sent unto you a jewel so-and-so;” and when he learnt of his wife that the man had brought no jewel, he took the matter before the King. The King commanded the man called Dsük to be brought before him. But the man having got wind that he would have to appear before the King to be judged for the matter, he gave presents to two chief men of the court, and agreed with them, saying, “You will stand witness for me that in presence of you two I delivered the jewel to the man’s wife2.”

When, therefore, they were all before the King, the King spoke to the man named Dsük, saying, “Did you, or did you not, give the jewel to the man’s wife?” And he boldly made answer, “In presence of these two witnesses I delivered the jewel to her;” while the two great men of the court stood forward and deposed, they also, “Yea, O King! even in our presence he delivered over the jewel.”

As the King could not gainsay the word of the witnesses, he decided the case according to their testimony, and the man named Dsük was released and went away to his home rejoicing at having been so successful in his stratagem to deceive the King, and the two great men of the court and the jewel-merchant went down every one to his home.

It so happened, however, that their way home lay past the hill where the Boy-king sat enthroned. Now as they passed by, the four together, the Boy-king sent and called them into his presence, nor could they fail of compliance with his word.

When they had paid him their obeisance, bowing themselves many times before him, the Boy-king, rising in his majesty, thus spoke,—

“The decision of your King is hasty, and can never stand. I will judge your cause. Do you promise to abide by my decision?”

But the majesty of the Boy-king was upon him, and they could not choose but accept.

The Boy-king therefore set the four men apart in four several places, and to each one of them he gave a lump of clay, saying, “Fashion this lump of clay like to the form of the jewel which was sent.”

When they had all finished the task, it was found that the model of the man who sent the jewel and that of the man who was the bearer of it were alike; but the two great men of the court, who had never seen the jewel, were thrown into great embarrassment by this means, and their models were neither like those of the sender and bearer, nor were they like each other’s.

When the Boy-king saw this he thus pronounced judgment:—

“Because both these men saw and knew the jewel, they could make its image in clay; but it is manifest the two witnesses have never seen the jewel, but have made up their minds to deceive the King by false testimony. Such conduct is most unworthy of all in great men of the King’s court.”

Then he ordered the two false witnesses and the man named Dsük to be secured and taken to the King, all three confessing their crime; and he sent with them this declaration, written in due form of law:—

“According to the principles of earthly might and the sacred maxims of religion hast thou not decided. O Ardschi-Bordschi! thus should not an upright and noble ruler deal. Unless it is given thee to discern good from evil, truth from falsehood, it were better thou shouldst lay aside thy kingly dignity. But if thou desirest to remain king, then judge nothing without duly investigating the matter, even as I.”

With such a letter the Boy-king sent the prisoners to Ardschi-Bordschi.

When the King read the letter, he exclaimed, “What manner of boy is this who writes thus to the King? He must be a being highly endowed with wisdom. If it was the same boy who appeared every day so gifted, I should hold him to be a Bodhisattva, or indeed a very Buddha; but as on different days different boys attain to the same sagacity, the source must remain one and the same for all. Shall it not be that in the foundations of their hill or mound is some stupa3, where Buddhas or Bodhisattvas have propounded sacred teaching to men? Or shall it be that there lies hidden therein some jewel4, gifted to impart wisdom to mortals? In some such way, of a certainty, the spot is endowed with singular gifts.”

Thus he spoke, and concluded the affair of the jewel in accordance with the Boy-king’s judgment, delivering the two witnesses over to punishment, and condemning the man named Dsük to pay double the value of the jewel to the merchant whom he had defrauded.

The Pretended Son.

King Ardschi-Bordschi’s minister had one only son. This son went out to the wars, and returned home again after two years’ absence. Just while the minister was engaged with preparations for a festival of joy to celebrate the return of his son, there appeared before him suddenly another son in all respects exactly like his own. In form, colour, and gait there was no sort of difference to be discerned between them. Moreover, the horses they rode, their clothing, their quivers, their mode of speech, were so perfectly similar that none of the minister’s friends, nor the very mother of the young man, nor yet his wife herself, could take upon them to decide which of the two was his very son.

It was not very long before there was open feud in the house between the two; both youths declaring with equal energy and determination, “These are my parents, my wife, my children....” Finding the case quite beyond his own capacity to decide the minister brought the whole before the King. As the King found himself similarly embarrassed he sent and called all the relations; and to the mother he said, “Which of these two is your son?” and to the wife, “Which of these two is your husband?” and to the children, “Which of these two is your father?” But they all answered with one consent, “We are not in a condition to decide, for no man can tell which is which.”

Then King Ardschi-Bordschi thought within himself, “How shall I do to bring this matter to an end? It is clear not even the man’s nearest relations can tell which of these two is the right man; how then can I, who never saw either of them before? Yet if I let them go without deciding the matter, the Boy-king will send and tell me I am not gifted to discern the true from the false, and counsel me before all the people to lay aside my kingly dignity. Now then, therefore, let us prove the matter even as the Boy-king would have it proved. We will call the men hither before us, and will examine them concerning their family and ancestors; he that is really the man’s son will know the names of his generations, but he that merely pretendeth, shall he not be a stranger to these things?” So he sent and called the men before him again separately and inquired of them, saying, “Tell me now the names of thy father, and grandfather, and great-grandfather up to the earliest times, so shall I distinguish which of you is really this man’s son.” But the one of them who had come the last from the wars, was no man but a Schimnu1, who had taken the son’s form to deceive his parents, he by his demoniacal knowledge could answer all these things so that the very father was astonished to hear him, while the real son could go no farther back than to give the name of his grandfather.

When Ardschi-Bordschi therefore found how much the Schimnu exceeded the real son in knowledge of his family, he pronounced that he was the rightful son, and the wife and parents and friends and all the people praised the sagacity of the king in settling the matter.

Thus the Schimnu was taken home with joy in the midst of the gathering of the family, and the real son not knowing whither to betake himself, followed afar off, mourning as he went.

It so happened that their homeward way lay past the mound, where the Boy-king sat enthroned, who, hearing the feet of many people, and the voice of the minister’s son wailing behind, called them all unto him, nor could they fail of compliance with the word of the Boy-king in his majesty.

When they had paid him their obeisance, bowing themselves many times before him, the Boy-king, rising in his majesty, thus spoke:—

“The decision of your King is hasty, and can never stand. I will judge your cause. Do you promise to abide by my decision?”

Then they could not choose but accept; and he made them state their whole case before him, and explain how Ardschi-Bordschi had decided, which when he had heard, he said,—

“I will set you the proof of whether of you two is the rightful son; let there be brought me hither a water-jug.” And one of the boys who stood in waiting that day upon the Boy-king’s throne, ran and fetched a water-jug, holding in measure about a pint.

When he had brought it, the Boy-king ordered him to place it before the throne; then said he, “Let me see now whether of you two can enter into this water-jug; then shall we know which is the rightful son.”

Then the rightful son turned away sorrowful and mourned more than before, “For,” said he, “how should I ever find place for so much as my foot in this water-jug?”

But the Schimnu, by his demoniacal power easily transformed himself, and entered the jug.

The Boy-king, therefore, no sooner saw him enclosed in the water-jug, than he bound him fast within it by sealing the mouth with the diamond-seal, which he might not pass2, undismayed by the appalling howling with which the Schimnu rent the air, at finding himself thus taken captive.

Thus bound he sent him back to Ardschi-Bordschi, together with all the family concerned in the case, and with them this declaration written in due form of law:—

“According to the principles of earthly might, and the sacred maxims of religion hast thou not decided, O Ardschi-Bordschi! Thus should not an upright and noble ruler deal. The wife and children of thine own subject hast thou given over to the power of a wicked Schimnu; and sent the rightful and innocent away lamenting. Unless it is given thee to discern good from evil, truth from falsehood, it were better thou shouldst lay aside thy kingly dignity. But if thou desirest to remain king, then judge nothing without duly investigating the matter even as I.”

With such a letter the Boy-king sent the men back to Ardschi-Bordschi.

When the King read the letter, he exclaimed, “What manner of boy is this, who writes thus to the King? He must be a being highly endowed with wisdom. If it was the same boy who appeared every day so gifted, I should hold him to be a Bodhisattva or indeed a very Buddha; but as on different days different boys attain to the same sagacity, the source must remain one and the same for all. Shall it not be that on the foundations of this hill or mound is a stupa, where Buddhas or Bodhisattvas have propounded sacred teaching to men. Or shall it be that there lies hidden therein some treasure gifted to impart wisdom to mortals? In some way of a certainty the spot is endowed with singular gifts.”

Thus he spoke; and concluded the affair of the two sons in accordance with the Boy-king’s judgment, giving over the rightful one to his family, and delivering the Schimnu to be burned.

Ardschi-Bordschi discovers Vikramâditja’s Throne.

Ardschi-Bordschi could not rest, because of this matter of the Boy-king. “For,” said he, “if there is in my dominions a stupa where so great wisdom is to be acquired, is it not to the King that it should belong, that he may rule the people with sagacity? Let Us at least see this thing, and perhaps We may discover what is the source of the prodigy.”

Very early in the morning, therefore, he arose, and calling all his ministers, and counsellors, and all the great men of his court to him, he went forth to the mound, and there he found all even as it had been told him. There were the boys tending the calves; and when they had leisure to play, they all ran a race over the hill, and he who won the race was installed king on top of the mound, the other boys paying him homage, and making obeisance to him as to a real king.

Then the most mighty king, even Ardschi-Bordschi himself, propounded the question to the Boy-king, saying, “Tell us whence is it that thou, who art only a boy and a herd of the calves, hast this wisdom, surpassing the wisdom of the King. The wisdom by which it is given thee to discern between right and wrong, truth and falsehood, shall it not also tell thee what is the source of this prodigy?”

Then the Boy-king, rising in his majesty, made answer,—

“Let the King cause labourers to be fetched, and let them dig under this mound, from the time of the rising of the sun even until the setting thereof again; thus shall it be found whence ariseth the prodigy.”

With these words the Boy-king came down from the mound, and Ardschi-Bordschi caused labourers to be fetched, and they began digging at the mound as the sun rose above the mountains, and ceased not till the setting thereof again; but then they came upon a throne of gold, all dazzling with brightness, and by its light1 they went on working through the night, till the whole was delivered from its covering of earth. So great was its splendour when the morning sun rose upon it again, that all beholders were struck with awe, and the people prostrated themselves before it.

Ardschi-Bordschi was filled with surpassing joy when he saw it, for now he saw he had attained the desired seat of wisdom, by means of which he should rule his people aright2.

Heading a procession of all that was great and noble in his realm, he had the throne brought, amid many ceremonies, to his own residence. Then having called the wise men of the kingdom, and inquired of them a lucky day, he summoned a great gathering of all his subjects, to attend his mounting of this throne of prodigy, amid singing, and offering of incense, and sounding of trumpet-shells3.

The throne, which had been set up in his dwelling, meantime, was all of pure and shining gold. The foundation of it rested on four terrible lions of gold; and it was reached by sixteen steps of precious stones, on every one of which were two figures of cunning workmanship—the one a warrior, the other a Sûta4—sculptured in wood, standing to guard the approach thereof. No such beautiful work had ever before been seen in all the dominions of Ardschi-Bordschi.

When therefore the ministers and people were all arranged in order of rank, and a great silence had been proclaimed on the shell-trumpets, the King, habited in raiment of state, proceeded to mount the throne.

Ere he had set foot on the lowest step, however, the two figures of sculptured wood that stood upon it, abandoning their guardant attitude, suddenly came forward, and placed themselves before him, as in defiance—the warrior striking him in the breast, while the Sûta addressed him thus:—

“Surely, O Ardschi-Bordschi! it is not in earnest that thou art minded to ascend the steps of this sacred throne?” And all the thirty-two sculptured figures answered together,—

“Halt! O Ardschi-Bordschi!”

But the Sûta proceeded,—

“Knowest thou not, O Ardschi-Bordschi, that this throne in the days of old was the seat of the god Churmusta, and that after him it was given to none to set upon it, till Vikramâditja rose. Wherefore, O Ardschi-Bordschi, approach not to occupy it. Unless thou also art prepared to devote thy days, not to thine own pleasure, but to the service of the six classes of living beings5, renounce the attempt to set foot on it.” And all the thirty-two sculptured figures answered together,—

“Halt! O Ardschi-Bordschi!”

But the Sûta proceeded,—

“Art thou such a king as the great Vikramâditja? then come and sit upon his throne; but if not, then desist from the attempt.” And all the thirty-two sculptured figures answered together,—

“Halt! O Ardschi-Bordschi!”

When they cried the third time, “Halt! O Ardschi-Bordschi!” the King himself, and all who stood there with him, fell on their faces before the throne, and worshipped it.

Then spoke another Sûta,—

“Listen, O Ardschi-Bordschi, and all ye people give ear, and I will tell you out of the days of old what manner of king was the hero Vikramâditja.”

The Sûta tells Ardschi-Bordschi concerning Vikramâditja’s Birth.

Long ages ago there lived a King named Gandharva. To him was wedded Udsesskülengtu-Gôa-Chatun1, the all-charming daughter of the mighty king Galindari.

Gandharva was a noble King, and ruled the world with justice and piety. Nevertheless Gandharva had no heir, though he prayed continually to Buddha that he might have a son. And as he thus prayed and mourned continually, Udsesskülengtu-Gôa came to him one day, and said, “My lord, since thou art thus grieved at heart because no heir is given to us, take now unto thee another wife, even a wife from among thy people, and perhaps so shalt thou be blessed with succession to the throne.” And her words pleased the King, and he chose a wife of low degree, and married her, and in due time she bore him a son.

But when Udsesskülengtu-Gôa, the all-charming one, saw that the heart of the King was taken from her, and given to the wife of low degree, because she had borne him a son, while she was less favoured by heaven, she was grieved in spirit, and said within herself, “What shall I do now that the heart of my lord is taken from me? Was it not by my father’s aid that he attained the throne? And was it not even by my advice that he took this wife who has borne him a son? And yet his heart is taken from me.” Nevertheless she complained not to him, but mourned by herself apart.

Then one of her maidens, when she saw her thus mourning apart, came to her, and said, “Is there not living by the kaitja2, on the other side of the mountain, a lama, possessed of prodigious powers? Who shall say but that he might find a remedy for the grief of the Khan’s wife.” And Udsesskülengtu-Gôa listened to the maiden’s words, and leaving off from mourning, she rose, and called to her four of the maidens, and prepared her to make the journey to visit the holy man at the kaitja, on the other side the mountain, taking with her good provision of tea3 and other things needful for the journey.

Arrived at the kaitja, she made the usual obeisance, and would have opened her suit; but the hermit was at that moment sunk in his meditations, and paid her no heed until she had three times changed4 her place of kneeling. Then he said, “Exalted Queen! what grief or what necessity brings thee hither to this kaitja thus devoutly?” And when she had told him all her story, he replied,—

“Mayst thou be blessed with succession to the throne and with many children to gladden thee.” At the same time he gave her a handful of earth, bidding her boil it in oil—sesame oil5—in a porcelain vessel, and eat it all up.

The Queen returned home, and, believing in the promise of the hermit, she boiled the earth in sesame oil in a new porcelain vessel, when behold it was changed into barley porridge; but she neglected to eat up the whole of it. Some time after the maiden who had counselled the visit to the hermit, seeing that some of the porridge still remained in the porcelain vessel, she also ate of it, saying, “Who knows what blessing it may bring to me also?”

Many months had not passed when all manner of propitious tokens appeared upon the land. Showers of brilliant blossoms fell in place of rain from heaven, the melodious voice of the kalavinka6 made itself heard, and delicious perfumes filled the air. In the midst of this rejoicing of nature the Queen bore the King a son.

The gladness of the King knew no bounds that now he had an heir to the throne who was born of a princess and not of a wife of low degree, and he ordered public rejoicings throughout the whole kingdom. Further, in his joy he sent an expedition, with the younger wife at its head, and many great men of state, to go to the lama of the kaitja, on the other side of the mountain, and learn what should be the fate of the child.

When they came to him he was again sunk in his meditations; but when they had opened their matter to him, almost without looking up, he replied,—

“Tell the King your master that there be got ready for the child against he grow up fifteen thousand waggon-loads of salt, for that will be but small compared with what will be required for the use of his kitchen.”

With such a message the expedition returned to the King.

When Gandharva heard the prognostics of the hermit, he was struck with astonishment, and with indignation against the child, not understanding the intention of the words. Then he called together the people and announced the thing to them, adding these words, “Of a truth the child must be a hundredfold a schimnu; how could a man use fifteen thousand waggon-loads of salt for the seasoning of his food? It is not good for such an one to live. Let him be taken forth and slain!”

But his ministers interceded with him and said, “Nay, shall the son of the King and the heir to his royal throne be slain? Shall we not rather take him to some solitary place and leave him to his fate in a thick wood?”

And the King found their words good; so two of his ministers took the child a long way off to a solitary place, and left him exposed in a thick wood. But as they turned to go away, and one of them yet lingered, the child called after him, saying,—

“Wait a little space, sir minister; I have a word to say to you!”

And the minister stood still in great astonishment. But the child said, “Bear these words faithfully unto the King:—

“It is said that when the young of the peacock are first fledged their feathers are all of one blue colour, but afterwards, as they increase in proportions, their plumage assumes the splendid hues admired by men. Even so when a King’s son is born. For a while he remains under the tutelage of his parents; but if, when he has come to man’s estate, he would be a great king, worthy to be called king of the four parts of the universe7, it will behove him to call together the princes of the four parts of the universe to a great assemblage and prepare for them a sacred festival8, at which such may be their number who may come together to honour it, that fifteen thousand waggon-loads of salt may even fall short of what is required!

“So the parrots, when they first break through their egg-shell, appear very much like any other birds, but when they are full grown they learn the speech of man and grow in sagacity and wisdom9. Even so when a King’s son is born. For a while he remains under the tutelage of his parents; but when he comes to man’s estate, if he would be a mighty king, worthy of being called king of the four parts of the universe, it will behove him to call together all kings and devas and princes of the earth, with all the countless Bodhisattvas, and all the priests of religion, and prepare for them a great religious banquet. At such a banquet it is well if fifteen thousand waggon-loads of salt suffice for the seasoning. This for your King.”

The minister took the message of the child word for word to the Gandharva, who when he heard it clasped his hands in agony and rose up, saying,—

“What is this that I have done! Of a certainty the child was a Bodhisattva10. But it is the truth that what I did to him I did in ignorance. Run now swiftly and fetch me back my son.” The minister therefore set out on his way without stopping to take breath; but what haste soever he made the King’s eagerness was greater, and at the head of a great body of the people Gandharva himself took his way in all speed to the place in the thick grove where they had laid the child. And since he did not find him at the first, he broke out into loud lamentations, saying,—

“0 thou, mine own Bodhisattva! who so young yet speakest words of wisdom, even young as thou art exercise also mercy and forgiveness. O how was I mistaken in thee! Set it not down to me that I knew thee not!”

While he wandered about searching and thus lamenting, the cry of a child made itself heard from the depths of a grotto there was in the grove, which when the King had entered he found eight princes of the serpent-gods11 busy tending the child. Some had woven for him a covering of lotus-blossoms; others were dropping honey into his mouth; others were on their knees, bowing their foreheads to the ground before him. Thus he saw them engaged, only when he entered the cave they all at once disappeared without leaving a trace behind12.

Then the King laid the child on a litter borne by eight principal men, and amid continual lamenting of his fault, saying, “O my son, Bodhisattva, be merciful; I indeed am thy father,” he brought him to his dwelling, where he proclaimed him before all the people the most high and mighty Prince Vikramâditja.

When the Sûta had concluded this narrative, he turned to Ardschi-Bordschi and said,—

“Thus was Vikramâditja wise in his earliest youth; thus even in infancy he earned the homage of his own father; thus was he innately great and lofty and full of majesty. If thou, O Ardschi-Bordschi! art thus nobly born, thus indwelt with power and might, then come and mount this throne; but, if otherwise, then on thy peril desist from the attempt.”

Then Ardschi-Bordschi once more approached to ascend the throne; but as he did so two other of the sculptured figures, relinquishing their guardant attitude, stood forward to bar the way, the warrior-figure striking him on the breast, and the Sûta thus addressing him,—

“Halt! O Ardschi-Bordschi! as yet hast thou but heard the manner of the wonderful birth of Vikramâditja; as yet knowest thou not what was the manner of his youth.”

And all the thirty-two sculptured figures answered and said,—

“Halt! O Ardschi-Bordschi!”

But the Sûta continued, saying, “Hearken, O Ardschi-Bordschi! and ye, O people, give ear, and I will tell you out of the days of old concerning the youth of Vikramâditja.

The Sûta tells Ardschi-Bordschi concerning Vikramâditja’s Youth.

Gandharva, the hero’s father, was himself also a mighty man of valour, and a prince devoting himself to the well-being of his people. He not only carried on wars against the enemies of his country, but exerted himself to the utmost to deliver his subjects from the onslaught of the wicked Schimnus.

One day, therefore, he went forth alone to do battle with a prince of the Schimnus; and in order that he might be in a condition the better adapted to match him, he left his body behind him, under shadow of an image of Buddha. His younger wife, even the wife of low degree, happening by chance to see him leaving the temple without his body, was so delighted with the wonderfully beauteous appearance he thus presented that she went to Udsessküleng-Gôa-Chatun, saying, “Our master, so long as he went in and out among us, always was clothed in human form like other men; but to-day, when he started on his expedition against the Schimnus, he wore such a brilliant and beautiful appearance that it would be a joy if he looked the same when he is with us.” But Udsessküleng-Chatun replied, “Because you are young you understand not these things. It is only to preserve his body from the fine piercing swords of the Schimnus that he left it behind him.”

The younger wife, however, was not satisfied with the explanation, and said within herself, “If I go and burn the body which the King has left behind him, then must he wear his beautiful spirit-appearance when he comes back to us.”

She called together, therefore, all the other maidens, and having kindled a great fire of sandal-wood, went back to the temple, and fetched Gandharva’s body from beneath the image of Buddha, and burned it.

While this was going on the King appeared in his radiant form in the heavens, and spoke thus to Udsessküleng-Gôa-Chatun, saying,—

“From my beloved subjects, for whom I have laboured so untiringly, and from my dear wives and children and friends, and from my body which has served me so faithfully that I cannot but love it also—I am called to part. As my body is burnt, I cannot more visit the earth. My only concern, however, is this, that I know within seven days the host of the Schimnus will come down upon you, and I shall not be there to defend you. Take, therefore, this counsel, giving which is all I can do for you more, for I go to Nirvâna1. Get you up then, and escape with the young prince, even with the Bodhisattva Vikramâditja, within these seven days, so that the Schimnus’ host coming may not find you.”

After these words they saw him no more, for he entered then upon Nirvâna.

The officers and ministers and household and subjects gave themselves to distressful grief when they knew that they should see their good master Gandharva no more, but Udsessküleng-Chatun said, “If I give myself over thus to grief it will not bring back my lord the Khan; it were better that I stir myself to fulfil his all-wise counsel, and bear his son to a place of safety.” Having thus spoken, she called all her maidens together and the child, and went to seek safety from the Schimnus in her own country. As they journeyed, the young maiden who had given her the counsel to visit the hermit of the kaitja, and who had eaten what was left of the porridge made of earth boiled in sesame oil in the porcelain vessel, she also had a child, and when the Khanin was astonished at the thing, the maid confessed that she had eaten of the porridge which the hermit gave her that was left behind in the porcelain vessel, and the Khanin remembered that she had neglected to fulfil the counsel of the hermit, saying to her, “Eat it all up.”

The other maidens now objected to the burden of having another infant to take care of on a perilous journey, and would have put it to death. But the Khanin said, “Nay, but shall a child that came of the hermit’s blessing be slain?” And when she found she could not prevail with them to take it she bid them not slay it, but leave it in shelter of a cave which there was by the way.

Then they journeyed farther amid many dangers and privations till they came to the capital of the mighty King Kütschün-Tschidaktschi2 in the outskirts of which they encamped. All the people gathered, however, on the other side of the way, struck with admiration by the wondrous beauty of Udsessküleng-Chatun, all inquiring whence she could be, and flocking to gain a sight of her3.

The Khan, seeing this gathering of people from the terrace of his palace, sent to inquire what it was, and a man of the train of the Khanin sent answer, “It is the wife of a mighty King who is escaping from the fear of the Schimnus, her lord having entered Nirvâna.” The King, therefore, went down, and spoke with the Khanin, and having learnt from her that such was really the case, the younger wife having burnt his body, and he having appeared in the sky to bid her escape with their son from before the fury of the Schimnus, ordered his ministers to appoint her a dwelling for her and her son, and her train of followers, and to provide them richly with all things befitting their rank.

All this the ministers did, and the Khanin and her son were hospitably entertained.

Thus Vikramâditja was brought up in a strange land, but was exercised in all kinds of arts; and increased in strength, well-favoured in mind and body. He learned wisdom of the wise, and the use of arms from men of valour; from the soothsayer learned he cunning arts, and trading from sagacious traders; from robber bands learned he the art of robbery, and from fraudulent dealers to lie.

It happened that while they were yet dwelling in this place, a caravan of five hundred merchants came by, and encamped on the banks of a stream near at hand.

As these men had journeyed along they had found a boy at play in a wolf’s den.

“How can a child live thus in a wolf’s den?” said one of the merchants; and with that they set themselves to lure the child to them.

“How canst thou, a child of men, live thus in common with a wolf’s cubs?” inquired they. “It were better thou camest with us.”

But the child answered, “I am in truth a wolf-child, and had rather remain with my wolf-parents.”

But Galbischa, the chief of the merchants, said, “It must not be. A child of men must be brought up with men, and not with wolves.” So the merchants took the boy with them, and gave him the name of Schalû4.

Thus it came to pass that the child was with them, when they encamped the night after they had taken him, in the neighbourhood of the city where Vikramâditja and his mother lived. In the night the wolves came near, and began to howl5. Therefore, the merchants asked Schalû in sport, “What are the wolves saying?”

But Schalû answered in all seriousness, “These wolves that you hear are my parents; and they are saying to me, ‘Years ago a party of women passed by this way, and left thee with us as soon as thou wert born; and we have nurtured thee, and made thee strong and brave; and thou, without regard to our affection to thee, hast gone away with strangers. Nevertheless, because we love thee, we will give thee yet this piece of advice. To-night, there will be heavy torrents of rain, and the river by which your caravan is encamped, will overflow its banks. While the merchants, therefore, are engaged in hurry and confusion seeking shelter, then break thou away from them, darling, and come back to us. This further warning give we thee, that in the neighbourhood prowls a robber.’”

Now it was so that Prince Vikramâditja, having seen the encampment of the merchants, was lurking in the thicket, to exercise his prowess in robbing them. Thus when he overheard how Schalû expounded all that the wolves said, he thought within himself, “This is no ordinary youth. That torrents of rain are about to fall might be a guess, even though the sky presents no indication of a coming storm; but how could he guess that I was prowling about to rob the caravan? this, at least, shows he has command of some sort of supernatural knowledge.” Determining therefore to discover some means of possessing himself of the boy, he went away for that night, because the merchants having been warned by the wolves of his designs, they would be on the watch to take him had he attempted an attack.

The merchants, meantime, believing the words of the wolves expounded to them by Schalû, removed their encampment to a high hill, out of the way of chances of damage by inundation. When night had fallen thick around, the rain began to fall in heavy torrents, and the river overflowed its banks, making particular havock of the very spot on which their tent had been pitched. When the merchants in the morning saw this part of the plain all under water, and the floods pouring over it, they said one to another, “Without Schalû’s aid we had certainly all been washed away6,” and out of gratitude they loaded him with rich presents.

At the end of the next day’s journey they selected the dry bank of a small tributary of the river for their camping-place. Prince Vikramâditja, who, in pursuance of his determination of overnight, had watched their movements from afar, drew near, under cover of the shades of evening, and set himself once more to overhear what Schalû might have to say. By-and-by two wolves approached, and began howling. Then the merchants asked Schalû, saying, “What do the wolves say?” And Schalû answered, “These are the wolves who have been to me from my birth up in the place of parents, and they say, ‘Behold, we have watched over thee ever since thou wast born, and made thee brave and strong, nevertheless, unmindful of our aid, thou hast forsaken us, and betaken thyself to men, who are our enemies. This is the last time that we can come after thee7; but of our affection we give thee this counsel: sleep not this night, for there is a robber again lurking about the camp. Early in the morning also, if thou goest out to the banks of the stream, thou shalt find a dead body brought down by the waters; fish it out, and cut it open, for in the right thigh is enclosed the jewel Tschin-tâmani8, and whoso is in possession of this talisman, has only to desire it, and he will become a mighty King, ruler of the four parts of the earth.’”

When Vikramâditja had heard these words, he gave up his marauding intention for that night also, his victims having been set upon their guard. But he was satisfied with the prospect of having the talisman for his booty. Going higher up the stream, therefore, he fished out the dead body as it floated down before it came to the merchants’ encampment, opened the thigh, and took out the jewel, and then committed it to the waters again, so that when the merchants and Schalû took it, they found the treasure was gone. But he thought within himself the while, “This Schalû is no common boy; some pretext I must find to possess myself of him before the caravan leaves the neighbourhood.”

The next morning, therefore, before they struck their tents, he came to them in the disguise of a travelling merchant, he also bringing with him stuffs and other objects of barter, on which he had set a private mark. While pretending to trade, he contrived to pick a quarrel, as also to leave some of his wares unperceived hidden in one of the tents. Then he went to King Kütschün-Tschidaktschi, and laid this complaint before him:—

“Behold, O King, I was engaged in trading with a company of five hundred merchants who are encamped outside this city, but a dispute arising, they fell upon me, and used me contumeliously, and drove me forth from among them, and, what is worst of all, they have retained among them the half of my stuffs.”

In answer to this complaint, the King sent two officers of the court, and an escort of two hundred fighting-men, with instructions to investigate the matter, and if they found that the five hundred merchants had really stolen the stuffs, to put them all to the edge of the sword; but if they found this was not the case, then to bring Vikramâditja to him for judgment.

Then Vikramâditja once more prostrated himself before the King, and said, “Upon all my things have I set a mark (so and so), whereby they may be recognized, so that clearly may it be established whether they have my stuffs in possession or not.”

When the King’s envoys came to the encampment of the five hundred merchants, they arraigned them, saying—

“Young Vikramâditja lays this complaint against ye before the King, namely, that you have used him shamefully, driving him away from you contumeliously, and laying violent hands on his stuffs, wherewith he sought to trade with you. Know therefore that the command of our all-powerful King is, that if the stuffs of Vikramâditja are found in your tents, you be all put to the edge of the sword.” And the merchants answered cheerfully, “Come in and search our tents, for we have no man’s goods with us, saving only our own.”

Then the King’s envoys searched through all the tents, no man hindering them, so persuaded were the good merchants that none of their company had defrauded any man. As they searched, behold, they found hidden in one of the tents, where Vikramâditja had concealed them, the stuffs bearing his marks, so and so, even as he had testified before the King.

When the merchants saw this they cried, saying, “Surely some evil demon hath done this thing, for in our company is none who ever took any man’s goods;” and they all began to weep with one accord.

The King’s envoys, however, said, “Weeping will bring you no help; we must do according to the words of our all-powerful king.” And they called on the two hundred fighting-men to put the whole company of merchants to the edge of the sword.

When the commotion was at the highest—the merchants entreating mercy and protesting their innocence, and the envoys declaring the urgency of the King’s decree, and the fighting-men sharpening their swords—there stood forward young Vikramâditja, and spoke, saying, “Nay, let not so many men be put to death. Leave them their lives if they give me in exchange the boy Schalû, whom they have in their company.”

Then the merchants said to Schalû, “Already hast thou once saved our lives; go now with this man, and save them for us even this second time.”

And Schalû made answer, “To have saved the lives of five hundred men twice over, shall it not bring me good fortune?” So he went with Vikramâditja, and the merchants loaded him with rich merchandize out of gratitude, for his reward.

When Vikramâditja came home, bringing the boy with him, his mother inquired of him, saying, “Vikramâditja, beloved son, where hast thou been, and whence hast thou the child which thou hast brought?”

And Vikramâditja answered, “Beloved mother, when thou wast on thy way hither fleeing from before the face of the Schimnus, did not one of thy maidens leave a new-born infant in a wolves’ den?”

And his mother answered, “Even so did one of my maidens, and the child would now be about this age.” So they took Schalû to them, and he was unto Udsessküleng-Chatun as a son, but unto Vikramâditja as a brother; and he went with him whithersoever he went.

One day Vikramâditja came to his mother, and said to her, “Beloved mother! Live on here in tranquillity, while I, in company with Schalû, will go to the capital where my father, the immortal Gandharva, reigned, and see what is the fate of our people, and how I may recover the inheritance.”

But Udsessküleng-Chatun made answer, “Vikramâditja, beloved son! Is not the way long, and beset with evil men, who are so many and so bold? How then wilt thou ever arrive, or escape their wiles?”

Vikramâditja said to her, “How great soever the distance may be, by hard walking I will set it behind me; and how many soever the enemy may be, I shall overcome them, defying the violent with strength, and the crafty with craftiness.”

Thus he and Schalû set out to go to the immortal Gandharva’s capital. Inquiring by the way what fate had befallen the kingdom, he found that Gandharva had no sooner entered Nirvâna, than his neighbour King Galischa, had made the design to obtain possession of his throne; but that the Schimnus’ host had been beforehand with him, and had already commenced to take possession. They made a compact, however, by which the government was left to King Galischa, on condition of his sending to the Schimnus in Gandharva’s palace, a tribute of a hundred men daily with a nobleman at their head.

Then Vikramâditja was grieved when he learned that it was thus the usurping prince dealt with his subjects, and he proceeded farther on his way. When he had come nigh the capital, he heard sounds of wailing, proceeding from a hut on the outskirts; going in to discover the cause, Vikramâditja found lying, with her face upon the floor, a woman all disconsolate, and weeping piteously.

“Mother! What is thy grief wherewith thou art so terribly oppressed?” inquired Vikramâditja of her.

“Ah!” replied the woman, “there is no cure for my grief. This King Galischa, who has seized the kingdom of the immortal Gandharva, has entered into a compact with the Schimnus to pay them a tribute of a hundred men every day with a nobleman at their head. I had two sons, one of them is gone I know not whither, and now to-day they have come and taken the other to send in the tribute to the Schimnus, nor can I by any means resist the will of the King. That is why I wail, and that is why I am inconsolable.” And she went on with her loud lament9.

But Vikramâditja bid her arise and be of good cheer, saying, “I will bring back thy son to thee alive this day, for I will go forth to the Schimnus in his stead.”

Then the woman said, “Nay, neither must this be. Thou art brave with the valour of youth, even as a young horse snorting to get him away to the battle. But when thou art devoured by the Schimnus, then shall thy mother grieve even as I; and belike she is young and has many years before her, whereas my life is well-nigh spent, and what matter if I go down to the grave in sorrow? Who am I that I should bring grief to the mother of thee, noble youth!”

But Vikramâditja said, “Leave that to me, and if I send not back to thee thine own son as I have promised, then will I send back to thee this youth, Schalû, who is my younger brother, and he shall be thy son.”

When he drew near the dwelling of King Galischa, the King was just marshalling one hundred subjects, with a nobleman at their head, who were to be sent that day to the Schimnus in tribute in Gandharva’s palace. But the King, espying him, inquired who and whence he was.

Then Vikramâditja answered him, “I am Vikramâditja, son of Gandharva. When he died, my mother carried me, being an infant of days, far away for fear of the Schimnus. But now that I have grown to man’s estate, I am come together with my younger brother to see after the state of my father’s kingdom.”

Galischa then said, “It is well for thee that Heaven preserved thee from coming before, otherwise thou mightest have had all the travail which has fallen upon me; nevertheless, as I came first, I am in possession. But I have every day in sorrow and agony to send a tribute of one hundred subjects, with a nobleman at their head, to be devoured by the Schimnus.”

“This have I learnt,” replied Vikramâditja, “and it is even on that account that I am here. For have I not seen the grief of a mother mourning over her son, and it is to take his place, and to go in his stead, that I came hither to thee.”

And Galischa said, “How canst thou, youth that thou art, defy all the might of the Schimnus, doubt not now but that they will devour thee before thou art aware.”

“Then,” replied the magnanimous prince, “if I do not prevail against the Schimnus, this I shall gain, that because I have given my life for another, I shall in my next birth rise to a higher place10 than at present.”

“If that is thy mind,” replied the King, “then do even as thou hast said.”

So Vikramâditja went out with the tribute of blood, and sent back the youth whom he had come to replace, to his mother.

When the King saw him go forth with firm step, and as it were dancing with joy over his undertaking, he said, “There is one case in which he might turn out to be our deliverer; but if that case does not befall, then will he but have come to swell the number of victims of the Schimnus. Let us, however, all wait here together through the day, to see what may befall.”

Vikramâditja and his companions meantime arrived at Gandharva’s palace; and Vikramâditja, as if he had known the place all his life, went straight up to the throne-room, where was the great and dazzling Sinhâsana11. Ascending it, therefore, he sat himself in it, and, while his tears flowed down, he cried, “Oh for the days of my father, the immortal Gandharva; for he reigned gloriously! But since he hath entered Nirvâna we have had nothing but weariness. What would my father have said had he seen his subjects made by hundreds at a time food for the Schimnus? Schimnus, beware! lest I destroy your whole race from off the face of the earth.”

Thus spoke Vikramâditja, till, inspired by his royal courage, he had sent all the hundred victims of this tribute back to their homes, defying the anger of the Schimnus. But to the King he sent word, “The Schimnus of whom thou standest in mortal dread will I curb and tame. Meantime, let there be four hundred vessels of brandy prepared.” And the King did as he said, and sent and put out four hundred vessels filled with strong brandy in the way.

When, therefore, the Schimnus came that they might devour their victims as usual, they first came upon the four hundred vessels of brandy, and seeing them, they set upon them greedily, and drank up their contents. Overcome by the strong spirit, they lay about on the ground half-senseless, and Vikramâditja came upon them and slew them, and hewed them in pieces.

He had hardly despatched the last of them when their Schimnu-king, informed of what had been done, came down in wrath and fury, flourishing his drawn sword. But Vikramâditja said to him, “Halt! King of the Schimnus; taste first of my brandy, and if it overcome thee, then shalt thou be my slave; but if not, then will I serve thee. Then the King of the Schimnus drank up all the brandy, and, overpowered by the strong spirit, fell down senseless on the earth.

As he was about to slay him like the others, Vikramâditja thought within himself, “After all, it will bring greater fame to overcome him in fair fight than to slay him by stratagem.” So he sat down and waited till he came to himself; then he defied him to combat; and when he stood up to fight, he raised his sword and cut him in two.

Then see! of the two halves there arose two men; and when he cut each of these in two, there were four men; and when he cut these in two, there were eight men, who all rushed upon him. Then the Prince transformed himself into eight lions, which roared terribly, and tore the eight men in pieces, and destroyed them utterly.

While this terrible combat was going on, there were frightful convulsions of nature12: mountains fell in, and in the place where they had stood were level plains; and plains were raised up, and appeared as mountains, water gushed out of them and overran the land, and all the subjects of Gandharva fell senseless on the earth. But when Vikramâditja had made an end of the Schimnus, and resumed his own form again, he made a great offering of incense, and the earth resumed her stability; the people were called back to life, and all was gladness and thanksgiving. All the people, and King Galischa at their head, acknowledged Vikramâditja as their lawful sovereign, and he ascended the throne of his father Gandharva. Then he sent for the Queen-mother, and made the joy of all his people.

When the Sûta had made an end of the narrative of Vikramâditja’s youth, he addressed himself to Ardschi-Bordschi, saying,—

“If thou canst boast of being such a King as Vikramâditja, then come and ascend this throne; but if not, then beware, at thy peril, that thou approach it not.”

Ardschi-Bordschi then drew near once more to ascend the throne, but two other of the sculptured figures, forsaking their guardant attitude, came forward and warned him back.

Then another Sûta addressed him, saying, “Halt! O Ardschi-Bordschi! As yet thou hast only heard concerning the birth and the youth of Vikramâditja; now hearken, and I will tell thee some of his mighty deeds.”

And all the sculptured figures answered together,—

“Halt! O Ardschi-Bordschi!”

The Sûta tells Ardschi-Bordschi concerning Vikramâditja’s Deeds.

Vikramâditja acquires another Kingdom.

While Vikramâditja continued to rule over his subjects in justice, and to make them prosperous and happy, another mighty king entered Nirvâna. As he left no son, and as there was no one of his family left, nor any one with any title to be his heir, a youth of the people was elected to fill the throne. The same night that he had been installed on the throne, however, he came to die. The next day another youth was elected, and he also died the same night. And so it was the next night, and the next, and yet no one could divine of what malady all these kings died.

At last the thing reached the ears of Vikramâditja.

Then Vikramâditja arose, and Schalû with him, and disguising themselves as two beggars, they took the way to the capital of this sorely-tried kingdom, to bring it deliverance.

When they came near the entrance of the city, they turned in to rest at a small house by the wayside. Within they found an aged couple, who were preparing splendid raiment for a handsome youth, who was their son; but they cried the while with bitter tears. Then said Vikramâditja,—

“Why do you mourn so bitterly, good people?”

“Our King is dead,” replied they, “and as he has left no succession, one of the people was chosen by lot to fill the office of King, but he died the same night; and when another was similarly chosen, he likewise died. Thus it happens every night. Now, to-day the lot has fallen on our son; he will therefore of a certainty die to-night: therefore do we mourn.”

Then answered Vikramâditja, “To me and my companion, who are but two miserable beggars, it matters little whether we live or die. Keep your son with you, therefore, and we two will ascend the throne this morning in his place and die to-night in his stead.”

But the parents replied, “It is not for us to decide the thing. Behold, the matter stands in the hands of three prudent and experienced ministers, but we will go and bring the proposal before them.”

The parents went, therefore, and laid the proposal of the beggars before the three prudent and experienced ministers, who answered them, saying, “If these men are willing to die after reigning but twenty-four hours why should we say them nay? Let them be brought hither to us.”

Then the beggars were brought in, and the ministers installed them on the throne, saying to the people, “Hitherto we have been accustomed to meet together early in the morning to bury our King. But this time, as we shall have two kings to bury instead of one, see that you come together right early.”

Vikramâditja meantime set himself to examine all the affairs of the kingdom, that he might discover to what was to be ascribed the death of the King every night. And when he had well inquired into every matter, he found that it had formerly been the custom of the King to make every night a secret offering1 to the devas, and to the genii of earth and water, and to the eight kinds of spirits, but that the succeeding kings had neglected the sacrifice, and therefore the spirits had slain them. Then the most high and magnanimous king Vikramâditja appointed out of the royal treasury what was necessary to pay for the accustomed offering; then he called upon the spirits and offered the sacrifice. The spirits, delighted to see their honour return, made the king a present of a handsome Mongolian tent and went up again.

The people, too, who had come together early in the morning, with much wood to make the funeral obsequies of the Kings, were filled with delight to find the spell broken, and in return they gave him the jewel Dsching, filling the air with their cries of gladness and gratitude, calling him the King decreed by fate to rule over them. Thus Vikramâditja became their King.

Vikramâditja makes the Silent speak.

While now Vikramâditja reigned over all his people in justice and equity complaint was brought before him against one of his ministers, that he oppressed the people and dealt fraudulently with them; and Vikramâditja, having tried his cause, judged him worthy of death. But when he was brought before him to receive sentence he pleaded for life so earnestly that the magnanimous King answered him, “Why should the life of the most abject be taken? Let him but be driven forth from the habitation of men.”

So they drove him forth from the habitation of men. Now it had been the minister’s custom, in pursuance of a vow, to observe three fast-days every month1. And so it happened, that one day after they had driven him forth from the habitations of men, on the day succeeding one of his fasts, he found himself quite without any thing to eat; nor could he discover any fruit or any herb which could serve as a means of subsistence. Recollecting, then, that one day he had made four little offering-tapers out of wax and bread crumbs, he went and searched out the shrine where he had offered them, that he might take them to eat. But see! when he stretched forth his hand to take one of them it glided away from before him and hid itself behind another of the offering-tapers; and when he would have taken that one, they both hid themselves behind the third. And when he stretched forth his hand to have taken the third, the three together, in like manner, glided behind the fourth. And when he stretched forth his hand to have taken the four together, they all glided away together from off the altar and out of the shrine altogether, and so swiftly that it was as much as he could do to follow after them and keep them in sight. Going on steadily behind them he came at last to a cave of a rock, and brushwood growing over it. Herein they disappeared. Then when he would have crept in after them into the cave of the rock, two he-goats, standing over the portal of the cave, sculptured in stone, spoke to him, saying, “Beware, and enter not! for this is a place of bad omen. Within this cave sits the beauteous Dâkinî2 Tegrijin Nâran3 sunk in deep contemplation and speaketh never. Whoso can make her open her lips twice to speak to man, to him is the joy given to bear her home for his own. But let it not occur to thee to make the bold attempt of inducing her to open her lips to speak, for already five hundred sons of kings have tried and failed; and behold they all languish in interminable prison at the feet of the Silent Haughty One, sunk in deep contemplation.”

And as they spoke they bent low their heads, and pointed their horns at him, to forbid him the entrance.

The minister, however, had no mind to try the issue, but rather seized with a great panic he turned him and fled without so much as heeding whither his steps led him. Thus running he chanced to come with his head at full butt against the magnanimous King Vikramâditja, just then taking his walk abroad.

“How now, evil man?” exclaimed the magnanimous King. “Whence comest thou, fleeing as from an evil conscience?”

Then the minister prostrated himself before him, and told him all he had learnt from the two he-goats sculptured in stone, concerning Naran-Dâkinî.

When Vikramâditja had heard the story, he commanded that the evil minister should be guarded, to see whether the event proved that he had spoken the truth; but, taking with him Schalû and three far-sighted and experienced ministers, he went on till he came to the cave and saw the two he-goats sculptured in stone standing over the portal. The he-goats would have made the same discourse to him as to the evil minister, but he commanded them silence. Then he transformed Schalû into an aramâlâ4 in his hand, but the three ministers into the altar that stood before the Dâkinî, and the lamp that burned thereon, and the granite vessel for burning incense placed at the foot of the same5; laying this charge upon them: “I will come in,” said he, “as though a wayfarer who knew you not, and sitting down I will tell a saga of olden time. Then all of you four give an interpretation of my saga quite perverse from the real meaning, and if the Dâkinî be prudent and full of understanding she will open her lips to speak to vindicate the right meaning of the story.”

Presently, therefore, after he had completed the transformation of Schalû and the three far-seeing and experienced ministers, and having himself assumed the appearance of a king on his travels, he entered the cave and sat down over against the altar which stood before the Dâkinî Naran, the Silent Haughty One, sunk in deep contemplation. Then said he, “In that it was told me in this place dwells the all-fair Tegrijin Naran-Dâkinî, I, who am King of Gambudvîpa, am come hither to visit her;” and as he spoke he looked furtively up towards the Dâkinî, to see whether he had moved her to open her lips to speak.

But the all-beauteous Naran-Dâkinî, the Silent Haughty One, sat still and gave forth no sign.

Then spoke the King again, saying, “On occasion of this my coming, O Naran-Dâkinî, tell thou me one of the sagas of old; or else, if thou prefer to hold thy peace, then will I tell one to thee!”

Again he looked up, but Naran-Dâkinî Tegrijin, the Silent Haughty One, sat sunk in deep contemplation and gave forth no sign.

As the King paused, one of the far-seeing and experienced ministers, even the one whom he had transformed into the altar that stood before the Dâkinî, spoke, saying,—

“While from the lips of the all-beauteous Naran-Chatun6 no word of answer proceeds, how should it beseem me, the Altar, a non-souled object, to speak. Nevertheless, seeing that so great and magnanimous a King has come hither and has propounded a question, I will yet dare, even I, to answer him. For, seeing that Naran-Chatun is so immersed in her own contemplations, she cannot give ear to the words of the King, I who, standing all the day before her in silence, and hearing no word of wisdom in any of the sagas of old, even I would fain be instructed by the words of the King.”

And as the altar thus spoke, Naran Tegrijin Dâkinî cast a glance of scorn upon it, but the Silent Haughty One opened never her lips to speak.

Then the King took up his parable and poured forth one of the sagas of old after this manner, saying,—

Who invented Woman?7

“Long ages ago there went forth daily into one place four youths out of four tribes, to mind their flocks, one youth out of each tribe, and when their flocks left them leisure they amused themselves with pastimes together. Now it came to pass that one day one of them rising earlier than the rest, and finding himself at the place all alone, said within himself,—

“‘How is the time weary, being here all alone!’

“And he took wood and sculptured it with loving care until he had fashioned a form like to his own, and yet not alike. And when he saw how brave a form he had fashioned, he cared no more to sport with the other shepherd youths, but went his way.

“The next morning the second of the youths rose earlier than the rest, and, coming to the place all alone, said within himself,—

“‘How is the time weary, being here all alone!’

“And he cast about him for some pastime, and thus he found the form which the first youth had fashioned, and, finding it exceeding brave, he painted it over with the five colours, and when he saw how fair a form he had painted he cared no more to sport with the other shepherd youths, but went his way.

“The next morning the third of the youths rose earlier than the rest, and, coming to the place all alone, said within himself,—

“‘How is the time weary, being here all alone!’

“And he cast about him for some pastime, and thus he discovered the form which the first youth had fashioned and the second youth had painted, and he said,—

“‘This figure is beautiful in form and colour, but it has no wit or understanding’ So he infused into it wit and understanding.

“And when he saw how clever was the form he had endowed with wit and understanding, he cared no more to sport with the shepherd youths, and he went his way.

“The fourth morning the fourth of the youths rose up the earliest, and, finding himself all alone at the trysting-place, said within himself,—

“‘How is the time weary, being here all alone!’

“And, casting about to find some pastime, he discovered the form which the first youth had fashioned so brave, and the second youth had painted so fair, and the third youth had made so clever in wit and understanding, and he said,—

“‘Behold the figure is beautiful in form and fair to behold in colour, and admirable for wit and understanding, but what skills all this when it hath not life?’ And he put his lips to the lips of the figure and breathed softly into them, and behold it had a soul8 that could be loved, and was woman.

“And when he saw her he loved her, and he cared no more to sport with the shepherd youths, but left all for her, that he might be with her and love her.

“But when the other shepherd youths saw that the figure had acquired a soul that could be loved, and was woman, they came back all the three and demanded possession of her by right of invention.

“The first youth said, ‘She is mine by right of invention, because I fashioned her out of a block of wood that had had no form but for me.’

“The second said, ‘She is mine by right of invention, because I painted her, and she had worn no tints fair to behold but for me.’

“The third said, ‘She is mine by right of invention, because I gave her wit and understanding, and she had had no capacity for companionship but for me.’

“But the fourth said, ‘She is mine by right of invention, because I breathed into her a soul that could be loved, nor was there any enjoyment in her but for me.’

“And while they all joyed in the thought of possessing her, they continued to strive on that they might see which should prevail. And when they found that none prevailed against the rest, they brought the matter before the King for him to decide.

“Say now therefore, O Naran-Dâkinî, I charge thee, in favour of which of these four was the King bound to decide that he had invented woman?”

And as the King left off from speaking he looked towards Naran-Dâkinî as challenging her to answer.

But Naran-Dâkinî, the Silent Haughty One, sat immersed in deep contemplation and held her peace, speaking never a word.

Then when the far-sighted and experienced ministers saw that she held her peace, one of them, even the one whom Vikramâditja had transformed into the lamp before the altar, spoke, saying,—

“It were meet indeed that an unsouled object such as I, the Lamp, should not venture to speak in presence of our mistress, Naran-Chatun. But as so great a King has come to visit us, and has propounded to us a question to which Naran-Chatun does not see fit to reply, even I, the Lamp, will attempt to answer him. To me, then, it seems that the answer is clear, for by whom could the figure be said to be invented saving by the youth who first fashioned it? He who gave a mere block of wood a beautiful form must be allowed to have invented it.”

Naran-Dâkinî cast a glance of disgust and scorn upon the lamp, yet spoke she never a word.

Then spoke the far-seeing and experienced minister whom Vikramâditja had transformed into the thurible at the foot of the altar, saying,—

“It were meet indeed that an unsouled object such as I, the Incense-burner, should not venture to speak in presence of our mistress, Naran-Chatun. But as so great a King has come to visit us, and has propounded a question to us to which Naran-Chatun does not see fit to reply, even I, the Thurible, will attempt to answer him. And to me indeed the answer is plain, for to whom could the figure be said to belong, if not to the youth who painted it and made a mere stump beautiful and lifelike with fair tints of colour?”

At these words of the incense-vessel Naran-Dâkinî cast upon it a look of scorn and contempt, but opened not her lips to speak.

Then spoke Schalû, whom Vikramâditja had transformed into his aramâlâ, with impetuosity, saying, “Nay, but surely he alone could have the right of invention who endowed a painted log with wit and understanding. Surely he who made a stump of a tree to think must be allowed to have invented it.”

When Naran-Dâkinî saw with what a confident air the aramâlâ pronounced this sentence, even as though he had settled the whole matter, she could contain herself no longer, and then burst from her lips these words, while her eyes lighted on the objects that had spoken with exceeding indignation,—

“Of miserable understanding are ye all! How then venture ye, unsouled objects, to expound the matter when I, a reasonable being, scarcely dare pronounce upon the question? What other interpretation of this parable, however, can there be than this:—The youth who first fashioned the figure of a block of wood, did not he stand in place of the father? He who painted it with tints fair to behold, did not he stand in place of the mother? He who gave wit and understanding, is not he the Lama? But he who gave a soul that could be loved, was it not he alone who made woman? To whom, therefore, else should she have belonged by right of invention? And to whom should woman belong if not to her husband?”

Thus Tegrijin Naran Dâkinî had been brought to speak once; but the proposition requiring that the Silent Haughty One should speak twice to man, the magnanimous King proceeded without making allusion to his first success, saying,—

“Now that I have told a saga of old, it is the turn that one of you should also tell us a tale to entertain the mind.” And as he spoke he addressed himself to Naran-Dâkinî. Nevertheless Naran-Dâkinî had entered again into her deep contemplation, and held her peace, saying never a word.

Then said the far-seeing and experienced minister whom the King had transformed into the altar,—

“As Naran-Chatun continues to sit in her place and to utter no sound in answer to the word of the high King who has come so far to visit us, even I, though I be an unsouled object, will venture to reply, asking him that he will again open to us the treasures of story.”

At these words Naran-Dâkinî cast a meaning glance upon her altar, but spoke not.

Then opened the magnanimous King again the treasures of story.

The Voice-charmer9.

“Long ages ago two were travelling through a mountainous country, a man and his wife. And behold as they journeyed there reached them from the other side of a rock a voice of such surpassing sweetness that the two stood still to listen, the man and his wife; and not they only, but their very beasts pricked up their ears erect to drink in the sound.

“Then spoke the woman,—

“‘A man with a voice so melodious must be a man goodly to see. Shall we not stop and find him out?’”

“But the saying pleased not her husband, nor was he minded that she should see who it was that sang so sweetly; therefore he answered her,—

“‘Wherefore should we search him out; is it not enough that we hear his voice?’

“When the wife had heard his answer, she said no more about searching out whence the voice proceeded; only the first time they passed a mountain-rill she said to her husband,—

“‘Behold, I faint for thirst in this heat. Now, as thou lovest me, fetch me a draught of that cool water from the mountain-rill.’ So the man got down from his horse, and, taking his wife’s cup10, went to the rill to fetch water.

“While he was thus occupied, the wife slid down from off her horse also, and, going silently behind him, pushed him over the precipice and killed him. Then she set out to find out who it was sang so melodiously. When she had followed up the sound she found herself in presence, not of a man goodly to behold, but of a wretched, loathsome object, sunk down against the foot of the rock, deformed in person and covered with sores. Notwithstanding that the undeception was so revolting, she yet took him up on her back and carried him with her; but as the man was heavy and the way steep, the fatigue so wearied her that at the end of a little time she died.

“Was this woman to be counted a good woman or a bad?”

When the King had made an end of telling the tale, he looked towards Naran-Dâkinî as challenging her to answer.

But Naran-Dâkinî held her peace and spoke never a word.

Then, when the far-seeing and experienced minister whom Vikramâditja had transformed into the lamp saw that she yet held her peace, he said,—

“How should an unsouled being such as I, the Lamp, find out the right meaning? nevertheless, not to leave the words of the high King without an answer, I will even venture to suggest that to me it seemeth she must be counted a good woman; because though she killed her husband, yet she made atonement for her fault by raising the sick man and carrying him with her—”

But before he could make an end of speaking Naran-Dâkinî cast at him a glance of contempt and scorn, and she exclaimed,—

“How should there be any good in a woman who killed her lawful husband, and that only because her ears were tickled with the artful melody of an harmonious voice? Of a truth she must have been a veritable schimnu, and if she took the sick man with her, was it not only that she might devour him at leisure?”

Then spoke Vikramâditja,—

“Naran-Chatun! being he who hath induced thee to open thy lips to speak these two times to man, give me my guerdon that thou accompany me home to be my wife.”

Very willingly coming down from her altar, Tegrijin Naran Dâkinî at these words gave herself to Vikramâditja to accompany him home to be his wife.

Vikramâditja having then given back to Schalû and to his three far-seeing and experienced ministers their natural shapes, and to the five hundred sons of kings who had failed in winning Naran-Dâkinî theirs, with Naran-Dâkinî by his side, and all the rest in a long procession behind him, the King arrived at his capital. Here he called together all his people Tai-tsing11 to a great assembly, where he promulgated rules of faith and religion. By his good government he made all his people so happy as no other sovereign ever did, sitting upon his throne with his consort Tegrijin Naran as the fate-appointed rulers.

When the Sûta had made an end of this narration of Vikramâditja’s deeds, he addressed himself to Ardschi-Bordschi, saying,—

“If thou canst boast, of being such a King as Vikramâditja, then come and ascend this throne, but if not, then beware at thy peril that thou approach it not.”

Now Ardschi-Bordschi had seventy-one wives; taking by the hand the chief of them therefore, he bid her make obeisance before the throne and ascend it with him. Ere they had set foot on the first step two other of the sculptured figures came forward, forsaking their guardant attitude, and warned him back, the warrior smiting him in the breast, and the Sûta thus addressing him,—

“Halt! O Ardschi-Bordschi, and thou his wife! nor touch so much as with thy prostrate heads the sacred steps. But first know what manner of woman was the chief wife of Vikramâditja.

“The chief wife of Vikramâditja was Tsetsen Budschiktschi12, and she never had a word, or look, or thought but for her husband. If thy wife be such a princess as she, then draw near to ascend the throne together, but if otherwise, then at your peril draw not near it.

“But,” he said furthermore, “hearken, and I will tell you, who have seventy-one wives, the story of what befell seventy-one parrots and the wife of another high King to whom one of them was counsellor.”

And all the sculptured figures answered together,—

“Halt! O Ardschi-Bordschi!”

The Sûta tells Ardschi-Bordschi concerning the Seventy-one Parrots and their Adviser.

Long ages ago the wife of a high King was ill with a dire illness, nor could the art of any physician suffice to cure her till one came who said, “Let there be given her parrots’ brains to eat.”

When, therefore, the high King saw that eating parrots’ brains brought health it seemed good to him to take a tribute of parrots’ brains from his subjects.

He called unto him, therefore, the governor of a tributary province and commanded him, saying, “Let there be delivered to me a tribute of the brains of seventy-one parrots, otherwise thou must die the death.”

That governor went out therefore trembling with fear, and he called unto him immediately a birdcatcher and agreed with him for the price of the brains of seventy-one parrots.

Now the birdcatcher knew a certain tree in which there roosted every night seventy-one parrots, and he said within himself, “If I could spread one net over the whole tree, with one haul the whole affair would be finished.” So he went and bought a great net ready to spread over the whole tree.

But among these seventy-one parrots was one parrot exceeding wise, who was always on the watch to see what the birdcatcher was about. When, therefore, he saw him buy so great a net he said to his companions, “To what end can the man have bought so big a net if not to spread round the whole tree? let us, therefore, in future roost on yonder rock.” After this they went to roost on the rock. After they had roosted four or five nights on the rock the wise parrot caught sight of the birdcatcher prowling about, having followed them thither and being engaged in settling in his own mind how he should lay his nets. Then the wise parrot said to his companions, “The man has come hither after us even to this rock; let us now, therefore, avoid his snares by roosting in some other place.”

But his companions, instead of accepting his counsel were provoked, and answered him, saying, “How are we to endure thus changing our place of roosting every night. We left our tree which sheltered us well and came to this rock to please thy fancy; and now thou wouldst have us make another change. But we will no more listen to thy suspicions.”

They roosted, therefore, still upon the rock, and that night the birdcatcher came with his nets and encompassed them all.

When they woke and found themselves imprisoned, loud were their shrieks of lamentation as they fluttered and beat their wings fruitlessly against the net; calling also on the wise parrot, saying, “You who were so wise in foreseeing the danger, have you no means for delivering us out of it?”

“Yes,” replied the wise parrot, “I have thought of that. Leave off every one of you from shrieking and fluttering about, and beating your wings against the net, which is a new one and not the least likely to give way. On the contrary, lie all of you on your backs with your heads hanging as if you were dead. The birdcatcher being satisfied you are dead will not kill you over again. Then observe and see that the approach to this one rock is very narrow, and when a man comes up it there is only just room for one foot-hold at the ledge whence he can reach us, and it is as much as he can do to get up and down with the use of both his hands as well as his feet; he will not, therefore, go to carry us down or put us in a bag, but will throw us one by one over the cliff, and sure enough he will say out the number as he throws each down. Let, therefore, those who are thrown down first remain still lying without motion so that he may not suspect any of the rest are alive, only when he says out the number, ‘Seventy-one!’ then up and away, as at a signal of a race.”

The other parrots did not venture to dispute the word of the wise parrot this time, but all did exactly as he had said. When the birdcatcher came and found what a steep rugged path he had to climb he vowed all sorts of vengeance on the parrots for giving him so much fatigue, and swore that he would break all their bones, for the brain was the only part he cared to keep uninjured. When he had got up to the ledge of rock by which he could reach them, however, and found that they seemed already stone dead, seeing that to wreak any vengeance on creatures that could not feel would be childish, he contented himself with throwing them below one by one, calling out as he did so the number to each. In this way he had thrown over the seventy; last of all there remained the wise parrot, but the net having fallen upon him he was rather longer loosing him than the rest, so that he had called out “Seventy-one” before he was ready to throw him down, moreover, his whetstone happening at that same instant to tumble out of his girdle, the other parrots took the sound of its fall for that of the wise parrot, and all of them together they spread their wings and flew far away.

The birdcatcher saw this in time before he had let go his hold of the wise parrot.

“Ah! vile, cunning parrots,” he exclaimed in great wrath and indignation, “what labour have you given me, and at last I have no benefit for my exertion! One, at least, of you is still in my power, and on him will I be avenged for the mischief of all the rest; I will take him home and torture him at leisure, and then cook him alive. The wise parrot heard all this, but thought to wait till his fury was a little spent. But finding as time wore on the man only got more and more wroth; and the matter beginning to get serious, as they were coming near his dwelling, the wise parrot at last said, “What end will it serve that thou kill me? It will not bring the other parrots back—and, indeed, what grudge hast thou against me? I never killed thee at any former time1 that thou shouldst now kill me. Thou hast attacked my life, and I have defended it by fair dealing. Other grudge against me hast thou none; then why shouldst thou seek to maim and injure me? Moreover, if thou do, be sure that the day will come2 when I should repay thee. But now, if thou sell me who am a wise and understanding parrot, thou shalt receive for my price 100 ounces of silver, and if with seventy-one ounces thou buy seventy-one other parrots for him who hired thee there will still remain twenty-nine ounces with which thou mayest make merry with all thy friends and acquaintance.”

When, therefore, the birdcatcher found he was a wise and understanding parrot, he took him and sold him to a rich merchant for 100 ounces of silver.

The merchant also, who bought the parrot, finding him so wise and full of understanding, employed him in all sorts of ways to watch over his belongings. At last, one day he came and said to the parrot, “Hitherto thou hast done me good service in watching over the merchandize, and I have regarded thee as my brother, now, therefore, that I go on a journey of seventy-one days I entreat thee to watch over, as a sister-in-law, my wife, who is very gay and thoughtless.

The wise parrot answered, “Be of good heart, brother, all shall be right in thine absence.”

At which the merchant replied, “If thou sayest so, brother Parrot, I can go forth on my journey without anxieties.”

He had not been gone long when his young wife rose up, saying, “Now indeed I am for once my own mistress: I will go out and see all my friends, and particularly those I dare not visit when my husband is here.” So she arrayed herself in all her gayest attire. But when she would have gone out the parrot stopped her, saying, “Wait, sister-in-law. A wife behoves it rather to set her household affairs in order, than to go abroad paying visits when her husband is absent.”

“Bad parrot!” exclaimed the wife, “what hast thou to do to hinder my taking a little pleasure?”

The parrot answered, “Thy husband when he went away gave me strict charge over thee, saying, ‘I command thee that thou hinder her from going forth alone.’ This, however, it is not in me to do, for thou art greater in might than I; and if I command thee not to go thou wilt not obey by words. Only now, therefore, before thou goest out sit down first and listen to the story that I will tell thee.”

When the wife heard him promise to tell a story, she sat down, for she loved to listen to the stories of the wise parrot.

Then the parrot began to tell her a story in this wise.

How Naran Gerel swore falsely and yet told the Truth.

“Long ages ago there lived a King named Tsoktu Ilagukssan3, who had one only daughter, whom he kept as the apple of his eye, and guarded so jealously that she never saw any thing or any body. If any man went near her apartment his legs were immediately broken and his eyes put out. So relentless was the command of the King.

“One day Naran Gerel4, such was the daughter’s name, however, came to her father, saying, “Being shut up here all day seeing nothing and no man, my life is weariness unto me. Let me now go abroad on the fifteenth of the month, that I may see something.”

“But the King would not listen to her; only as she continued day by day urging her request, the King at last gave permission that on a certain day she might go abroad; but he gave orders also at the same time that on that day every bazaar should be shut, every window closed, and that all men, women, and beasts should be shut up close out of sight of the Princess; and that whoso walked abroad, or but looked out of window should be punished with death.

“On the fifteenth of the month, therefore, a new chariot was appointed to Naran Gerel, and she went forth surrounded by a train of her maidens, and drove all through the city; every bazaar being shut up, every window closed, and all men, women, and beasts within doors out of sight.

“Nevertheless, the King’s minister Ssaran5, overcome by his curiosity to see the Princess, had gone up to the highest window of his house, to obtain a glimpse of her unperceived. But what care soever he took to be seen of none, the Princess, in her anxiety to make the best use of her eyes on this her one opportunity of seeing the world, discerned him.

“Never having seen any man but her father, who was already well stricken in years, the appearance of the Minister, who was still young, so charmed her that she instantly conceived a desire to see more of him, and accordingly made a sign to him by raising the first finger of her right hand and marking a circle round it with the other hand; then clasping both hands tight together and throwing them open again, finally laying one finger of each hand together and pointing with them towards the palace.

“Very much perplexed at finding himself discovered by the Princess, Ssaran came down; and when his wife saw him looking so bewildered, she inquired of him, saying, ‘Hast thou seen the Princess?’

“‘Not only have I seen the Princess,’ replied Ssaran, ’but she hath seen me; and made all manners of signs, of which I understand nothing, but that of course they were to threaten some dreadful chastisement.’

“‘And of what nature were the signs, then?’ further inquired his wife; and when he had described them to her, she replied,—

“‘These signs by no means betoken threatening. Listen, and I will tell thee the interpretation of the same. In that she raised the first finger of the right hand on high, she signified that in the neighbourhood of her dwelling is a shady tree; that with the other hand she described a circle round it, showed that the garden where the tree stands is surrounded by a high wall; that she clasped both hands together and then threw them open again, said, “Come unto me in the garden of flowers;” and the laying of one finger of each hand together, said, “May we be able to meet?”’

“‘This were very well,’ replied Ssaran, ‘were the King’s decree not so terrible, and his wrath so unsparing.’

“But his wife answered him, ‘When a King’s daughter calls, can fear stand in the way? Go now at her bidding, only take this jewel with thee.’

“Ssaran accepted his wife’s counsel, and, stowing the jewel away in a safe place in the folds of his robe, betook himself to the shady tree in the garden of the Princess. Here he found the Princess awaiting him, and they spent the day happily together.