had been played upon him, thought to himself: “One should put no confidence in a changeful mind, a black serpent, or an armed enemy, and one should dread a woman’s doings. What cannot a poet describe? What is there that a saint (jogi) does not know? What nonsense will not a drunken man talk? What limit is there to a woman’s guile? True it is that the gods know nothing of the defects of a horse, of the thundering of clouds, of a woman’s deeds, or of a man’s future fortunes. How then can we know?” He could do nothing but weep, and swear by the herb basil, by his cattle, by his grain, by a piece of gold, and by all that is holy, that he had not committed the crime.
In the meanwhile, the old merchant, Jayashri’s father, ran off, and laid a complaint before the kotwal, and the footmen of the police magistrate were immediately sent to apprehend the husband, and to carry him bound before the judge. The latter, after due examination, laid the affair before the king. An example happening to be necessary at the time, the king resolved to punish the offence with severity, and he summoned the husband and wife to the court.
When the merchant’s daughter was asked to give an account of what had happened, she pointed out the state of her nose, and said, “Maharaj! why inquire of me concerning what is so manifest?” The king then turned to the husband, and bade him state his defence. He said, “I know nothing of it,” and in the face of the strongest evidence he persisted in denying his guilt.
Thereupon the king, who had vainly threatened to cut off Shridat’s right hand, infuriated by his refusing to confess and to beg for mercy, exclaimed, “How must I punish such a wretch as thou art?” The unfortunate man answered, “Whatever your majesty may consider just, that be pleased to do.” Thereupon the king cried, “Away with him, and impale him”; and the people, hearing the command, prepared to obey it.
Before Shridat had left the court, the footpad, who had been looking on, and who saw that an innocent man was about to be unjustly punished, raised a cry for justice and, pushing through the crowd, resolved to make himself heard. He thus addressed the throne: “Great king, the cherishing of the good, and the punishment of the bad, is the invariable duty of kings.” The ruler having caused him to approach, asked him who he was, and he replied boldly, “Maharaj! I am a thief, and this man is innocent and his blood is about to be shed unjustly. Your majesty has not done what is right in this affair.” Thereupon the king charged him to tell the truth according to his religion; and the thief related explicitly the whole circumstances, omitting of course, the murder.
“Go ye,” said the king to his messengers, “and look in the mouth of the woman’s lover who has fallen dead. If the nose be there found, then has this thief-witness told the truth, and the husband is a guiltless man.”
The nose was presently produced in court, and Shridat escaped the stake. The king caused the wicked Jayashri’s face to be smeared with oily soot, and her head and eyebrows to be shaved; thus blackened and disfigured, she was mounted upon a little ragged-limbed ass and was led around the market and the streets, after which she was banished for ever from the city. The husband and the thief were then dismissed with betel and other gifts, together with much sage advice which neither of them wanted.
“My king,” resumed the misogyne parrot, “of such excellencies as these are women composed. It is said that ‘wet cloth will extinguish fire and bad food will destroy strength; a degenerate son ruins a family, and when a friend is in wrath he takes away life. But a woman is an inflicter of grief in love and in hate, whatever she does turns out to be for our ill. Truly the Deity has created woman a strange being in this world.’ And again, ‘The beauty of the nightingale is its song, science is the beauty of an ugly man, forgiveness is the beauty of a devotee, and the beauty of a woman is virtue-but where shall we find it?’ And again, ‘Among the sages, Narudu; among the beasts, the jackal; among the birds, the crow; among men, the barber; and in this world woman-is the most crafty.’
“What I have told thee, my king, I have seen with mine own eyes, and I have heard with mine own ears. At the time I was young, but the event so affected me that I have ever since held female kind to be a walking pest, a two-legged plague, whose mission on earth, like flies and other vermin, is only to prevent our being too happy. O, why do not children and young parrots sprout in crops from the ground-from budding trees or vinestocks?”
“I was thinking, sire,” said the young Dharma Dhwaj to the warrior king his father, “what women would say of us if they could compose Sanskrit verses!”
“Then keep your thoughts to yourself,” replied the Raja, nettled at his son daring to say a word in favour of the sex. “You always take the part of wickedness and depravity—”
“Permit me, your majesty,” interrupted the Baital, “to conclude my tale.”
When Madan-manjari, the jay, and Churaman, the parrot, had given these illustrations of their belief, they began to wrangle, and words ran high. The former insisted that females are the salt of the earth, speaking, I presume, figuratively. The latter went so far as to assert that the opposite sex have no souls, and that their brains are in a rudimental and inchoate state of development. Thereupon he was tartly taken to task by his master’s bride, the beautiful Chandravati, who told him that those only have a bad opinion of women who have associated with none but the vicious and the low, and that he should be ashamed to abuse feminine parrots, because his mother had been one.
This was truly logical.
On the other hand, the jay was sternly reproved for her mutinous and treasonable assertions by the husband of her mistress, Raja Ram, who, although still a bridegroom, had not forgotten the gallant rule of his syntax—
The masculine is more worthy than the feminine;
till Madan-manjari burst into tears and declared that her life was not worth having. And Raja Ram looked at her as if he could have wrung her neck.
In short, Raja Vikram, all the four lost their tempers, and with them what little wits they had. Two of them were but birds, and the others seem not to have been much better, being young, ignorant, inexperienced, and lately married. How then could they decide so difficult a question as that of the relative wickedness and villany of men and women? Had your majesty been there, the knot of uncertainty would soon have been undone by the trenchant edge of your wit and wisdom, your knowledge and experience. You have, of course, long since made up your mind upon the subject?
Dharma Dhwaj would have prevented his father’s reply. But the youth had been twice reprehended in the course of this tale, and he thought it wisest to let things take their own way.
“Women,” quoth the Raja, oracularly, “are worse than we are; a man, however depraved he may be, ever retains some notion of right and wrong, but a woman does not. She has no such regard whatever.”
“The beautiful Bangalah Rani for instance?” said the Baital, with a demonaic sneer.
At the mention of a word, the uttering of which was punishable by extirpation of the tongue, Raja Vikram’s brain whirled with rage. He staggered in the violence of his passion, and putting forth both hands to break his fall, he dropped the bundle from his back. Then the Baital, disentangling himself and laughing lustily, ran off towards the tree as fast as his thin brown legs would carry him. But his activity availed him little.
The king, puffing with fury, followed him at the top of his speed, and caught him by his tail before he reached the siras-tree, hurled him backwards with force, put foot upon his chest, and after shaking out the cloth, rolled him up in it with extreme violence, bumped his back half a dozen times against the stony ground, and finally, with a jerk, threw him on his shoulder, as he had done before.
The young prince, afraid to accompany his father whilst he was pursuing the fiend, followed slowly in the rear, and did not join him for some minutes.
But when matters were in their normal state, the Vampire, who had endured with exemplary patience the penalty of his impudence, began in honeyed accents,
“Listen, O warrior king, whilst thy servant recounts unto thee another true tale.”
THE VAMPIRE’S THIRD STORY