Chapter LIII.
Then, on the next day, Naraváhanadatta’s friend Marubhúti said to him, when he was in the company of Alankáravatí—“See, king, this miserable dependent[1] of yours remains clothed with one garment of leather, with matted hair, thin and dirty, and never leaves the royal gate, day or night, in cold or heat; so why do you not shew him favour at last? For it is better that a little should be given in time, than much when it is too late; so have mercy on him before he dies.” When Gomukha heard this, he said—“Marubhúti speaks well, but you, king, are not the least in fault in this matter; for until a suitor’s guilt, which stands in his way, is removed, a king, even though disposed to give, cannot give; but when a man’s guilt is effaced, a king gives, though strenuously dissuaded from doing so; this depends upon works in a previous state of existence. And à propos of this, I will tell you, O king, the story of Lakshadatta the king, and Labdhadatta the dependent; listen.”
Story of king Lakshadatta and his dependent Labdhadatta.[2]
There was on the earth a city named Lakshapura. In it there lived a king named Lakshadatta, chief of generous men. He never knew how to give a petitioner less than a lac of coins, but he gave five lacs to any one with whom he conversed. As for the man with whom he was pleased, he lifted him out of poverty, for this reason his name was called Lakshadatta. A certain dependent named Labdhadatta stood day and night at his gate, with a piece of leather for his only loin-rag. He had matted hair, and he never left the king’s gate for a second, day or night, in cold, rain, or heat, and the king saw him there. And, though he remained there long in misery, the king did not give him anything, though he was generous and compassionate.
Then, one day the king went to a forest to hunt, and his dependent followed him with a staff in his hand. There, while the king seated on an elephant, armed with a bow, and followed by his army, slew tigers, bears, and deer, with showers of arrows, his dependent, going in front of him, alone on foot, slew with his staff many boars and deer. When the king saw his bravery, he thought in his heart—“It is wonderful that this man should be such a hero,” but he did not give him anything. And the king, when he had finished his hunting, returned home to his city, to enjoy himself, but that dependent stood at his palace-gate as before. Once on a time, Lakshadatta went out to conquer a neighbouring king of the same family, and he had a terrible battle. And in the battle the dependent struck down in front of him many enemies, with blows from the end of his strong staff of acacia wood. And the king, after conquering his enemies, returned to his own city, and though he had seen the valour of his dependent, he gave him nothing. In this condition the dependent Labdhadatta remained, and many years passed over his head, while he supported himself with difficulty.
And when the sixth year had come, king Lakshadatta happened to see him one day, and feeling pity for him, reflected—“Though he has been long afflicted, I have not as yet given him anything, so why should I not give him something in a disguised form, and so find out whether the guilt of this poor man has been effaced, or not, and whether even now Fortune will grant him a sight of her, or not.” Thus reflecting, the king deliberately entered his treasury, and filled a citron with jewels, as if it were a casket. And he held an assembly of all his subjects, having appointed a meeting outside his palace, and there entered the assembly all his citizens, chiefs, and ministers. And when the dependent entered among them, the king said to him with an affectionate voice, “Come here;” then the dependent, on hearing this, was delighted, and coming near, he sat in front of the king. Then the king said to him—“Utter some composition of your own.” Then the dependent recited the following Áryá verse—“Fortune ever replenishes the full man, as all the streams replenish the sea, but she never even comes within the range of the eyes of the poor.” When the king had heard this, and had made him recite it again, he was pleased, and gave him the citron full of valuable jewels. And the people said, “This king puts a stop to the poverty of every one with whom he is pleased; so this dependent is to be pitied, since this very king, though pleased with him, after summoning him politely, has given him nothing but this citron; a wishing-tree, in the case of ill-starred men, often becomes a paláśa-tree.”[3] These were the words which all in the assembly said to one another in their despondency, when they saw that, for they did not know the truth.
But the dependent went out, with the citron in his hand, and when he was in a state of despondency, a mendicant came before him. And that mendicant, named Rájavandin, seeing that the citron was a fine one, obtained it from that dependent by giving him a garment. And then the mendicant entered the assembly, and gave that fruit to the king, and the king, recognizing it, said to that hermit,[4] “Where, reverend sir, did you procure this citron.” Then he told the king that the dependent had given it to him. Then the king was grieved and astonished, reflecting that his guilt was not expiated even now. The king Lakshadatta took the citron, rose up from the assembly, and performed the duties of the day. And the dependent sold the garment, and after he had eaten and drunk, remained at his usual post at the king’s gate.
And on the second day the king held a general assembly, and everybody appeared at it again, citizens and all. And the king, seeing that the dependent had entered the assembly, called him as before, and made him sit near him. And after making him again recite that very same Áryá verse, being pleased, he gave him that very same citron with jewels concealed in it. And all there thought with astonishment—“Ah! this is the second time that our master is pleased with him without his gaining by it. And the dependent, in despondency, took the citron in his hand, and thinking that the king’s good will had again been barren of results, went out. At that very moment a certain official met him, who was about to enter that assembly, wishing to see the king. He, when he saw that citron, took a fancy to it, and regarding the omen, procured it from the dependent by giving him a pair of garments. And entering the king’s court, he fell at the feet of the sovereign, and first gave him the citron, and then another present of his own. And when the king recognised the fruit, he asked the official where he got it, and he replied—“From the dependent.” And the king, thinking in his heart that Fortune would not even now give the dependent a sight of her, was exceedingly sad.[5] And he rose up from the assembly with that citron, and the dependent went to the market with the pair of garments he had got. And by selling one garment he procured meat and drink, and tearing the other in half he made two of it. Then on the third day also the king held a general assembly, and all the subjects entered, as before, and when the dependent entered, the king gave him the same citron again, after calling him and making him recite the Áryá verse. Then all were astonished, and the dependent went out, and gave that citron to the king’s mistress. And she, like a moving creeper of the tree of the king’s regard, gave him gold, which was, so to speak, the flower, the harbinger of the fruit. The dependent sold it, and enjoyed himself that day, and the king’s mistress went into his presence. And she gave him that citron, which was large and fine, and he, recognising it, asked her whence she procured it. Then she said—“The dependent gave it me.” Hearing that, the king thought, “Fortune has not yet looked favourably upon him; his merit in a former life must have been slight, since he does not know that my favour is never barren of results. And so these splendid jewels come back to me again and again.” Thus the king reflected, and he took that citron, and put it away safely, and rose up and performed the duties of the day. And on the fourth day the king held an assembly in the same way, and it was filled with all his subjects, feudatories, ministers and all. And the dependent came there again, and again the king made him sit in front of him, and when he bowed before him, the king made him recite the Áryá verse: and gave him the citron, and when the dependent had half got hold of it, he suddenly let it go, and the citron fell on the ground and broke in half. And as the joining of the citron, which kept it together, was broken, there rolled out of it many valuable jewels, illuminating that place of assembly. All the people, when they saw it, said, “Ah! we were deluded and mistaken, as we did not know the real state of the case, but such is the nature of the king’s favour.” When the king heard that, he said—“By this artifice I endeavoured to ascertain, whether Fortune would now look on him or not. But for three days his guilt was not effaced; now it is effaced, and for that reason Fortune has now granted him a sight of herself.” After the king had said this, he gave the dependent those jewels, and also villages, elephants, horses and gold, and made him a feudal chief. And he rose up from that assembly, in which the people applauded, and went to bathe; and that dependent too, having obtained his ends, went to his own dwelling.
So true is it that, until a servant’s guilt is effaced, he cannot obtain the favour of his master; even by going through hundreds of hardships.
When Gomukha the prime-minister had told this tale, he again said to his master Naraváhanadatta; “So, king, I know that even now the guilt of that dependent of yours is not expiated, since even now you are not pleased with him.” When the son of the king of Vatsa heard this speech of Gomukha’s, he said, “Ha! good!” and he immediately gave to his own dependent, who was named Kárpaṭika, a number of villages, elephants and horses, a crore of gold pieces, and excellent garments, and ornaments. Then that dependent, who had attained prosperity, became like a king; how can the attendance on a grateful king, who has excellent courtiers, be void of fruit.
When Naraváhanadatta was thus employed, there came one day, to take service with him, a young Bráhman from the Dekhan, named Pralambabáhu. That hero said to the prince: “I have come to your feet, my sovereign, attracted by your renown; and I on foot will never leave your company for a step, as long as you travel on the earth with elephants, horses, and chariots; but in the air I cannot go; I say this because it is rumoured that my lord will one day be emperor of the Vidyádharas. A hundred gold pieces should be given to me every day as salary.” When that Bráhman, who was really of incomparable might, said this, Naraváhanadatta gave him this salary. And thereupon Gomukha said—“My lord, kings have such servants: à propos of this, hear this story.”
Story of the Bráhman Víravara.[6]
There is in this country a great and splendid city of the name of Vikramapura. In it there lived long ago a king named Vikramatunga. He was distinguished for statesmanship, and though his sword was sharp, his rod of justice was not so; and he was always intent on righteousness, but not on women, hunting, and so forth. And while he was king, the only atoms of wickedness were the atoms of earth in the dust, the only departure from virtue was the loosing of arrows from the string, the only straying from justice was the wandering of sheep in the folds of the keepers of cattle.[7] Once on a time a heroic and handsome Bráhman, from the country of Málava, named Víravara, came there to take service under that king; he had a wife named Dharmavatí, a daughter named Víravatí, and a son named Sattvavara; these three constituted his family; and his attendants consisted of another three: at his hip a dagger, in one hand a sword, and in the other a polished shield. Though he had such a small following, he demanded from that king five hundred dínárs every day by way of salary. And the king gave him that salary, perceiving his courage, and thinking to himself, “I will make trial of his excellence.” And the king set spies on him, to find out what this man, with only two arms, would do with so many dínárs. And Víravara, every day, gave his wife a hundred of those dínárs for food and other purposes; and with another hundred he bought clothes, and garlands, and so on; and he appointed a third hundred, after bathing, for the worship of Vishṇu and Śiva; and the remaining two hundred he gave to Bráhmans, the poor and so on; and so he expended every day the whole five hundred. And he stood at the palace-gate of the king for the first half of the day, and after he had performed his daily prayers and other duties, he came back and remained there at night also. The spies reported to the king continually that daily practice of his, and then the king, being satisfied, ordered those spies to desist from observing him. And Víravara remained day and night at the gate of the king’s palace, sword in hand, excepting only the time set apart for bathing and matters of that kind. Then there came a collection of clouds, bellowing terribly, as if determined to conquer that Víravara, being impatient of his valour. And then, though the cloud rained a terrible arrow-shower of drops, Víravara stood like a column and did not leave the palace-gate. And the king Vikramatunga, having beheld him from the palace in this position, went up to the roof of the palace at night to try him again. And he called out from above—“Who waits at the palace-gate?” And Víravara, when he heard that, answered—“I am here.” The king hearing this, thought—“Surely this brave man deserves high rank, for he does not leave the palace-gate, though such a cloud is raining.” While engaged in these reflections, the king heard a woman weeping bitterly in the distance; and he thought—“There is not an afflicted person in my dominions, so why does she weep?” Thereupon he said to Víravara, “Hark, Víravara, there is some woman weeping at some distance from this place, so go, and find out who she is, and what is her sorrow.” When Víravara heard that, he set out, brandishing his sword, with his dagger at his side. Then the king, seeing that he had set out when such a cloud was blazing with lightning, and when the interval between heaven and earth[8] was full of descending drops of rain, being moved with curiosity and pity, came down from the roof of his palace, and set out behind him, sword in hand, unobserved.
And Víravara, going in the direction of the wailing,[9] followed unperceived by the king, reached a lake outside the city. And he saw a woman lamenting in the midst of it; “Ah lord! Ah merciful one! Ah hero! How shall I exist abandoned by thee?” He asked her; “Who are you, and what lord do you lament?” Then she said; “My son, know that I am this earth. At present Vikramatunga is my righteous lord, and his death will certainly take place on the third day from now. And how shall I obtain such a lord again? For with divine foresight I behold the good and evil to come, as Suprabha, the son of a god, did, when in heaven.”