DAY 9.
Then the King said to Rasakósha: My friend, the Princess is again victorious, and now eight days are lost, yet I cannot but forgive you, for the sake of the smile she gave me when she went away. Oh! it gleamed on my soul like the dazzling whiteness of a royal swan illuminated by the sun on the Mánasa lake. Alas! even the portrait will scarce enable me to live till the morning. And the King passed the night in a state of bewilderment, gazing sorrowfully at the portrait. Then when the sun rose, he rose also, and got through the long day by the help of Rasakósha and the garden. And when the sun set, they went again to the hall of audience. And there they saw the Princess, clad in a purple robe, with a bodice of burnished gold, and her crown and ornaments, sitting on her throne. And she looked at the King with joy, and the King sank upon a couch, speechless and fascinated, under the spell of her beauty. Then Rasakósha came forward and stood before her, and began again:
Lady, in a certain city there was a wealthy merchant, who possessed a very beautiful wife; and he loved her more than his own soul. But she was of light conduct, and walked in a path independent of her husband[[1]], and looked after other men, and her virtue under temptation was like a blade of grass in a forest conflagration. And though out of his great love for her, that merchant forgave her all her faults, she only despised him for it, and disliked him the more.
And one day, she looked out of her window, and saw in the street a handsome young Rajpoot. And smitten with passion, she instantly left her husband and her home, and ran away with him. But when he found that she had gone, that merchant, her husband, in his despair almost abandoned the body. But the hope that she would one day return kept him alive: hope alone binds those whom separation has made miserable to the world. Nevertheless, from the day she departed, all other things became abominable in his eyes. And neglecting his business, he sank into poverty, and became an object of contempt and derision to his friends. And forsaking all occupation or pleasure, he remained alone in his empty house, with the image of his runaway wife in his heart, night and day. And thus he lived for three years, every hour of which seemed to him as long as a kalpa, in the black darkness of desolation.
But she, in the meanwhile, after living with that Rajpoot for some time, grew tired of him, and left him for another paramour, and him again for another, flitting from one to another like a bee from flower to flower. And it happened that one night, when she was living with a certain merchant's son, he, in the new ardour of his admiration for her beauty, suddenly stooped down to kiss her feet. But not being aware of his intention, she drew her foot abruptly away, and it caught on the jewel of a ring in his ear, and was torn. And even though it was cured, the scar remained.
And one day, when three years had gone by, her husband, the merchant, was sitting by himself in his deserted house, gazing with the eye of his heart[[2]] at the image of his wife, when there came a knock at the door. And as his servants had all long ago left him, for he had no money to give them, he went to open it himself. And when he did so, he looked, and there before him was his wife. She was worn, and old, and the flower of her beauty was gone, and she was clothed in rags and dusty with travel, and she looked at her husband with eyes dim with tears and shame and fear, as she leaned against the doorpost, faint from hunger and thirst and fatigue. But when he saw her, his heart stopped, and his hair stood on end, and he uttered an exclamation of wonder and joy. And taking her in his arms, he carried her in, and put her on the bed which she had abandoned and disgraced; and fetching food and water, with feet that stumbled from the ecstasy of his joy, he washed the dust off her, and dispelled her anxiety and fear, and revived her heart, and uttered no reproaches, but blessed her for her return, with laughter and tears; and it was as though she had never been away, even in a dream. And as he was gently cherishing her, and shampooing her all over to soothe her fatigue, his eye fell on the scar that had remained on her foot from the wound caused by the merchant's son. And putting his finger on it, he said to her with a smile of compassion: Poor wounded foot, it has found a resting-place at last. But she looked at him silently, with large eyes, and suddenly she laughed, and then and there her heart broke and she died. And he, when he found that she was dead, fell down on the floor at her feet, and followed her.
So now, tell me, Princess, why did that woman's heart break? And Rasakósha ceased. Then the Princess said: It broke with grief. For when she saw that her husband repaid her evil conduct with kindness, and remembered the occasion that had caused that wound upon her foot, repentance came suddenly and flowed into her, like a river too great for her heart to hold it, and it split and broke, and she died.
And when she had spoken, the Princess rose up and went out slowly, looking regretfully at the King, whose heart went with her. But the King and Rasakósha returned to their own apartments.
[[1]] An independent woman is a synonym for a harlot, in Sanskrit.
[[2]] Smara means 'love' and also 'memory.'