Having said this in the middle of his tale in answer to Káṇabhúti’s question, the wise Guṇáḍhya again called to mind and went on with the main thread of his narrative. Then once upon a time, in the spring festival that king Sátaváhana went to visit the garden made by the goddess, of which I spake before. He roamed there for a long time like Indra in the garden of Nandana, and descended into the water of the lake to amuse himself in company with his wives. There he sprinkled his beloved ones sportively with water flung by his hands, and was sprinkled by them in return like an elephant by its females. His wives with faces, the eyes of which were slightly reddened by the collyrium washed into them, and which were streaming with water, and with bodies the proportions of which were revealed by their clinging garments, pelted him vigorously; and as the wind strips the creepers in the forest of leaves and flowers, so he made his fair ones who fled into the adjoining shrubbery lose the marks on their foreheads[14] and their ornaments. Then one of his queens tardy with the weight of her breasts, with body tender as a śirísha flower, became exhausted with the amusement; she not being able to endure more, said to the king who was sprinkling her with water,—“do not pelt me with water-drops;” on hearing that, the king quickly had some sweetmeats[15] brought; then the queen burst out laughing and said again—“king, what do we want with sweetmeats in the water? For I said to you, do not sprinkle me with water-drops. Do you not even understand the coalescence of the words má and udaka, and do you not know that chapter of the grammar,—how can you be such a blockhead?” When the queen, who knew grammatical treatises, said this to him, and the attendants laughed, the king was at once overpowered with secret shame; he left off romping in the water and immediately entered his own palace unperceived, crest-fallen, and full of self-contempt. Then he remained lost in thought, bewildered, averse to food and other enjoyments, and, like a picture, even when asked a question, he answered nothing. Thinking that his only resource was to acquire learning or die, he flung himself down on a couch, and remained in an agony of grief. Then all the king’s attendants, seeing that he had suddenly fallen into such a state, were utterly beside themselves to think what it could mean. Then I and Śarvavarman came at last to hear of the king’s condition, and by that time the day was almost at an end. So perceiving that the king was still in an unsatisfactory condition, we immediately summoned a servant of the king named Rájahansa. And he, when asked by us about the state of the king’s health, said this—“I never before in my life saw the king in such a state of depression: and the other queens told me with much indignation that he had been humiliated to-day by that superficial blue-stocking, the daughter of Vishṇuśakti.” When Śarvavarman and I had heard this from the mouth of the king’s servant, we fell into a state of despondency, and thus reflected in our dilemma; “If the king were afflicted with bodily disease, we might introduce the physicians, but if his disease is mental it is impossible to find the cause of it. For there is no enemy in his country the thorns of which are destroyed, and these subjects are attached to him; no dearth of any kind is to be seen; so how can this sudden melancholy of the king’s have arisen?” After we had debated to this effect, the wise Śarvavarman said as follows—“I know the cause, this king is distressed by sorrow for his own ignorance, for he is always expressing a desire for culture, saying ‘I am a blockhead;’ I long ago detected this desire of his, and we have heard that the occasion of the present fit is his having been humiliated by the queen.” Thus we debated with one another and after we had passed that night, in the morning we went to the private apartments of the sovereign. There, though strict orders had been given that no one was to enter, I managed to get in with difficulty, and after me Śarvavarman slipped in quickly. I then sat down near the king and asked him this question—“Why, O king, art thou without cause thus despondent?” Though he heard this, Sátaváhana nevertheless remained silent, and then Śarvavarman uttered this extraordinary speech, “King, thou didst long ago say to me, ‘Make me a learned man.’ Thinking upon that I employed last night a charm to produce a dream.[16] Then I saw in my dream a lotus fallen from heaven, and it was opened by some heavenly youth, and out of it came a divine woman in white garments, and immediately, O king, she entered thy mouth. When I had seen so much I woke up, and I think without doubt that the woman who visibly entered thy mouth was Sarasvatí.” As soon as Śarvavarman had in these terms described his dream, the king broke his silence and said to me with the utmost earnestness,—“In how short a time can a man, who is diligently taught, acquire learning? Tell me this. For without learning all this regal splendour has no charms for me. What is the use of rank and power to a blockhead? They are like ornaments on a log of wood.” Then I said, “King, it is invariably the case that it takes men twelve years to learn grammar, the gate to all knowledge. But I, my sovereign, will teach it you in six years.” When he heard that, Śarvavarman suddenly exclaimed in a fit of jealousy—“How can a man accustomed to enjoyment endure hardship for so long? So I will teach you grammar, my prince, in six months.” When I heard this promise which it seemed impossible to make good, I said to him in a rage, “If you teach the king in six months, I renounce at once and for ever Sanskrit, Prakṛit, and the vernacular dialect, these three languages which pass current among men;”[17] then Śarvavarman said—“And if I do not do this, I Śarvavarman, will carry your shoes on my head for twelve years.” Having said this he went out; I too went home; and the king for his part was comforted, expecting that he would attain his object by means of one of us two. Now Śarvavarman being in a dilemma, seeing that his promise was one very difficult to perform, and regretting what he had done, told the whole story to his wife, and she grieved to hear it said to him, “My lord, in this difficulty there is no way of escape for you except the favour of the Lord Kártikeya.”[18] “It is so,” said Śarvavarman and determined to implore it. Accordingly in the last watch of the night, Śarvavarman set out fasting for the shrine of the god. Now I came to hear of it by means of my secret emissaries, and in the morning I told the king of it; and he, when he heard it, wondered what would happen. Then a trusty Rájpút called Sinhagupta said to him, “When I heard, O king, that thou wast afflicted I was seized with great despondency. Then I went out of this city, and was preparing to cut off my own head before the goddess Durgá in order to ensure thy happiness. Then a voice from heaven forbade me, saying, ‘Do not so, the king’s wish shall be fulfilled.’ Therefore, I believe, thou art sure of success.” When he had said this, that Sinhagupta took leave of the king, and rapidly despatched two emissaries after Śarvavarman; who feeding only on air, observing a vow of silence, steadfast in resolution, reached at last the shrine of the Lord Kártikeya. There, pleased with his penance that spared not the body, Kártikeya favoured him according to his desire; then the two spies sent by Sinhagupta came into the king’s presence and reported the minister’s success. On hearing that news the king was delighted and I was despondent, as the cháṭaka joys, and the swan grieves, on seeing the cloud.[19] Then Śarvavarman arrived successful by the favour of Kártikeya, and communicated to the king all the sciences, which presented themselves to him on his thinking of them. And immediately they were revealed to the king Sátaváhana. For what cannot the grace of the Supreme Lord accomplish? Then the kingdom rejoiced on hearing that the king had thus obtained all knowledge, and there was high festival kept throughout it; and that moment banners were flaunted from every house, and being fanned by the wind, seemed to dance. Then Śarvavarman was honoured with abundance of jewels fit for a king by the sovereign, who bowed humbly before him, calling him his spiritual preceptor, and he was made governor of the territory called Vakakachchha, which lies along the bank of the Narmadá. The king being highly pleased with that Rájpút Sinhagupta, who first heard by the mouth of his spies, that the boon had been obtained from the six-faced god,[20] made him equal to himself in splendour and power. And that queen too, the daughter of Vishṇuśakti, who was the cause of his acquiring learning, he exalted at one bound above all the queens, through affection anointing[21] her with his own hand.
[1] Pratishṭhána according to Wilson is celebrated as the capital of Śaliváhana. It is identifiable with Peytan on the Godávarí, the Bathana or Paithana of Ptolemy,—the capital of Siripolemaios. Wilson identifies this name with Śaliváhana, but Dr. Rost remarks that Lassen more correctly identifies it with that of Śrí Pulimán of the Andhra dynasty who reigned at Pratishṭhána after the overthrow of the house of Śaliváhana about 130 A. D.
[2] Fabulous serpent-demons having the head of a man with the tail of a serpent.—(Monier Williams, s. v.)
[3] It seems to me that tvam in Dr. Brockhaus’ text must be a misprint for tam.
[4] I. e., rich in virtues, and good qualities.
[5] From the Greek δηνάριον = denarius. (Monier Williams s. v.) Dramma = Gr. δραχμὴ is used in the Panchatantra; see Dr. Bühler’s Notes to Panchatantra, IV and V, Note on p. 40, l. 3.
[6] Literally wood-carriers.
[7] He had made money without capital, so his achievements are compared to pictures suspended in the air?
[8] ἑταίρα.