The Curse of the Undead - Selected Vampire Books and Legends. Richard Francis Burton

young person.

      After the second day the Prince Vajramukut, being restless from grief at separation, fretted himself into a fever. Having given up writing, reading, drinking, sleeping, the affairs entrusted to him by his father, and everything else, he sat down, as he said, to die. He used constantly to paint the portrait of the beautiful lotus gatherer, and to lie gazing upon it with tearful eyes; then he would start up and tear it to pieces and beat his forehead, and begin another picture of a yet more beautiful face.

      At last, as the pradhan’s son had foreseen, he was summoned by the young Raja, whom he found upon his bed, looking yellow and complaining bitterly of headache. Frequent discussions upon the subject of the tender passion had passed between the two youths, and one of them had ever spoken of it so very disrespectfully that the other felt ashamed to introduce it. But when his friend, with a view to provoke communicativeness, advised a course of boiled and bitter herbs and great attention to diet, quoting the hemistich attributed to the learned physician Charndatta,

      A fever starve, but feed a cold,

      the unhappy Vajramukut’s fortitude abandoned him; he burst into tears, and exclaimed, “Whosoever enters upon the path of love cannot survive it; and if (by chance) he should live, what is life to him but a prolongation of his misery?”

      “Yea,” replied the minister’s son, “the sage hath said—

      “The road of love is that which hath no beginning nor end; Take thou heed of thyself, man I ere thou place foot upon it.

      “And the wise, knowing that there are three things whose effect upon himself no man can foretell—namely, desire of woman, the dice-box, and the drinking of ardent spirits—find total abstinence from them the best of rules. Yet, after all, if there is no cow, we must milk the bull.”

      The advice was, of course, excellent, but the hapless lover could not help thinking that on this occasion it came a little too late. However, after a pause he returned to the subject and said, “I have ventured to tread that dangerous way, be its end pain or pleasure, happiness or destruction.” He then hung down his head and sighed from the bottom of his heart.

      “She is the person who appeared to us at the tank?” asked the pradhan’s son, moved to compassion by the state of his master.

      The prince assented.

      “O great king,” resumed the minister’s son, “at the time of going away had she said anything to you? or had you said anything to her?”

      “Nothing!” replied the other laconically, when he found his friend beginning to take an interest in the affair.

      “Then,” said the minister’s son, “it will be exceedingly difficult to get possession of her.”

      “Then,” repeated the Raja’s son, “I am doomed to death; to an early and melancholy death!”

      “Humph!” ejaculated the young statesman rather impatiently, “did she make any sign, or give any hint? Let me know all that happened: half confidences are worse than none.”

      Upon which the prince related everything that took place by the side of the tank, bewailing the false shame which had made him dumb, and concluding with her pantomime.

      The pradhan’s son took thought for a while. He thereupon seized the opportunity of representing to his master all the evil effects of bashfulness when women are concerned, and advised him, as he would be a happy lover, to brazen his countenance for the next interview.

      Which the young Raja faithfully promised to do.

      “And, now,” said the other, “be comforted, O my master! I know her name and her dwelling-place. When she suddenly plucked the lotus flower and worshipped it, she thanked the gods for having blessed her with a sight of your beauty.”

      Vajramukut smiled, the first time for the last month.

      “When she applied it to her ear, it was as if she would have explained to thee, ‘I am a daughter of the Carnatic: [54] and when she bit it with her teeth, she meant to say that ‘My father is Raja Dantawat, [55]’ who, by-the-bye, has been, is, and ever will be, a mortal foe to thy father.”

      Vajramukut shuddered.

      “When she put it under her foot it meant, ‘My name is Padmavati. [56]’ ”

      Vajramukut uttered a cry of joy.

      “And when she placed it in her bosom, ‘You are truly dwelling in my heart’ was meant to be understood.”

      At these words the young Raja started up full of new life, and after praising with enthusiasm the wondrous sagacity of his dear friend, begged him by some contrivance to obtain the permission of his parents, and to conduct him to her city. The minister’s son easily got leave for Vajramukut to travel, under pretext that his body required change of water, and his mind change of scene. They both dressed and armed themselves for the journey, and having taken some jewels, mounted their horses and followed the road in that direction in which the princess had gone.

      Arrived after some days at the capital of the Carnatic, the minister’s son having disguised his master and himself in the garb of travelling traders, alighted and pitched his little tent upon a clear bit of ground in one of the suburbs. He then proceeded to inquire for a wise woman, wanting, he said, to have his fortune told. When the prince asked him what this meant, he replied that elderly dames who professionally predict the future are never above ministering to the present, and therefore that, in such circumstances, they are the properest persons to be consulted.

      “Is this a treatise upon the subject of immorality, devil?” demanded the King Vikram ferociously. The Baital declared that it was not, but that he must tell his story.

      The person addressed pointed to an old woman who, seated before the door of her hut, was spinning at her wheel. Then the young men went up to her with polite salutations and said, “Mother, we are travelling traders, and our stock is coming after us; we have come on in advance for the purpose of finding a place to live in. If you will give us a house, we will remain there and pay you highly.”

      The old woman, who was a physiognomist as well as a fortune-teller, looked at the faces of the young men and liked them, because their brows were wide, and their mouths denoted generosity. Having listened to their words, she took pity upon them and said kindly, “This hovel is yours, my masters, remain here as long as you please.” Then she led them into an inner room, again welcomed them, lamented the poorness of her abode, and begged them to lie down and rest themselves.

      After some interval of time the old woman came to them once more, and sitting down began to gossip. The minister’s son upon this asked her, “How is it with thy family, thy relatives, and connections; and what are thy means of subsistence?” She replied, “My son is a favourite servant in the household of our great king Dantawat, and your slave is the wet-nurse of the Princess Padmavati, his eldest child. From the coming on of old age,” she added, “I dwell in this house, but the king provides for my eating and drinking. I go once a day to see the girl, who is a miracle of beauty and goodness, wit and accomplishments, and returning thence, I bear my own griefs at home. [57]”

      In a few days the young Vajramukut had, by his liberality, soft speech, and good looks, made such progress in nurse Lakshmi’s affections that, by the advice of his companion, he ventured to broach the subject ever nearest his heart. He begged his hostess, when she went on the morrow to visit the charming Padmavati, that she would be kind enough to slip a bit of paper into the princess’s hand.

      “Son,” she replied, delighted with the proposal—and what old woman would not be?—“there is no need for putting off so urgent an affair till the morrow. Get your paper ready, and I will immediately give it.”

      Trembling with pleasure, the prince ran to find his friend, who was seated in the garden reading, as usual, and told him what the old nurse had engaged to do. He then began to debate about how he should write his letter, to cull sentences and to weigh phrases; whether “light of my eyes” was not too trite, and “blood of my liver” rather too forcible. At this the minister’s