Then he said: Sweet little Queen, although thou dost not know it, thy qualifications for the post of queen are such that they could not be surpassed. And the duties are easy to be learned, and the pleasures more than thou couldst dream. Only come with me, and I will show thee what they are. Or if thou wilt, I will draw thee a picture in the air, and hold it up before thee, to show thee as in a mirror thy life as a queen, and give thee a foretaste of its nectar. Hast thou never watched the bubbles on the surface of the stream? Dost thou not know how every bubble is like a little heaven, and glows for a moment with every colour of the sky, and bursts: but the sky remains? So is it with my picture. For like a bubble, it will burst as soon as painted, being only words: but the heaven which it shows thee in its mirror shall be thine, as long as life endures.
Then she said: Draw, then, thy picture, and let me see thy heaven. And she settled herself to listen, leaning her cheek upon her hand, and looking at the King so sagely that he shook with agitation, so intense was his desire to take her in his arms. And he exclaimed: Blue eyes, come and be my Queen, and I will put thee in a palace, and build it for thee seven stories high, of ebony and sandalwood, and of silver and of gold. O come and be my Queen, and thou shalt walk on pavements more worthy of thy little feet than this rough ground, on marble of many colours, and on floors of precious stones. Only be my Queen, and I will strip thee of thy bark, and wrap thee in silky webs and tissues coloured like the rainbow, till like the moon behind a filmy cloud, thy symmetry shall borrow beauty from tell-tale veils of gossamer and envelopes of woven gauze. Ah! come with me and be my little Queen, and I will load thy neck and arms with jewels, and thou shall play with heaps of pearl, and coral, and all the riches of the sea. Aye, shouldst thou prick thy finger, I will mend it with a ruby, and shouldst thou drop a tear, I will redeem it with a diamond, and try in vain to match, with turquoise or lapis-lazuli or opal, the colour of thine eyes. Ah! come, and slaves shall serve my dainty Queen with food on golden plates, and snow cold drinks in crystal cups, and when thou wilt, pour music in thy little ear. And elephants shall carry thee about, or thou shall ride on horses, or float on silent pools starred like the sky with a multitude of lotuses, or lie on couches softer than a flower, fanned in the heat of noon with scented leaves, or listening at midnight to the moonstones, oozing as they swing in the window's trellised frames. Ah! Blue-eyes, come and be my Queen, for I cannot do without thee, and all that I have said is nothing, for it is only the casket for thy soul. For I will be there, and serve thee all day long upon my knees. Ah! I will take thy soul, and steep it in elixir, and drown it in the perfume and the fragrance of stories and of dreams, and dye it with the colour strained from the subtle essences of far-off lakes of passion and emotion, lying in the distant land beyond the blue horizon where the earth and heaven meet. Aye! I would turn the three worlds upside down, only to be near thee, and watch the shadow of the pleasures I would find there reflected in thine eyes, O thou naïvest and most exquisite of queens.
And she watched him as he spoke, and when he stopped, she continued to look at him in silence. And then to his amazement, she dropped her eyes, and the colour rose a very little in her cheek, that was overshadowed by her long soft lashes, and she said: Nay, thou art only laughing at me, knowing my inexperience. And as thou saidst, thy words are only bubbles, beautiful, and bursting as they jostle one another, and delusive. Nor is this the kind of queen that I would be. And the King said, with curiosity: And what then, O maiden difficult to please, is thy conception of a queen? And she waited for a moment, and she said, keeping her eyes fixed upon the ground: Once my father told me of a queen very different from thine. And I cannot tell thee the story as he told it, for I am not apundit, as is he. But he told me of a king, who was set upon by enemies and driven from his throne. And when all the world abandoned him, a single friend remained to him, and that one was his queen: who followed him in exile, and lived with him in poverty, and wandered through the world behind him like his shadow, enjoying never one of the pleasures thou hast mentioned, but sharing all his evil fortune, a pleasure infinitely greater than them all. And when he died, she would not stay behind him, but followed him through the fire, into the other world.
[1] There is a beautiful Indian idea, that the foot of a pretty woman will cause a particular tree (I cannot recollect which) to break into blossom.
[2] "Kissed by the bees." (Note, that the third syllable rhymes, not with crumb, but with room, pronounced rather short.)
V
A PAINTED LADY
And the King listened with amazement, and when she ended, he looked at her with eyes that glistened, and a heart that swelled towards her as she sat with downcast eyes, as if ashamed of her words, before him on the ground. And he struck his hands together, and exclaimed to himself: Ha! very wonderful is the way of the Creator, who teaches all his creatures the law of their behaviour, without the means of any master. For this mud-born[1] pure white lotus of a maiden has understood without assistance and as it were by native instinct, the whole duty of a faithful wife, even before she has so much as seen a man. And then he said: Sweet little ascetic, apt pupil of a wise old father, whom thou dost resemble not only in thy hair, thou hast administered reproof to me, deservedly. And whereas I thought, in my folly, to instruct thee, it was I that received a lesson, in this matter of the way of queens. And now I see, that I spoke more truly than I knew, when I said that thou wert admirably fitted to be a queen. Now, therefore, thou art myguru, and I am thy disciple, and thou shalt teach me all that I do not know. Begin then, my pretty littleguru: give me lessons, for I need them. And she laughed, and blushed, and said: Again thou art laughing at me: for how could a simple forest maiden teach anything to one, who like thyself, had lived in cities, and mixed with other men and women? And the King said quickly: Ah! dear Blue-eyes, just for that very reason is it that thou hast already taught me many things that I never knew before. For they who live in cities have their souls tainted as it were and poisoned by bad associations, whereas thine is as pure as the flowers in thy hair. And therefore, as thou hast taught me about queens, teach me also about kings. What should he be like, whom thou wouldst be willing to follow through the world?
And she looked at him for a moment, and then she dropped her eyes, and turned away her head, and was silent. And as he watched her, the King saw the colour rising on her neck, till it reached the roots of her dark hair, like the flush of eve climbing the snowy summit of Himalaya, when day is dead. And he said to himself in ecstasy: Ha! so this pure digit of the ice-cold moon, even in the solitary darkness of the night, before the dawn of love, has dreamed of a sun which she has never seen. And O that I could dare to think myself the sunny lover corresponding to her dream, destined to touch her soul, as my question did her body, into red! But let me beware, lest I scare my timid fawn by a too abrupt approach. And then he said: Dear little blue-eyed Queen, forgive me, if I roused thy maiden shame by a rash and ill-mannered curiosity. It is enough for me to know, that the king of thy pure fancy must be worthy of his queen: and as much above all other men, as thou art different and above all other women.
And then, with her eyes still fixed upon the ground, she began to draw upon the step with her foot. And she said softly: And in what do I differ from all other women? And the King said: Blue-eyes, ask me rather in what respect thou art the same. For thy points of difference are so many, that it would take long to tell them all. But notwithstanding, if thou wilt, I will try, and paint thy portrait for thee in contrast to the others, and hold thy image up before thee, reflected on the mirror of my soul. And she said: Try: for I desire to learn how I differ from the others. Then he said: Look, then, at me, that I may see thee before I begin. And she raised her eyes, and looked straight at him, blushing a very little, and then smiled, and looked down, and waited as he spoke.
Then the King said: Blue-eyes, every woman is a woman, and so art thou: and this is what thou hast, in common with all others of thy sex. And yet, in every special property of woman thou hast something of thine own, which marks thee like a seal, and stamps thee as a thing distinct and peculiar, and other than them all. For others have blue eyes, but thine are bluer, and other lips are red, but thine are redder, and other brows are black, but thine is blacker, and other smiles are white, but thine, O thine is like a snowflake or the petal of a new young lotus bud. Dark, dark is hair, but thine is like the midnight, and many feet are small, but not as thine are. And O thy arms are softer and more rounded, and thy waist is more enticing, and the two proud swelling sister milky foes upon thy breast, more erect and more provoking: and yet thy step is lighter and thy walk is more bewitching and thy voice's murmur sweeter and thy laughter more delicious and thy soul fresher and more frank and thy heart it may be harder than that of any woman that I have ever seen. Moreover, all others of thy sex are tame, and thou art wild. Then she said: What is the distinction, for I do not understand? And the King said: Sweet, I cannot tell thee: and yet it is a difference far greater than all the others put together. For all things that are tame are, as it were, an incarnation and embodiment of the littleness of men: but all things that are wild, as thou art, are, as it were, a portion of the Deity. For thy behaviour differs from that of other women, as does a wild vine gadding at its will from the trained flowers in a king's garden, and thy great blue eyes are utterly without hypocrisy, and resemble those of a falcon or a child. And thou thyself art like the young beautiful heifer of a wild white bull. And I know not how to tell thee what I mean, when I say that thou art wild: and yet it is just this very quality in thee which drives me to distraction. But see, now, the evening as it falls, and the water of the great river flowing with its surface unruffled by any breath of wind: see, how the cranes here and there upon the brink are mirrored in its water, and yonder pair of swans are, as it were, echoed by another pair that swim below them upside down; and the peacock on the temple wall glitters in the last rays of the sun with emerald and blue and gold: now thou seemest, as it were, a part of it all, and as it were the soul of all this body, and like a jewel in its proper setting, and at one with all the creatures of the wood. And I begin to fear, lest thou shouldst suddenly plunge into the water, and disappear, leaving me alone.
And as he spoke, there came again a murmur and a rustle in the air. And he listened and exclaimed with anxiety: Ha! what is that? Then she said: It is only the beating of the wings of the waterfowl returning to their roost for the night.
[1] This single word, a common name in Sanskrit for the lotus, possesses an incomparable, moral and æsthetic, mingled beauty, which can only be poorly rendered in English by five words instead of one. Mud-born is the word: but the meaning it covers is the pure white lotus that springs out of the thick black mire: just as the brightest rainbow is seen against the darkest cloud.
VI
SHADOWS
And the King drew a deep breath, like a man saved from a great danger. And she saw it, and said to him: Thou art afraid. Of what art thou afraid? And the King said: Ah! dear Blue-eyes, I am indeed afraid, but of this alone, lest something should occur to cut short our conversation. And shall I not be afraid of death? For as my life began with the commencement of our converse, so its end will be my death. And like a miser, the very treasure that I worship fills me with despair, because the fear of losing it mixes with the joy of its possession, and I start at every noise. And as I said before, more than anything I fear lest thou shouldst suddenly escape into the water. And I am sorely tempted to take hold of thee, and tie thee like my horse to the tree, to prevent thee from escaping.
Then she laughed and exclaimed: There is no need: for I have no desire to escape from thee. And how could I plunge into the water, unless I were a fish? Then he said: Dear, did thy father never tell thee of the nymphs that have their homes beneath the water? Or hast thou forgotten what he said? Or is it as I said, that thou thyself art one of them, seeking to deceive me? And she said: But what should lead thee to believe it? And he said: Every reason. For they are all marvellously beautiful, as thou art, and like thee, they suddenly appear, seated by pools and streams, and lure unhappy travellers like me to ruin and destruction. Then she said: And by what means do they destroy them? And the King said: Blue-eyes, by showing themselves for but an instant, and then disappearing, never to return, carrying away with them the hearts of their miserable victims, and leaving them instead inconsolable regret, and lovelorn longing for the beauty whose momentary vision robbed them of their soul. Therefore beware! and let me warn thee, that once having shown thyself, thou art absolutely bound to remain with me for ever: otherwise I shall be utterly undone. For if not, thou wert very wrong ever to have shown thyself at all, and deservest to be punished as a deceiver and a Thag.
Then she laughed, with laughter that was music to the King's ear. And she said, softly: But this is very hard: for how can those poor water-women help it, and is it any fault of theirs if they happen to be seen by those who happen to pass by and are not blind? Nor was it my fault, if I was seen by thee: rather was it thine, for coming into my wood upon thy horse. Then the King said: Blue-eyes, I blame thee not at all, always provided that thou dost not jump into the water, or leave me in any other way. And she said: But is it not rather I that have to be afraid, lest thou shouldst leave me? Is it my sex only that deceives, and are there no water-men, as well as water-women? And the King said eagerly: Ah! dear Blue-eyes, and would it be a grief to thee, if I should go away? And she waited a little while, before she replied. And then she said, looking at him with playful eyes: Didst thou not say thyself that this world was full of men? And if, then, one has come into the wood to-day, another may to-morrow. And the King started, and he looked at her with rapture. And he said to himself: Ha! she is provoking me, and ah! she is delicious. Surely the very elements must have in them the nature of a woman, since even in this empty wood, this intoxicating maiden has somehow or other managed to acquire the coquetry of her sex: most of all charming there, where it was least to be expected. And then he said aloud: Dear little daughter of an Apsaras, let thine other man beware, whoever he may be: for I will set guards about the wood, like a ring, to put to death whoever they may find.
Then she looked at him a little while, and she said: See, I have told thee all I have to tell, but thou hast told me absolutely nothing. Art thou then a king, to speak of placing guards about the wood? And the King said to himself: Ha! she is clever, and has caught me in a trap. And yet I will not tell her who I am, for if she knew, she might be dazzled by my kingdom, and fall in love with that, rather than with me. And he said: Surely, as we agreed in the beginning, if thou art a queen, I must be a king. And I will not allow any other man to tamper with my queen. And I am of good caste, and a Rajpoot, and not ashamed of my family. But what if I were in very truth a king, and banished: wouldst thou follow me through the world, as thou saidst? And she laughed and said: Nay, but I am not yet thy queen, and to follow thee is not my duty, but that of thy Queen or Queens. And the King looked at her narrowly, and said to himself: Is she speaking at random, or can it be that she is curious, or jealous, and anxious to discover whether she has a rival? And he said: Blue-eyes, King or not, this is certain, that I neither have nor will have any queen or queens whatever but thyself. Nor have I ever seen any woman in the world, till I came into this wood, that I would wish to make my wife. And therefore tell me, for as yet thou hast not answered: if I were a king indeed, wouldst thou come away and be my Queen?
And she said: I am of good family, and not independent[1]; and it is not for myself, but for my father to dispose of me. And then, the very instant she had spoken, she uttered a sharp cry, and started to her feet, and stood. And the King leaped up in terror, exclaiming: Alas, what is the matter? For he thought she had been bitten by a snake. But he looked and saw nothing. And he drew near her, and saw that she was deadly pale, and drooping like a flower left without water in the heat of noon. And he said again, with anxiety: Alichumbitá: what is it? But she never answered, but stood silent, gazing at the river, as though he were not there.
And the King stood just beside her, looking at her with affection and alarm. And now the light was changing into darkness, for the sun had sunk behind the western mountain, and on the trees across the river the disc of the full-moon was sitting waiting like a thief watching the lord of day away before stealing silently up into his domain. And far away down the river, a solitary star was shining in the south, below in the black water, and above in the dark blue sky, over which great bats were flapping noiselessly, like dusky ghosts coming by night to haunt the spots they loved as living birds. And the voices of the forest day had died away, and in their place the insects of the night were calling to one another to begin: and all about the shadows in the trees the fireflies were flitting in and out. And the King heard his horse whinnying and pawing on the ground, impatient at being tied so long, and fretting to be gone.
[1] No woman in India, even in a fairy tale, is ever independent and her own mistress, unless she belongs to a class outside the pale of moral consideration.
VII
TWILIGHT
And still as she did not move, at last the King broke silence. And he said: Dear, I know not what is wrong, but I would give my life, to save thee from even a very little pain. And now the day is done, and very soon it will be night. Dost thou not hear the horse, calling, and telling me it is time to be away? And yet I cannot leave thee, if I would. And now again I ask thee, wilt thou not come away with me from this dark wood, and live and play with me for ever, as we have done to-day? For in the time that we have been together, thou hast taken absolute possession of my soul, and filled it with thyself, leaving no other room in it, so that everything except thee is utterly ousted and forgotten and obliterated. And I feel as if I had known thee, not for an hour, but for a hundred thousand years: and it cannot be but that we were King and Queen in many births before, and destined by reason of the depth of our devotion to meet again in this one also. And I will make thy life all that I said, and more: and I will be thy father and thy mother and thy other self, reflecting thee as in a mirror, joyous when thou art joyous, and sad when thou art sad. And if thou dost regret to leave thy father and the wood, no matter: for I will bring thee back to it, as often as thou wilt. And we will make this little temple as it were a pleasure arbour, to last us till we die, and remind me for ever of the moment when I saw thy two great eyes, like two great blue lotus flowers, looking at me, out of the magic shadow of the wood.
And then all at once, she burst into a passion of tears. And she said sobbing: Now thou must go away, almost as soon as thou art come. Why didst thou come into the wood, only to destroy me? For till I saw thee, I was happy, and I took pleasure in the river, and the flowers and the trees: but now they are all become hateful in my eyes. For I cannot bear to let thee go, and be without thee: and yet I cannot keep thee, or go with thee from the wood. And the King said, in despair: Alas! and why canst thou not come away? Then she said: As my father wishes me to marry, so I must. But thy coming took me by surprise, and robbed me of my reason: and lost in the joy of thy discovery, and watching thee, and listening to thy voice, I had utterly forgotten everything but thee; and I suddenly remembered, as I told thee of my father, all about it, and now it is a grief to me that ever I saw thee in the wood. And now all is over, and everything is changed, and thou must go away at once, and leave me to forget, if I can, that ever I have seen thee. For I cannot disobey my father, or bring discredit on my family, by having anything to do with thee: for I am intended for another. And the King exclaimed: Ah! no! it cannot be. Surely thou art raving. Or who can it be, for whom thou art preserved by thy father, as a deposit and a trust? And he said to himself: Only let me learn who it is, and I will find him, no matter who and where he is, and rid the earth of him, and get her for myself.
Then she said: Far away in the north, on the edge of the wood, there is a King, Rudrálaka by name: and one day he will come into the wood and claim me for his bride. For so it was revealed to my father, when he enquired of my mother, long ago, to whom he should give me, when I was of age. And my mother went to Indra, and asked him; and Indra asked Maheshwara, who knows the present, the future, and the past. And how can he be deceived, or how can that which he foretold fail to come to pass? And now I see very well that it was a crime in me, ever to have had anything to do with thee: and in the madness produced by thy appearance, I have acted in a manner unworthy of my caste: for I am the promised bride of another man. And now there is nothing but for thee to go away as quickly as thou canst, and forget that ever thou didst see me in the wood.
And the King stood still behind her as she spoke, filled with amazement and relief. And he watched her weeping, with pride and delight; and he said to himself: Certainly she is of good family, and its very crest-jewel, and like a diamond of pure water; for she will not come away with me, but is faithful to her duty, even against her will. But once again I will test her, like gold in the fire, before I tell her who I am. But what, if she does not stand the test? Why, then I will forgive her: for how could I blame her for yielding and allowing herself to be defeated in my cause? But if she stands firm, and resists me, then I shall know that my pearl is priceless, and my emerald without a flaw.
And then he said aloud: Out upon this Rudrálaka, for he is like a cloud that has suddenly intervened, to cast a dark and horrid shadow over our sunny garden of delight, and an obstacle which only the lord of obstacles can move. And what is this Rudrálaka, to prevail over the lord of the elephant face in conjunction with the God who has flowers for his bow?[1] And cannot I persuade thee to forget, one whom thou hast never even seen, and who is to thee nothing but a name? And who knows even whether he exists at all, and is not merely a dream of thy father's, an illusion brought into his aged head by weakness arising from severe emaciation? And wilt thou then sacrifice thy happiness and mine to a dream? And he waited for a moment, and he said: See, thou art undecided, wavering between thy duty and my love, like a flower shaken by opposing breezes. A flower thou art, and a flower shall decide for thee. And this red lotus, which has lingered so long near thy heart that it must know it, and resembles it in colour, shall be the oracle of thy destiny. And he leaned over her, and took very gently, without touching her, the lotus on her breast, and drew it away, while she offered no resistance. And he said: One petal is for thee, and one for me. Now will I pluck the petals one by one, first for thee, and second for myself. And if thine is the last, thou shalt stay, and I will go away without thee: and if mine, thou shall cast away Rudrálaka, like the stalk when it is stripped of the leaves, and forget him, and come with me and be my wife.
And then, one by one, he began to strip the red lotus of its leaves, and let them fall upon the ground, saying as he did so: This, for thee: this, for me. And as he counted, she watched him, with tears sparkling in her eyes, till only one remained. And he held it out towards her, saying, with a smile: This, for me. And then, all at once she broke into a laugh that was mingled with sobs and sorrow and indignation. And she exclaimed: Ah! thou art cunning, and thou art very cruel. Thou knewest very well that there were but sixteen petals on the lotus,[2] and that thine must be the last. And thou art unkind, prolonging my torture, and striving, by unfairness, and temptation, to recall my resolution: yet if I did, thou wouldst only think the worse of me, even though thine would be the gain. Go, go quickly, for I may not come away with thee. And as she spoke, she turned paler than theKumudathat opens in the dusk, and staggered. And she leaned against a pillar of the tree, and her eyes shone in the moonlight, and she said very quietly: Go now, take thy horse, and go away; and go very quickly: for the decision is too hard for me, and I cannot bear it very long. And it would be a stain on thee, to tempt any longer the wife of another man.
And the King gazed at her, struck with admiration and amazement. And he said to himself: Ha! where is the simple forest maiden who sat to listen at my feet, for in her place I see one whose virtue I have roused, and who orders me to go with the dignity of an insulted queen? And I stand before her like a culprit, rejoicing inwardly at the failure of my own attempt. And as he stood, lost in wonder at her moonlit unearthly beauty, and ready to fall and worship at her feet, suddenly there fell upon his ear a murmur and a rustle in the air. And he listened, and all at once the horse began to neigh; for it was the trample of horses and the thunder of their hoofs. And as they looked, lo! a band of horsemen issued from the wood, and came towards them; and in a moment they were surrounded by the attendants of the King.
[1] Ganesha and Kama, the gods of good luck and love; certainly two formidable antagonists.
[2] It is one of the conventions of Hindoo poetry that the petals of the lotus are eight or sixteen in number.
VIII
QUINTESSENCE
And then, with a cry, Alichumbitá sprang back, and stood in dismay, on the very brink of the river, looking from the King to his followers and back again. And the King watched her with ecstasy, and he said to himself: Now could I almost forgive my attendants for this exasperating interruption. For she looks like a stag whose retreat has been cut off by the hunters, standing at bay, with every graceful limb quivering and poised on the very verge of instant action, striking terror as it were into even the hearts of her pursuers by her magnificent defiance, and cowing them by the startled pride of her haughty and yet timid eyes, and holding them as it were spellbound by the beautiful agitation incarnate in her form, and reaching its supreme expression in the deep heave of her glorious bosom. And I can see that my followers are divided in their minds: for all their respect for me cannot prevent them from transferring their allegiance to her, and doing homage to the true deity manifest in her lovely shape. Ha! beauty is the real ruler of the three worlds, and all others are usurpers and pretenders and emptiness and show. For if I were unknown to them, my followers would pay me no regard at all: whereas they have all become slaves to my mistress, as I did myself, by a single glance at her goddess mien.
And then, as his attendants dismounted from their horses, and stood before him in attitudes of respect, the King called to his chief huntsman. And he said to him: Tell this lady who they are that stand before her. Then that huntsman said with deference: Lady, we are a very few of the devoted followers of King Rudrálaka: and having hunted for him all day long, we pray now to be forgiven, if we have succeeded at last in finding him only to be troublesome by our intrusion. And the King said: Now go, taking my horse; and wait for me a little way off, yet not beyond a call. Then those huntsmen all retired, stealing glances as they went at the King's companion, and vanished again within the wood.
And when they were gone, the King stood awhile in silence, gazing with affection at Alichumbitá, who was lost in confusion and astonishment. And then he said: Blue-eyes, now thou hast heard. And will thou now do thy duty, and obey thy father, and justify the Great God's foresight, and come away with thy true husband and be his Queen? Or hast thou still a horror of King Rudrálaka? Ah! forgive me for trying thee, a thing which I cannot, nevertheless, regret. For thou wert proof against my bribes, and hast doubled the worth of thy wondrous beauty by exhibiting the quality of its inner soul. And she stood for a moment, changing colour, first red, and then white, as if the blood which had mantled in her face had like those huntsmen withdrawn again into the wood of her heart from modesty at the sight of him. And as he took her by the hand, she hid her face against his breast, laughing as she wept, and raining as it were nectar with her tears into the heart of the King. So they stood together in the silence, while the King stroked her dark hair gently with his left hand. And at last he said: Sweet little Queen, thou hast seen men enough now, for one day. Know, that they are all thy servants, from the King down.
And suddenly, she raised her face, and looked at him with eyes that were full of smiles and tears and shyness and playfulness and blue colour and the tremble of the moon. And she said: Canst thou tell of what I thought, as I looked upon all those men? And he said: Of what? Then she said: They seemed to me to be worthy only to be servants to such as thee: and I saw that it was as I had thought, and that mine was a man even among men. And then she stopped, and she said again in a low voice: Now, if thou wilt, I wilt give thee an answer to that question of thine which I left unanswered. And the King said: Which? And she said: Dost thou not remember? Thou didst ask me, what was he like whom I would follow through the world. Now canst thou guess, or shall I tell thee? And the King leaned over her, bending her a little back as she lay in his strong arms, and as she closed her eyes, he kissed her trembling lips, which shrank a little from the touch of his own. And after a while, he looked, and saw heaven reflected in the eyes of his wife beneath him, and beyond them, their two shadows, clinging together, black on the moonlit ground. And suddenly he pointed, and said to her: See, thy wish is gratified, and thy shadow has come to life. And she put both her arms round his neck, and drew him down, and kissed him again. And she said: It is not my shadow, but it is I myself that have come to life, and thou art the life that has come to me. And hadst thou gone away without me, I should not be living now: for I would have thrown myself into the river, the moment I was alone. And the King said, with a smile: Did I not tell thee, that I feared lest thou shouldst plunge into the river? And she laughed, and said: Let me go, and see. And they looked at each other for a moment, and laughed without a reason. And they embraced each other passionately, and the King said: Give me now another kiss. So she did. And he said: Now another, and another. And so they continued, she giving and he receiving; while the night passed away.
And at last he said: Now I must carry my property away with me, for thou art no longer thy father's but mine. And we will come again, and tell thy father, but in the meantime, I will take thee, for never will I part from thee again. And she said: Do with me as thou wilt: so only that thou dost not leave me.
Then he said: Blue-eyes, thou hast seen a horse to-day for the first time, and now thou shalt ride one also. And she said with a smile: But how can I ride without falling? Then he said: Fear nothing. Dost thou think that I would trust my treasure on a horse alone? But that good horse, which brought into the wood to-day a single rider, shall carry back a pair. And he has run a race to-day that will have robbed him of his fire. Wait, now, there, for a little while, till I return: and beware! that thou dost not jump into the water. And as she smiled, they kissed each other again with insatiable lips. And then he went towards the wood, and shouted for his men. And when they came, he gave them orders, and they brought his horse, and prepared him as he said, placing for her reception soft rugs upon his back. And the King mounted, and he said: Watch me when I go, and follow me at a distance. And then he rode back to where she waited for him by the river bank.
Then he came close up to her and said: Give me now thy left hand, and place thy little foot on mine, and I will lift thee up before me. So she stretched out to him her hand, shrinking from the horse as it tossed its head and trampled the ground, and seeking with timidity for an opportunity to place her foot upon his own. So as she waited, gazing at the horse with doubtful eyes, the King laughed. And he exclaimed: This way will not do, and now I must make another. And suddenly, he turned the horse towards her with his knee, and letting fall the reins, he leaned from the saddle and caught her in his arms, and lifted her up before him. And at that moment the horse started off, and the King felt for the reins with his left hand, holding her in his right arm, while she clung to his neck for fear of falling. And for a while the King let the horse go, for the sweetness of her terrified embrace was such that he said to himself: Ah! could this only last for ever!
Then after a while, he checked the horse, and brought him to a walk. And as they went slowly through the forest, now in the shadow and now in the moonlit glades, he let the reins fall on his horse's neck, and took his wife in both his arms, kissing her lips that kissed him again, and murmuring inarticulately words without a meaning, and filling his soul to the very brim with the intoxication of her shadowy eyes and the perfume of her hair that hung about her escaping from its knot. And suddenly, there came as it were night over his eyes. And he felt her slipping from his embrace, which closed in vain on empty air. And before him her face wavered and flickered, and it lit up like a dying lamp for a single instant with vivid brightness, and then went out and disappeared.
IX
ECHOES AND REGRETS
And in an instant, he saw before him, no wood and no horse. But he found himself floating as at first like a cloud in the blue sky, with his wife still in his arms. And he said: Ha! how is this? I lost thee but now in the forest, and here we are together in the sky. But I seem to have but just awoken from a dream. And wert thou then with me in my dream? Then she said: Yes. And as she spoke, she caught him in a convulsive grasp, for she knew that the end was come. And as she gazed at him with agony in her eyes, he said: Ah! dost thou remember how we rode together, and lingered as I brought thee home, in that delicious wood? Dost thou remember how we laughed, and how we wept for joy? Dost thou remember how at last thou didst fall asleep from sheer fatigue, and I carried thee sleeping home? Dost thou remember how I sat and watched thee in thy sleep, and how at thine awakening thou wast frightened, forgetting where thou wert? Dost thou remember, how everything was new to thee, and strange, and how all day long I laughed for joy to see thee, my plaything and my pretty child? Dost thou remember how we played at King and Queen, counting the whole world as a straw, and never parting, night or day? Dost thou remember how thou wast by day, the sun, and by night, the moon, of all the hours, lighting up my gloomy palace with the blaze of thy beauty and the soft light of thy love? Dost thou remember how thy voice echoed in my empty halls, and thy laughter filled up all its corners with music and delight? Dost thou remember how I used to follow thee about from room to room, and how sometimes, rogue! thou wouldst hide from me, to drive me to despair? Dost thou remember that last night, when I parted from thee to go to war, leaving my soul behind? But ah! alas! for the day, when I rode like a whirlwind into the court, and they told me of thy death!
And as he spoke, there shot through his heart a mortal pang like a sharp sword. And at that instant, his wife vanished, and he felt himself falling, falling like a heavy stone, down through empty space. And he uttered a fearful cry, for he understood that he was returning swiftly back to earth. And struggling with vain and frenzied grief and rage, he screamed aloud, in the ecstasy of despair: Ah! my wife! my wife! Ah! not to earth! ah! not again! not without thee! not without thee!
Epilogue
But in the meanwhile, the King's attendants sat on in the palace hall, waiting while the King slept. And he slept on, while they waited, and they watched him lying very still, on his couch upon the floor.
So as they watched and waited, the day slowly passed away. And hour succeeded hour, as the sun moved steadily on to his home behind the western hill. And all the while, the old merchant remained motionless in his place, stiller even than the sleeping King, for he never even breathed. So they watched and waited on, till for very weakness their souls were almost parting from their bodies, and slumber began to steal over their eyes. And day began to turn to twilight, and the darkness began as it were to gather and creep out of the corners of the room, in which was heard no sound, save the deep breathing of the sleeping King.
And suddenly, like a flash of lightning, there rang through that silent room a cry, that pierced those weary watchers' ears like the point of a molten spear; for it resembled the cry of a woman, forced by the agony of abject fear into the very mouth of death. And as they bounded to their feet, and looked towards the King, there burst from his heart another cry, and yet another. And they saw his body, like a worm, writhing and quivering as it lay; and all at once he leaped from the couch and stood erect, and staggered across the floor.
And he stood there, swaying like a reed, and gazing straight before him, seeing nothing, with open eyes, that were dazed with the depth of their own despair. And every limb of his body shook, and drops of sweat stood on his brow, and his breath came hard and fast and hoarse, from a chest that heaved and trembled like the bosom of a frightened girl. So he stood, while they all watched him, silent and aghast, and listening as it were to the beating of their own hearts.
So as they watched him, holding their breath, he began to wail like a child. And he wept aloud, with great sobs, that shook him from head to foot, till the tears rose and stood in the eyes of all that saw him, as if drawn from their sources by the sight of his own, which fell on the ground like rain. And all at once, he stopped short. And he looked up, and stared before him, with weeping and imploring eyes, that hunted as it were among them for something they could not find.
And as they watched him silently, spellbound by those troubled eyes, they saw their expression alter, and over them pass a dreadful change, till like a fire they shone with scorn and hatred and disdain. And he stepped forward, and spat at them all as they stood before him, stretching out both his arms. And as he did so, his gaze was as it were caught by the glitter of the glancing gems that hung upon his wrists. And he looked at them for a moment, and suddenly he took those jewels and tore them from his hands and arms, and from his neck and breast. And he broke them all to pieces, snapping asunder cords and chains, and tossed all over the palace hall pearls and rubies and all the rest, till they rattled on the floor like hail. And when he had no more jewels to tear, he fell upon his clothes; and he stripped them off him with giant strength, and rent them into bits and shreds, till he stood before them breathing hard, dripping with sweat, and bleeding, as naked as he was born.
And as his eyes ran over them all as they shrank before him, they fell suddenly upon the old merchant, who sat still in the self-same place, never having stirred. So when the King saw him, suddenly he began to laugh, with laughter that was divided from sobbing by only a single hair. And he exclaimed: Ha! old vendor, art thou there, waiting for thy price? For now my dream is over, and it only remains to pay. Take for thy dream, my whole kingdom, and all that it contains. And even so, thou art unpaid: for such a dream could not be ransomed, even by the three great worlds.
And then, with anguish in his eyes, he threw his arms to heaven. And he uttered a long low cry, like the howl of a dog whose lord is dead, and turned, and ran out of the hall.
And they stood, like pictures on a wall, while the sound of his disappearing steps died away upon their ears. And then in an instant, the hall was filled with tumult. But the King's physician rushed forward. And he exclaimed: The King's frenzy has come again, and much I fear, that it will never again depart. But as for this old merchant, who has given the King a deadly drug, let him not escape. Seize him, and let him answer for the madness of the King.
Then the guards surrounded that old merchant, but he never moved or stirred. And suddenly, seized with anger, the captain of the guards stooped down, and seized him by the beard, to drag him roughly to his feet. And lo! that old man's head came off his neck, and hung by the beard in his hand. And they looked, and saw, that the body was hollow, and empty, and without a soul, like the trunk of a withered tree.
Then they gazed at one another, with open mouths, and eyes that were dull with fear. And after a while, the chaplain spoke. And he said slowly: Surely this was an old Rákshasa, playing with the King's life. Or who knows? For it may be, the Deity took this form, to punish the King, by means of a dream, for the sins of a former birth.
FrontispieceFrontispiece
Hindu script
Translated from the Original Manuscript
Hindu script
Love turns venom, now I see,Flouted Beauties vipers be
COPYRIGHT, 1906BYF. W. BAIN
Dedicatedto theOther Sex
Preface
More generally known, perhaps, than any other Hindoo legend, is the story of the demon, RÁHU, who brings about ECLIPSES, by devouring the Sun and Moon. For when the gods had upchurned the nectar, the delectable Butter of the Brine, Ráhu's mouth watered at the very sight of it: and "in the guise of a god" he mingled unperceived among them, to partake. But the Sun and Moon, the watchful Eyes of Night and Day, detected him, and told Wishnu, who cast at him his discus, and cut his body from his head: but not until the nectar was on the way down his throat. Hence, though the body died, the head became immortal: and ever since, a thing unique, "no body and all head," a byword among philosophers, he takes revenge on Sun and Moon, the great Taletellers, by "gripping" them in his horrid jaws, and holding on, till he is tired, or can be persuaded to let go. Hence, in some parts of India, the doleful shout of the country people at eclipses:Chor do! chor do![1] and hence, also, the primary and surface meaning of our title:A Digit of the Moon in the Demon's grip: in plain English, an eclipse of the moon. And yet, legend though it be, there is something in the old mythological way of putting the case, which describes the situation in eclipses far better than our arid scientific prose. I shall not easily forget, how, as we slid like ghosts at midnight, through the middle of the desert, along the Suez Canal,[2] I watched the ghastly pallor of the wan unhappy moon, as the horrible shadow crept slowly over her face, stealing away her beauty, and turning the lone and level sands that stretched away below to a weird and ashy blue, as though covering the earth with a sepulchral sympathetic pall. For we caught the "griesly terror," Ráhu, at his horrid work, towards the end of May, four years ago.
But our title has yet another meaning underneath the first, forAhi, the name employed for Ráhu (like all other figures in Indian mythology, he is known by many names), also means asnake.Beauty persecuted by a snakeis the subject of the story. That story will presently explain itself: but the relation betweenRáhu, or eclipses, and a snake is so curiously illustrated by a little insignificant occurrence that happened to myself, that the reader will doubtless forgive me for making him acquainted with it.
Being at Delhi, not many years ago, I seized the opportunity to visit the Kutub Minár. There was famine in the land. At every station I had passed upon the way were piled the hides of bullocks, and from the train you might see their skeletons lying, each one bleaching where it died for want of fodder, scattered here and there on the brown and burning earth; for even every river bed was waterless, and not a single blade of green could you descry, for many hundred miles. And hence it came about, that as I gazed upon the two emaciated hacks that were to pull me from the station, a dozen miles out, and as many more back, I could bring myself to sit behind them only by the thought that thereby I should save them from a load far greater than my own, that would have been their fate on my refusal. Therefore we started, and did ultimately arrive, in the very blaze of noon.
The Kutub Minár is a needle of red stone, that rises from a plain as flat as paper to a height of two hundred and fifty feet; and you might compare it, as you catch, approaching, glimpses of it at a distance, to a colossal chimney, a Pharos, or an Efreet of the Jinn. The last would be the best. For nothing on the surface of the earth can parallel the scene of desolation which unrolls itself below, if you climb its 380 steps and look out from the dizzy verge: a thing that will test both the muscle of your knees and the steadiness of your nerves. Round you is empty space: look down, the pillar bends and totters, and you seem to rock in air; you shudder, you are falling: and away, away below, far as the eye can carry, you see the dusty plain, studded with a thousand tombs and relics of forgotten kings. There is the grim old fortress of the Toghlaks: there is the singular observatory of the rájá astronomer, Jaya Singh: and there the tomb, Humaioon's tomb, before which Hodson, Hodson the brave, Hodson the slandered, Hodson the unforgotten, sat, for two long hours, still, as if man and horse were carved in stone, with the hostile crowd that loathed and feared him tossing and seething and surging round him, waiting for the last Mogul to come out and be led away. The air is thick, and sparkles with blinding dust and glare, and the wind whistles in your ears. Over the bones of dynasties, the hot wind wails and sobs and moans. Aye! if a man seeks for melancholy, I will tell him where to find it—at the top of the old Kutub Minár.
And then, that happened which I had foreseen. We had not gone a mile upon our homeward way, when one of the horses fell. Therefore, disregarding the asseverations of my rascally Jehu that the remaining animal was fully equal to the task alone, I descended, and proceeded on foot. But a ten-mile walk on the Delhi plain in the hottest part of the day is not a thing to be recommended. After plodding on for about two hours, I was, like Langland, "wery forwandred," and went me to rest, not alas! by a burnside, but in the shadow of one of the innumerable little tombs that stand along the dusty road. There I lay down and fell asleep.
Nothing induces slumber like exertion under an Indian sun. When I awoke, that sun was setting. A little way before me, the yellow walls of Delhi were bathed in a ruddy glow; the minarets of the Great Mosque stood out sharp against the clear unspotted amber sky. And as I watched them, I suddenly became aware that I was myself observed with interest by a dusky individual, who was squatted just in front of me, and who rose, salaaming, when he saw that I was awake. It appeared that I had, so to say, fallen into a "nest of vipers "; that I had unwittingly invaded the premises of a snake dealer, who, no doubt for solid reasons, had made my friendly tomb the temporary repository of his stock-in-trade.
The Indian snake charmer,gáruda, hawadiga,[3] or whatever else they call him, is as a rule but a poor impostor. He goes about with one fangless cobra, one rock snake, and one miserable mongoose, strangling at the end of a string. My dweller in tombs was richer than all his tribe in his snakes, and in his eyes. I have never seen anybody else with real cat's eyes: eyes with exactly that greenish yellow luminous glare which you see when you look at a cat in the dark. They gleamed and rolled in the evening sun, over a row of shining teeth, as their owner squatted down before me, liberating one after another from little bags and baskets an amazing multitude of snakes, which he fetched in batches from the interior of the tomb, till the very ground seemed alive with them.[4] Some of them he handled only with the greatest respect, and by means of an iron prong. Outside the Zoo (where they lose in effect) I never saw so many together before: and it is only when you see a number of these reptiles together that you realise what a strange uncanny being, after all, is a snake: and as you watch him, lying, as it were, in wait, beautiful exceedingly, but with a beauty that inspires you with a shudder, his eyes full of cruelty and original sin, and his tongue of calumny and malice, you begin to understand his influence in all religions. I was wholly absorbed in their snaky evolutions, and buried in mythological reminiscences, when mygárudaroused me suddenly, by saying:Huzoor, look!
He leaned over, and administered with his bare hand a vicious dig to a magnificent hamadryad that lay coiled upon itself in its open basket. The creature instantly sat up, with a surge of splendid passion, hissing, bowing, and expanding angrily its great tawny hood. Thegárudaput hispúngíto his lips, and blew for a while upon it a low and wheezy drone,—the invariable prelude to a littlejadoo, or black art,—which the beautiful animal appeared to appreciate: and then, pointing with the end of his pipe to the "spectacles" on its hood, he said, with that silky, insinuating smile which is characteristic of the scamp:Huzoor, dekko, namas karta[5]:—
Nágki phani, chánd ka dúkhUski badi, áp ka súkh.[6]
I did not understand his lunar allusion, but, judging that his rhyming gibberish, like that of the rascally priests in Apuleius, was a carefully prepared oracle of general application, kept in stock for the cozening of such prey as myself, I repeated to him my favourite Hindu proverb,[7] and gave him in exchange for his benevolent cheque on the future, a more commonplace article of present value, which led to our parting on the most amicable terms. But I did him injustice, perhaps. Long afterwards, having occasion to consult an astronomical chart, with reference to this very story, all at once I started, and in an instant, the golden evening, the walls of Delhi, and my friend of the many snakes and sinister eyes, suddenly rose up again into my mind. For there, staring at me out of the chart, was the mark on the cobra's head. It is the sign still used in modern astronomy for "the head and tail of the dragon," the nodes indicating the point of occultation, the symbol of eclipse.
What then induced or inspired thegárudato connect me with the moon? Was it really black art, divination, or was it only a coincidence? Reason recommends the latter alternative: and yet, the contrary persuasion is not without its charm. Who knows? It may be that the soul grows to its atmosphere as well as the body, and living in a land where dreams are realities, and all things are credible, and history is only a fairy tale—the land of the moon and the lotus and the snake, old gods and old ruins, former births, second sight, and idealism—it falls back, unconsciously mesmerised, under the spell of forgotten creeds.
POONA, April, 1906.
[1]Let go! Let go!
[2] Though nothing can be less romantic than a canal, gliding through that of Suez is a strange experience at night. Your great ship seems to move, swift and noiseless, through the very sand: and if only you could get there without knowing where you were, you would think that you were dreaming.
[3]Háwa, in Canarese, is the name of Ráhu.
[4] I did not count them, but there were several dozen, nearly all different. I have reason to believe that this man must have been one of the disciples of a former very celebrated snake charmer, who was known all over India.
[5]See, he makes obeisance.
[6] Which we may roughly render:Hood of snake brings joy and rue, this to moon and that to you. In all Oriental saws jingle counts for much.
[7] "Tutsi, in this world hobnob with everybody: for you never know in what guise the deity may present himself." In the original it is a rhyming stanza.
Contents
I.A Haunted BeautyII.A Total EclipseIII.A Fatal Kiss
A Haunted Beauty
May that triumphant Lord protect us, who as he stands in mysterious meditation, bathed in twilight, motionless, and ashy pale,[1] with the crystal moon in his yellow hair, appears to the host of worshippers on his left, a woman, and to those on his right, a man.
I
There lived of old, on the edge of the desert, a rájá of the race of the sun. And like that sun reflected at midday in the glassy depths of the Mánasa lake, he had an image of himself in the form of a son,[2] who exactly resembled him in every particular, except age. And he gave him the name of Aja, for he said: He is not another, but my very self that has conquered death, and passed without birth straight over into another body. Moreover, he will resemble his ancestor, and the god after whom I have called him Aja.[3] So as this son grew up, his father's delight in him grew greater also. For he was tall as ashálatree, and very strong, and yet like another God of Love: for his face was more beautiful than the face of any woman, with large eyes like lapis-lazuli, and lips like laughter incarnate: so that his father, as often as he looked at him, said to himself: Surely the Creator has made a mistake, and mixed up his male and female ingredients, and made him half and half. For if only he had had a twin sister, it would have been difficult to tell with certainty which was which.
And then, when Aja was eighteen, his father died. And immediately, his relations conspired against him, led by his maternal uncle. And they laid a plot, and seized him at night, and bound him when he was asleep: for they dared not attack him when he was awake, for fear of his courage and his prodigious strength. And they deliberated over him, as he lay bound, what they should do with him: and some of them were for putting him to death, then and there. But the prime minister, who was in the plot, persuaded them to let him live, saying to himself: In this way I shall make for myself a loophole of escape, in case he should ever regain his throne.
Then in the early morning, his uncle and his other relations took him away, and laid him bound on a swift camel. And mounting others, they hurried him away into the desert, going at full speed for hours, till they reached its very heart. And there they set him down. And they placed beside him a little water in a small skin, and a little bag of corn. And his uncle said: Now, O nephew, we will leave thee, alone with thy shadow and thy life in the sand. And if thou canst save thyself by going away to the western quarter, lo! it is open before thee. But beware of attempting to return home, towards the rising sun. For I will set guards to watch thy coming, and I will not spare thee a second time.
And then, he set his left arm free, and laid beside him a little knife. And they mounted their camels, and taking his, they flew away from him over the sand, like the shadow of a cloud driven by the western wind.
So when they were gone, Aja took the knife, and cut his bonds. And he stood up, and watched them going, till they became specks on the edge of the desert and vanished out of his sight.
[1] Being actually smeared with ashes. The god is of course Shiwa, and the allusion is to hisArdhandri, or half male, half female form.
[2] This punning assonance is precisely in the vein of the original.
[3] This name (pronounce Aj- to rhyme withtrudge), meaning bothunbornanda goat, is a name of the sun (who was a
II
Then he looked round to the eight quarters of the world, and he looked up into the sky. And he said to himself: There is my ancestor, alone above, and I am alone, below. And he put his two hands to his breast, and flung them out into the air. And he exclaimed:Bho!ye guardians of the world,[1] ye are my witnesses. Thus do I fling away the past, and now the whole wide world is mine, and ye are my protectors. And I have escaped death by a miracle, and the craft of that old villain of a prime minister, whom I will one day punish as he deserves. And now it is as though I knew, for the very first time in all my life, what it was to be alive. Ha! I live and breathe, and there before me is food and water. And now we will see which is the stronger: Death in the form of this lonely desert, or the life that laughs at his menace as it dances in my veins. And little I care for the loss of my kingdom, now that my father is dead and gone. I throw it away like a blade of grass, and so far from lamenting, I feel rather as if I had been born again. Ha! it is good to be alive, even in this waste of sand. And he shouted aloud, and called out to the sun above him: Come, old Grandfather, thou and I will travel together across the sand. And yet, no. Thou art too rapid and too fierce to be a safe companion, even for one of thine own race. So thou shalt go before me, as is due to thee, and I will follow after.
And then, he lay down on the sand, covering his head with his upper garment, and slept and waited all day long, till the sun was going down. And then he rose, and ate and drank a very little, and taking with him his skin and corn, he walked on after the sun, which sank to his rest in the western mountain. But Aja followed him all night long, with the moon for his only companion. And as he went, he saw the bones of men and camels, lying along the sand, and grinning at him as it were with white and silent laughter, as though to say: Anticipate thy fate: for but a little further on, and thou shalt be what we are now. But he went on with nimble feet, like one that hurries through the den of a sleeping hungry lion, till the sun rose at last behind him. And then again he lay down, and rested all day long, and started again at night. And so he proceeded for many days till all his water and corn were gone. And as he threw away the skin, he set his teeth, and said: No matter. I will reach the end of this hideous sand, which, like the dress of Draupadi,[2] seems to roll itself out as I go across it, though I should have to go walking on long after I am dead.
And night after night he went on, growing every night a little weaker. And then at last there came a night when as he toiled along with heavy steps that flagged as it were with loaded feet, faint with hunger and burning thirst, he said to himself: I am nearly spent, and now the end is coming near, either of the sand, or of me. And then the sun rose behind him, and he looked up, and lo! it was reflected from the wall of a city before him, which resembled another sun of hope rising in the west to cheer him. And he rubbed his eyes, and looked again, saying to himself: Is it a delusion of the desert, to mock me as I perish, or is it really a true city? And he said again: Ha! it is a real city. And his ebbing strength came back to him with a flood of joy. And he stopped, and took up a little sand, and turned, and threw it back, exclaiming: Out upon thee, abode of death![3] Now, then, I have beaten thee, and thy victim will after all escape. And he hurried on towards the city, half afraid to take his eyes away from it for a single instant, lest it should disappear.
So as he drew near it, he saw a crowd upon its wall. And when he was distant from it but a little way, suddenly its great gate's mouth was thrown open, and a stream of people shot from it like a long tongue, and rapidly came towards him, so that he said to himself: Ha! then, as it seems, I am expected by the citizens of this delightful city, who are as eager to come to me as I am to get to them. And they came closer, clamouring and buzzing as it were like bees; and he looked, and lo! they were all women, and there was not a man among them all. And as he wondered, they ran up, and reached him, and threw themselves upon him like a wave of the sea, laughing and crying, and drowning him in their embraces: and they took him as it were captive, and swept him away towards the city, all talking at once, and deafening him with their joyful exclamations, paying not the least attention to anything that he tried to say. And Aja let himself go, carried away by all those women like a leaf in a rushing stream. And he said to himself, in astonishment: What is this great wonder? For all these women fight for me, as if they had never seen a man in their lives before. Where then can the men be, to whom they must belong? Or can it be that I have come to a city composed of women without a man? Have I escaped the desert only to be drowned in a sea of women? For what is the use of a single man in an ocean of the other sex? Or are they dragging me away to offer me up to the Mother,[4] having sacrificed all their own husbands already? Or have I really died in the desert, and is all this only a dream of the other world? Can these be the heavenly Apsarases, come in a body to fetch me away, as if I had fallen in battle? Surely they are, for some of them are sufficiently beautiful even for Indra's hall. And anyhow, it is better to be torn to pieces by beautiful women, even if there are far too many, than to die in the desert, all alone.
So as they bore him along, chattering on like jays and cranes, he said again to the women next him: Fair ones, who are you, and where are you taking me, and why in the world are you so greatly delighted to see me? And then at last, they replied: O handsome stranger, ask nothing: very soon thou shalt know all, for we are carrying thee away to our King. And Aja said to himself: Ha! So, then, there is a King. These women have, after all, a King. Truly, I am fain to see him, this singular King of a female city. And weak as he was, he began to laugh, as they all were laughing: and so they all surged on like a very sea of laughter, through the gates of the city, and along the streets within, till they came at last to the King's palace. And all the way, Aja looked, and there was not to be seen so much as the shadow of a man in all the streets, which overflowed with women like the channel of a river in the rainy season.
Then the guards of the palace doors, who were also women, took him, and led him in; and all the women who had brought him crowded in behind. And they mounted stairs, and after a while, they entered at last a great hall, whose pillars of alabaster were reflected in its dark green crystal floor, giving it the semblance of a silent pool in which a multitude of colossal swans had buried their necks beneath the water. And there Aja found himself in the presence of the King.
And instantly, all the women screamed together: Victory to thee, Maharájá! for here have we brought thee another husband for thy lovely daughter. And Aja started. And he said to himself: Another husband! How many husbands, then, has this strange King's daughter got already? Has she an insatiable thirst for husbands, whose number I am brought to swell? So as he stood reflecting, the King leaped from his throne, and came towards him. And as Aja looked at him, he was seized with amazement greater than before. For the King resembled a very incarnation of the essence of grief, yet such that it was difficult to behold him without laughter, as if the Creator had made him to exhibit skill in combining the two. For his long thin hair was pure white, as if with sorrow, and his eyes were red, as if with weeping, and great hollow ruts were furrowed in his sunk and withered cheeks, as if the tears had worn themselves channels in which to run. And though he was tall, he was bent and old, as if bowed down by a load of care. And he tried, as if in vain, to smile, as he said in a mournful voice that quavered and cracked: O man, whoever thou art, long have I waited for thee, and glad indeed I am to see thee, and inclined to dance like a peacock at the sight of a rainy cloud.
And as he gazed upon the King, Aja was seized with sudden laughter that would not be controlled, saying within himself: Much in common they have between them, a dancing happy peacock, and this doleful specimen of a weeping King! And he laughed till tears ran down his cheeks also, as if in imitation of those of the King. And when at last he could speak, he said: O King, forgive me. For I am very weak, and have come within a little of dying in the desert. And I laughed from sheer exhaustion, and for joy to see in thy person as it were the warrant of my escape from death. Give me food, and above all, water, if thou wouldst not have me die at thy feet. And afterwards, show me, if thou wilt, thy daughter, to whom, as it seems, I am to be married whether I will or no. And the King said: O thou model of the Creator's cunning in the making of man, thy hilarity is excused. Food thou shalt have, and water, and everything else thou canst require, and that immediately. But as for my daughter, there she is before thee. And she could teach dancing even to Tumburu himself.[5]
[1] TheLokapálas, or regents of the world, often thus appealed to, are eight: Kubera, Isha, Indra, Agni, Yama, Niruti, Waruna, and Wayu: and they ride on a horse, a bull, an elephant, a ram, a buffalo, a man, a "crocodile," and a stag.
[2] When she was lost in the gambling match, and Duhshásana tried to strip her, as he pulled off one dress, another appeared below it, refusing to leave her naked.