I UTTERED A SUDDEN ROAR AND AT THE SAME TIME LEAPED TOWARD THE SERPENT
I UTTERED A SUDDEN ROAR AND AT THE SAME TIME LEAPED TOWARD THE SERPENT
It was impossible to reach it with my tusks—it was too close—and I was in a truly pitiable situation.
What, alas! would become of Parvati, left alone in the wood, if I should be strangled by this monster?
And closer, and still closer, the living rope tightened about me.... I could no longer move in spite of my efforts, and the blood roared in my ears under the increasing and suffocating pressure.... I threw myself desperately on the ground, rolling madly over and over, seeking to crush my enemy beneath my weight. I rubbed and ground it on the rough earth and the thorny bushes. The battle was long. But at last I felt the cold slimy coils soften, relax, and finally let go their grasp.
I rose, panting.
The serpent lay full length on the ground, still squirming a little, and looking like a river of blood and ink.
I fell to work, and stamped on it, and tore it to ribbons with my tusks—till it was completely destroyed.
When my rage was thoroughly appeased I turned, proud and pleased, to seek Parvati. Ah! how bitterly did I now repent of the crime I had committed in carrying her off!...
My Princess lay on the ground, pale and motionless—and to all appearance dead.
The night had fallen rapidly; it was very dark under the thick branches of the trees, which even at midday cast a dense shadow.
What was to be done? How was I to obtain succour for the Princess, whom I could now barely see, as she lay motionless on the ground?
I raised the upper part of her body very gently with my trunk, and swayed her softly back and forth, and fanned her with my ears—but she did not stir. The thought that she might be dead so horrified me that, without waiting to take breath, I poured forth groans and screams so piercing that they were mistaken for those of a human being—and it was this that finally extricated us from our misfortunes.
All at once I saw, far off under the leaves, a little red light that seemed to be advancing. It surely was a lantern, and that meant that here, in the wilderness, there was a human being. I redoubled my cries of distress, and the light approached more rapidly. It was turned in our direction, and I could not see the person who was carrying it.
At some distance it stopped, and a feeble, and somewhat tremulous voice called:
"Who is it that is moaning? Who is it that disturbs the quiet of the forest by these cries? Can it be this elephant? How happens it that his cries are like those of a man?"
I lifted the Princess on my tusks and laid her in the rays of the lantern.
"Oh, the poor child!" exclaimed the Voice, and an old man came forward and placed his brown and withered hand over the heart of Parvati.
"She has swooned," said he. "Come, follow me. We must lose no time; do you not see that a storm is impending? We must not remain an instant longer under the trees."
He began to walk rapidly on, holding the lantern in a way to light the path, on which I followed, carefully carrying the unconscious Princess.
We soon reached a great clearing, in the centre of which, leaning against a rock, was a little hut built of wooden planks.
"Here we are, this is my dwelling," said the man; "I am only a poor hermit, who has retired in disgust from the world, in order to live and meditate in solitude. I am denuded of all; I possess nothing. But the forest provides me with plants which nourish me. Some of them have wonderful virtues, which I trust will enable me to restore to life this lovely young girl."
The hut was so small that I could only thrust my head inside. I placed Parvati on the Hermit's bed of leaves, and he hung up the lantern. He then crushed between his hands an herb that had a pungent odour, which he caused the Princess to inhale, while he rubbed her temples and her wrists. To my great joy Parvati revived; she passed her hands across her eyes, and then, seeing me, she smiled.
"Oh! my dear Iravata," exclaimed she: "the terrible serpent did not strangle you! I was so terrified I thought I was dying!"
She then related to the Hermit all that had befallen us, and what a friend I had always been to her. He in his turn told how he had heard my cries and hastened to our assistance.
He was able to offer the Princess some delicate fruits, which she accepted gladly, as she had eaten nothing all day.
"Oh, Holy Man," said she, "is it possible that you live all alone in the depths of this forest? How sad and lonely you must find it!"
"No, child," replied he: "those who live in company with their own thoughts are never lonely. Instead of looking only at the life that is now passing, or has passed away—as you do—I look forward to the mystery of the hereafter, to what is to be after death. And I find this enough to occupy every minute of the day and the night!"
"Oh, Holy Man," said she: "why do you despise life? To me it seems sweet and full of joy, and my heart sinks at the thought that it cannot last forever!"...
A vivid flash of lightning startled the Princess, who shrieked, and hid her face in her hands.
I pushed my head further into the door of the hut so as to close the opening and shut out the glare.
"Poor little thing!" said the Hermit. "Here I am talking about death and oblivion to this lovely flower that blooms and delights all around her!"
He gently removed the hands which she still held clenched before her eyes:
"Fear nothing," said he. "We are safe and sheltered here from the violence of the storm." Then, in order to reassure her, and to distract her attention, he added:
"If you like, I will tell you a Story, and it will show you why I no longer care for a world where good fortune often attends a thief or a liar, and brings them to honour."
"Oh, yes!" said Parvati. "By all means tell me this Story!"
"Listen, then," said the Hermit.
"Once upon a time there was a humble Brahman named Harisarman. He was very poor and ignorant, and possessed a numerous family. After being compelled for a long time to make his living by begging, he and his family were received into the household of a rich man named Sthuladatta. The children of Harisarman were employed to drive the cows, herd the sheep, and tend the poultry; his wife worked in the house, and he, himself, was attached to the service of the Master.
"One day Sthuladatta gave an entertainment to celebrate the marriage of his daughter, but he omitted to invite Harisarman to the festival.
"'Behold!' said Harisarman to his wife: 'I am despised because of my poverty and ignorance. But I shall pretend to be a learned man, in order that Sthuladatta will have respect for me hereafter; and when an opportunity occurs you must say that I am an accomplished Soothsayer.'
"Then he took the Bridegroom's horse out of the stable, and went to a distant part of the forest, and hid it.
"When the feast was over, and the Bridegroom prepared to return home with his young Bride, his horse was nowhere to be found. The forest was searched, the thickets ransacked; the guests all dispersed in different directions to assist in finding the animal—but no trace of him could be discovered.
"Then the wife of Harisarman came forward, and said:
"'My husband could have found the horse very easily; he is a learned Soothsayer, and understands the language of the stars. Why do you not inquire of him?'
Sthuladatta sent for Harisarman, and said:
"'Canst thou tell me where to look for the lost horse?'
"Harisarman replied:
"'Master, thou hast bidden a host of guests to be present at the marriage of thy daughter; but thou didst not deign to invite me because I am poor. Behold I among all those whom thou hast honoured not one can tell thee where to look for thy son-in-law's horse, and thou art obliged to have recourse to me, whom thou hast treated with contempt! Nevertheless, I am not revengeful; and thanks to my learning, I will be able to inform thee where thou wilt find the horse whom thou seekest.'
"He then drew cabalistic signs, and magic circles, and ended by telling the place where he had hidden the horse.
"From this moment he was held in great esteem in the household of Sthuladatta.
"Not long afterwards a robbery was committed in the Palace of the King; jewels and gems were stolen, and gold carried away.
"The King, having heard of Harisarman, ordered him brought to the Palace, and said to him:
"'I have heard of thy powers of divination; canst thou reveal to me the names of the wretches who have dared to enter my palace, and steal my treasures?'
"Harisarman was very much confused. He bowed low before the King and replied thus:
"'Great King, All-powerful Master, thou hast taken me somewhat unawares. But thanks to my great learning, no secret is hidden from my discerning eyes; I discover that which is invisible, and bring to light what others would desire concealed forever. Give me only till to-morrow, in order that I may place myself under the influence of the Stars."
"The King had him conducted to a chamber in the Palace, with orders that he was to be permitted to pass the night alone.
"Now, the theft had been committed by a Maidservant of the Palace namedDschiva(theTongue) and by her brother.
"Full of uneasiness, and fearing that the supposed Soothsayer would denounce her to the King, Dschiva crept on tiptoe to the chamber occupied by Harisarman, in the hope of overhearing something he might say. The false Soothsayer was as much frightened as she, and uttered loud imprecations on histongue(dschiva) which had brought such trouble upon him.
"He cried out:
"Oh,dschiva! (tongue) what have you done through your stupid covetousness!"
"Dschiva imagined that these words were addressed to her; she entered the chamber and threw herself at the feet of Harisarman, confessed to him that she had stolen the jewels, implored him not to betray her, promising if he would be silent to bestow on him all the gold which had been taken, and to inform him where she had hidden the jewels.
"The next day Harisarman led the King to where the jewels were concealed, but the gold he kept for himself, and said to the King:
"'Sire, the thieves in escaping carried with them the gold.'
"The King, well-pleased to have recovered his jewels, would have recompensed Harisarman, but was withheld by one of his Councillors, who said:
"'All this does not look natural to me, oh, King. How can such learning be possessed by one who has never studied the holy texts? This affair has doubtless been arranged by Harisarman and the robbers. In order to convincemethis pretended Soothsayer would have to be put to the test!'
"The King consulted for a few minutes with his Councillor, who then went out, and soon returned with a new earthen pot, which was covered by a lid, under which he had placed a live frog.
"The King, addressing Harisarman, said:
"'If thou canst tell me what this vessel contains all honours shall be paid to thee, if not, thou shalt be put to death for having dared to deceive me!'
"Harisarman now gave himself up for lost. Memories, as vivid as lightning-flashes, passed through his mind. He remembered his happy childhood, and his kind father, and how the latter had a pet-name for him, and often would call him "little Frog!" and, not thinking of what he was saying, but speaking to himself (with sufficient distinctness, however, to be heard), he exclaimed:
"'Alas! alas!... this pot has caught thee, little Frog! Once thou wert free and happy, but now, how wilt thou escape?'
"All those who stood by and heard him supposed that his words were addressed to the frog in the basin.
"The test seemed conclusive.
"From that day the King honoured Harisarman, loaded him with benefits, and made him a Prince....
"This," said the Hermit, "is a story that shows how there is no justice in the world, and that we should be glad to leave it and seek a better one—even at the price of one's existence!"
"Oh, Holy Man," said Parvati, "the history of Harisarman is not finished; and who knows what may have happened to him afterwards? Perhaps he may have experienced a punishment all the more severe from having been delayed. And then he must have suffered from knowing himself to be other than he seemed! from knowing himself to be a liar and a thief, while he was saluted as a scholar and an honest man.... It seems to me that in this world we are always punished for our faults. Behold, what has happened to us to-day! Iravata, the wisest of elephants, for the first time acted without his usual prudence; he went too far into the forest, and I, instead of restraining him, was delighted with the adventure, and encouraged Him to go still further. We have both come near to losing our lives; then the storm overwhelmed us, and here we are, at the dead hour of the night, in the midst of this forest, fearfully far from the palace of Golconda—where, no doubt, my dear parents, distracted with anxiety, are lamenting the absence of their disobedient daughter!"
In saying this Parvati's beautiful eyes were full of tears, and as I listened I bent my head in shame, and wept, too.
"Do not despair," said the Hermit, who was looking closely at me; "the dangers you have encountered may perhaps have saved you from still greater perils. This Elephant, who has acquired the moral intelligence of humanity, knows very well to what I allude, andhe alone is to blame".
I trembled in all my members under the searching look he cast upon me, and understanding full well the meaning of his accusing words, my head sank lower and lower.
"Let this Elephant take warning," said he: "in approaching mankind through his sentiments and intelligence, he may also become liable to the errors of mankind. I foresee his future. I foresee that he will be unhappy, and that he will be the maker of his own misfortunes, through a sentiment far too human!"...
A long silence followed these prophetic words. Parvati was deeply moved, and as for me, I dared not raise my head.
I withdrew from the doorway which I had obstructed. And now a lovely moonlight, soft and bright, the colour of emeralds and turquoises, shone into the hut. The storm was over. The full moon had risen and beamed in the sky, where a few clouds still floated. The trees and the flowers, refreshed by the rain, filled the air with fragrance.
"Go now, my friends," said the Hermit; "the storm has been of service to you. Those who are waiting for you are not as anxious as they would otherwise have been; believing in the wisdom of the Elephant, in whom they have entire confidence, they will suppose that he sought shelter from the storm, and that it alone has caused your delay. Go, then, the moon shines as bright as day. May the King and Queen of Golconda never learn the truth!"...
Thanks to the English who had interposed and had stopped the War, a Treaty of Peace had been signed between the Maharajah of Mysore and my master, the King of Golconda.
But, under an appearance of friendship, there still brooded a bitter enmity; and as a renewal of hostilities would have been the ruin of my master, who was less powerful than his enemy, a method was sought to confirm and strengthen the Treaty.
The plan decided upon was terrible—terrible forme—and brought about the catastrophe which the Hermit had foretold; and as he had predicted, I was the maker of my own misfortunes....
Parvati all at once began to act strangely. A preoccupation which she did not impart to me absorbed her constantly, and I was unable to decide whether she was happy, or sad. For hours at a time she would sit motionless, leaning back, gazing straight before her, her little hands clenched on the arms of her rattan chair.
I thought I could perceive that she was restless and impatient—as if expecting something; but she, who usually confided to me every thought, now was silent and reserved.
One day I saw her in the great Avenue of Tamarind Trees looking attentively at something which she held in the palm of her hand; she would lift it and bring it near—then hold it off at a distance, looking at it with half-closed eyes. She ended by letting her arms fall at her side, and bowing her head.
I drew near and saw that her eyes were full of tears. At this I uttered a little plaintive cry, and knelt before her, trying to make her understand how it pained me to be ignorant of that which was grieving her.
She understood me, and patting me gently with her hand, she made me rise.
"I am going to tell thee everything to-day, Iravata," said she. "If I have been silent till now it was because I dreaded to announce things that might never come to pass; to speak of them seemed only to make them more real, and to bring them nearer. I had hoped that all would fade away, like the clouds which sometimes gather in the sky, and seem to threaten a tempest, but which yet disappear without bringing a storm. But now all is settled."
I trembled with anxiety on hearing her speak so sadly; she had seated herself on a bench of carved wood lacquered in red and gold, and she now continued, looking at the thing she held hidden in her hand:
"I am a Princess," said she. "Till lately I had supposed that this meant only that I was more powerful, more free, as well as richer than other mortals. I have learned that this is not all. There are duties which we owe to the people of whom we are the rulers, and our duty sometimes is to sacrifice our happiness to their welfare."
(The "happiness of the people!"—"sacrifice herself!" what was I about to hear?)
All at once she opened her hand and showed me a little picture set round with gold and diamonds:
"See this," said she, "it is a Prince—look well at it.... See this large, heavy face, this dark complexion, almost black under the white turban; see that thick mouth, and that bristling moustache, those long half-shut eyes, with such a sneering expression! It is not what one would imagine the face of a young Prince to be—and yet," added she, "it is no doubt flattered!"
She raised the picture to the level of my right eye, and I shut the other in order to see better.
So far as an elephant can judge of a likeness, and above all after the description she had given, it seemed to me the face of a terrible being—an enemy; and I hardly glanced at the picture when I was seized with a hatred of the person it represented, although I did not yet know how much reason I had to detest him.
"This Prince is named Baladji-Rao," said Parvati. "He is the Son of the Maharajah of Mysore, who at the time of my birth was making an unjust war upon my father, and who would have put him to a shameful death, had you not rescued him, my Iravata. Well! behold how strange is the fate of princes! This Baladji, whose father strove to make me an orphan—is to be my husband—they are about to marry me to him, in order to cement more strongly the Treaty which has been signed, and preserve the peace of the two Kingdoms."
Marry her!
"The Prince has never seen me, and I am not acquainted with him; how can there be anything like friendship between us? But it is not, alas! a question of friendship—but of politics. I must sacrifice myself to the good of the State. To lament would be unworthy of my noble birth, and to appear sad would only distress my parents, who are delighted with the alliance."
I was thunderstruck. For a few moments I remained mute; but I could not control myself and very soon began to stamp and utter screams of distress.
"No.... No! Iravata," cried she: "do not do so; thy cries seem only to echo my own despair—and I am not willing to give it expression! I smother my grief in my heart, and force back my tears. I am resolved to be a truly Royal maiden, worthy of the long line of ancestors which form in history a brilliant chain, of which I am the last link. But they shall not separate thee from me.... That I will never allow!"
Not separate her from me when she was already so little with me! Ah! why could she not have remained a child, over whom I was permitted to watch?... To be together then was a pleasure for her, as much as for me! While now she was full of thoughts in which I had no part—taken up with amusements in which I counted for nothing. When she was married she would have a Court of her own, and a whole Palace to organize and direct—and what would become of me?
I was ashamed at thinking only of myself, and forgetting her sorrows; but a new feeling which I could not control had been aroused and was raging in me—a fury, and a savage hatred for the stranger who was going to take my Princess away from me.
She forbade me to express my anguish, and it choked me. I had not, myself, any "royal" soul; I owed nothing to my "ancestors." I was only a beast of the forest, taught by my association with men to think, and to suffer; when I suffered I had to cry out; and since my Princess would not permit me to do so in her presence—I rushed away, and went, like a wounded animal, to lie and grieve on my bed in the stable!
He appeared one day at the Palace of Golconda—the enemy—the fiancé—whom I had already learned to detest.
When I saw him advancing from a distance, talking and laughing with Parvati, a red flame danced before me, and I closed my eyes to escape from the frenzy of rage which overwhelmed me at the sight of him.
I could hear them coming; the voice of the stranger reached my ears, resounded in them, and pierced them like a sharp arrow! On hearing it I seemed to see once more the bloody battlefield—the corpses crushed under my feet, and my Master in chains, and our perilous flight through the wilderness....
A tremor shook me from head to foot. I lowered my head and kept my eyes obstinately shut, and I tore up the ground with my tusks to try and work off my fury.
I heard them coming nearer and nearer, she with her light step, and he dragging his feet along carelessly. He had seen me, and it was of me that he was speaking.
"Ah!" said he, "you have a white elephant! I know that a great veneration is felt for animals of this species in some countries—among others in Siam, the country of the Queen your mother. We, however, are less simple-minded, and we like them for processions, but value them less than the others because they are less robust." Parvati had stopped near me, disturbed by my silent rage, which was plainly visible to her; she sought to soothe me with her gentle hand, and her voice shook as she replied to the Prince: "Iravata is the good Genius of our family. The soul of one of my ancestors dwells in him, and he is my dearest friend!"
"Not dearer than your fiancé, I hope!" said he with a conceited laugh.
"He who has been devoted to me since my birth is more of a friend than the fiancé of yesterday...."
"Why, this is serious!" cried Baladji, laughing still louder: "Must I really be jealous of a great beast like that?"...
I could no longer restrain myself from opening my eyes, and at the look that met his, the Prince recoiled several steps.
"By Kali," said he, "your Ancestor has not a very pleasant expression! his eyes are as ferocious as a tiger's!"
"Let us go on, I beg of you," said Parvati. "I do not know what has irritated him, but Iravata is not himself to-day."
"I will go on very willingly," said the Prince, endeavouring to conceal his fright, "for I detest the vicinity of elephants because of their odour!" He turned and went away hurriedly, while Parvati, before rejoining him, looked back at me, and clasped her hands supplicatingly.
It was well that he left, for I could no longer control myself; the idea of crushing him under my feet, and stamping him to a jelly had come over me, and in spite of the shame I felt at such a murderous impulse, I could not banish it.
For several days after this Parvati did not come to visit me. I saw her at a distance, walking in the gardens, always accompanied by the black Baladji-Rao, whose white turban striped with gold showed brilliantly against the dark green shrubbery.
Perhaps the Princess intended to punish me for having shown myself so bitter and full of hatred, or perhaps she dreaded some outbreak of temper on my part; but her absence only embittered me still more, and my hatred increased for him who had deprived me of her presence, and the desire to murder him haunted me day and night.—
The Palace was all in confusion with preparations for the wedding. They came to try on me a mantle of silver brocade embroidered with pearls and turquoise, a crown of feathers, and a howdah of gold fillagree, in which the bridal couple were to be seated on the day of the marriage; for to me had been assigned the honour of carrying them in the great triumphal procession which was to traverse all Golconda.
But in proportion as the day approached my longing to kill the Prince increased to such intensity, that to avoid committing so fearful a crime, I took a painful resolution.... I resolved to leave the Palace—and to fly!
Leave Parvati! Leave the King and Saphire-of-Heaven! They who had made my life so sweet—so free—so happy! Go wandering about the world, exposed to whatever might befall me, and perhaps become once more a mere savage.... How could I endure such misfortune—such misery?
But I realized that I must sacrifice myself to prevent bringing a terrible catastrophe on those who had been so kind to me. Should Baladji-Rao be assassinated in Golconda, war would again be declared, fearful reprisals would be made, and my benefactors ruined. I had done my best to curb my feelings, and resign myself to what I could not help; but a sight of the Prince of Mysore, no matter at what distance, caused a cloud of rage to mount to my brain which deprived me of reason, and impelled me irresistibly to destroy him.
I must go. I must give to my beloved Parvati this last proof of my devotion.
The night before the wedding I waited for the moon to set, and then I noiselessly opened the great door of my stable, and stole softly out.
For a moment I thought of going for a last time under the window of the Princess's chamber, and of gathering some lotus flowers and fastening them to her balcony, as I had often done before; that would have been a sort of "good-bye" and she would have understood. But my heart was heavy, and my eyes dim; I feared if I did so I might give way, and be unable to carry out my resolution, and leave. So, I crossed the courtyard quickly, lifted the bar and the chain on the gateway, and then, after fastening them once more to the best of my ability, I went forth.
A great silence rested everywhere on Golconda; all was dark and empty. My head hung down with shame and sorrow, and as I walked my big tears fell on the road, so that I could have been traced by them, if the dust had not at once dried them up!
The day was dawning when I drew near the forest which had so often been the goal of my excursions with the little Princess.
In those days, when the dusky outline of the trees and thickets shone out against the brilliant rose-colour of the sky, how delighted was I to entertain the laughing Princess with my gay frolics! And now, how sadly and mournfully was I seeking its somber shade! My breast swelled with huge sighs—elephantine sighs—which escaped me with such terrible sounds that the beasts of the forest fled away, frightened.
I was so overcome that I was obliged to stop, and had I been a man I might, like the Court Poet, have put into verse the emotions of my heart, and the hoarse groans which burst from me could have been translated thus:
"Alas! I shall see thee no more, dearest Parvati:Smile of my life, Sun of my days, Moon of my night!I shall see thee no more... Alas!"No more will thy soft hand stroke me!Nor thy gentle voice speak the friendly wordsThat sounded sweeter to me than the sweetest music!"But I leave thee to avoid committing a fearful crime."Thou, no doubt wilt soon have forgotten me.Thou wilt always be the divine Princess Parvati,Loved and blessed by all!ButI,deprived of thee,Shall be only a poor wandering brute,With naught to comfort meBut the remembrance of former happiness!..."
Yes, that is how the Poet would have lamented—and I also if I had not been an elephant!
I went on deeper and deeper into the forest, and the thought came to me of asking help of the good Hermit who had so kindly received us on the day when I attempted to carry off the Princess, and when the serpent and the storm had brought me to repent of my wrong doing.
Certainly this pious old man, who had so long studied the lives of the Saints, and knew that one must be no less pitiful to animals than to human beings, would not repel me, and perhaps his comforting words would heal somewhat the sufferings which were too much for me.
As I advanced the woods seemed changed; the birds no longer sang, the flowers were pale and withered, and even the trees were brown and dying.
"It is because I myself am so sad," thought I at first; "that is the reason the forest seems so dreary; but by and by, when I shall have found the Hermit, and his words will have imparted to me a little courage, I shall hear the birds sing again, and see the flowers I used to gather for her!"
Alas! I was mistaken. Like myself the forest had really lost all its gayety; the birds would not sing, nor the flowers bloom any more. I searched in every direction, but could not find the Hermit; at last I discovered, buried in the grass, a few half-decayed planks which alone remained to mark the spot where the hut had once stood. I saw that it had been abandoned, and left to be destroyed by the winds and the rain.
The good Hermit, with whom I had hoped to find a refuge, had left the forest; he had gone to seek another hermitage, or had taken up the life of a wandering mendicant, such as the Sacred Books sometimes ordain for Brahmans; or perhaps he might even be dead, killed by some ferocious tiger.
And so it was, that with him, all the joy and gladness had departed from the beautiful forest, which his presence no longer sanctified.
If anything could have added to my wretchedness it would have been this failure to find the kind Hermit.
What was to become of me? accustomed as I had been for so long to living among men—petted and cherished by all?
Oh! why did no wise suggestion now come to me? Why did I not think of returning to the Palace of Golconda, where very likely my absence had not yet been discovered?
Alas! jealousy and murderous hatred still governed me; it was necessary that I should suffer and be punished; and the wise counsel which might have spared me so many trials never entered my head.
I wandered aimlessly through glades and thickets, penetrating desperately to the wildest parts of the forest. And now a new distress was added to my misery. If I had, like men, the faculty of blushing, I would blush to say that hunger was now torturing me. I ought not, perhaps, at such a time to have given a thought to so commonplace a necessity as food; but, I repeat, our race supports less than any other the lack of nourishment; and, during my long life, I have seen so many men yield to the mere fear of hunger, that I trust I shall not be criticised too severely for my weakness.
I was, then, very sorrowful—and very hungry! I gathered here and there a few half-dead leaves, or a bunch of thin grass—but what could they do to sustain me? I was beginning to despair, when I heard in the distance a sound which I recognized as the trumpeting of elephants. This encouraged me. I said to myself:
"These Elephants whom I hear are, no doubt, Wild Elephants; still, I will try to touch their hearts, and, perhaps, seeing my distress, they will admit me to their Herd."
This thought inspired me with a little confidence, and I made my way towards that part of the forest whence the sounds proceeded. They continued to reach me at intervals, and, guided in this way, I reached after a while an opening in the woods, in which twenty large Elephants were resting, reclining on the ground.
In the centre of the clearing was a great heap of fruits and fresh vegetables. (The Elephants are accustomed to separate at night, and go through the fields and near-by plantations, to forage for food, and they return bringing with them what they have been unable to eat, and make of it a common stock of provisions.)
I saw them quietly enjoying their repast; from time to time, one would extend his trunk and select a fruit or vegetable from the heap, and tranquilly munch it, as if quite sure that nothing would come near to disturb them, or to interfere with their meal.
Several were sleeping; and yet, in spite of the calm and peaceful appearance of these Elephants, one felt they were savage and ready to defend themselves fiercely against any intrusion. I trembled as I approached them!
I was thinking how I could best attract their attention, when one of them saw me, and with a hoarse cry, gave the alarm to his companions. Instantly those who had been eating stopped, and those who were asleep awoke. They all looked at me, and in those looks I could see no sign of sympathy for him who had disturbed them. I was on the point of taking flight—but hunger held me fast, and I said humbly, in elephant language, something like this:
"My Brothers, I am a very unfortunate and friendless creature, who has no wish to offend you. I have been for a long time wandering about, without food or shelter, and if you do not assist me I shall soon die of hunger. Have pity upon me! Give me a little of your provisions, and I will in return be glad to render you any service in my power!"
These words had no effect. They said to themselves:
"This is aWhiteElephant—and no doubt sick; at any rate he is not like us. Why should we allow him to come among us?"
"HE IS WHITE, AND THAT IS ALL THE MORE REASON FOR SENDING HIM OFF"
"HE IS WHITE, AND THAT IS ALL THE MORE REASON FOR SENDING HIM OFF"
One Elephant, who was taller and more powerful than the others, and who seemed to be a leader among them, said roughly:
"We should never take in strangers. We should beware of all new-comers, and far from treating them with kindness, we should chase them away. Even if this Elephant were dark like us, he has no business here; he was not born in this clearing. He isWhite, and that is a still stronger reason for sending him off!"
At this all the Elephants cried out with one voice:
"Yes! Yes!—let him go!"
Then they all turned to me and cried:
"BEGONE! BEGONE!..."
I tried to speak again, but their cries became more fierce. Many rose up and threatened me with their tusks. Alone as I was against twenty Elephants—what could I do?... Then, too, my life among kindly and affectionate masters, and my occupation of watching over and serving the sweetest and gentlest of Princesses, had rendered me averse to fighting.... I did not like quarrels. Their furious screams shocked and horrified me, and I left the clearing where for a moment I had hoped to find refuge.
I saw now that I had nothing to hope from my fellow-elephants. Everywhere it would be the same. I should be treated as an intruder. I remembered how, even in my infancy, when I lived in the forest of Siam, I had been looked on with dislike by my companions of the Herd, because of my white colour—the very thing that had caused me to be welcomed by men. How then would it be with strangers? even if less savage than those I had just left?
It would always be the same.... No herd would ever consent to receive me.
I really knew not what to do, and my reflections grew more and more gloomy, when I noticed that I had by degrees wandered out from the forest, which now lay behind me.
A rich plain on which were fields and meadows and villages was before me, stretching out as far as the eye could see. A white road traversed this plain at some distance.
It was now twilight; the fields were deserted, and not a peasant was to be seen anywhere on the far-off road. I determined to reach this highway, however, for it certainly would lead me somewhere—probably to some city where I might be received. Cast out and rejected by my fellow-elephants, my only hope now rested on the kindness of men....
As I was passing through a field of vegetables I could not resist the temptation of stealing a few, and in this way appeasing to some extent my hunger.
Night had fallen when I gained the road. I set out to follow it, snatching a fruit now and then from the trees that bordered it.
I had gone but a short distance when my eye fell upon a dark object lying at the foot of the embankment. I went near, and looking closely, I saw that it was a man.... Was he dead?—or only asleep?... I sniffed at him, and felt the warmth of his breath—he was alive! I examined him still more closely; his clothing was ragged and stained with dust and mud. His appearance was that of a labourer, and yet, around his waist I noticed the "cord" which marked him as a Brahman. A Brahman in such rags might be one of those who sometimes adopt the life of a Beggar, in obedience to the precepts of their religion. His breath, however, recalled the odour of certain strong liquors, imported by the Europeans, some of which I had seen in bottles, and had smelt with disgust; This showed that he was not leading the life of abstinence suitable for a Mendicant Brahman. He was, no doubt, one of those unfortunate Brahmans fallen into poverty and disgrace—"Apad," as it is called in the Indian language. The holy law permits these to labour at any kind of work, such as in ordinary circumstances would be entirely forbidden to their "caste."
After looking at him for a long time I was able to make out his features. He had not a cruel face. No doubt he would receive me gladly, and perhaps welcome me as a gift from the Gods!... I had been so long unused to being alone that I could not endure it.... A companionship here offered itself.... What would it be like?... I had no means of guessing; but even were the Brahman to prove the cruellest of masters, I felt that I would rather submit to be maltreated by him than to live alone.
I gave him a little blow with my trunk, to waken him. He opened his eyes, and stammered:
"Eh!... What's that?"
The night air, which had grown cold, now fully aroused him, and he saw me.
"What is this? Whose elephant is this? Can it be he who has waked me up, poking me with his trunk?—does he mean to hurt me, I wonder?"
He got up, painfully and with difficulty. I gave a few little supplicating whimpers, to show that, on the contrary, I was asking for his sympathy. Pretty soon he ceased to fear me.
"Well!" said he, "I do not know where you come from, but—bah!—that is none of my business! We should treat animals as kindly as human beings. It looks as if you wanted to make friends with me!" I bent my head in sign of assent, as I had seen men do.
"You seem very intelligent! I am only a poor unfortunate Brahman, in 'Apad,' obliged to accept the hardest, sort of work in order to live, and to labour at tasks that are far beneath my rank. No doubt I am expiating sins committed in some former existence. But, follow me, if you choose! You shall share my poor living: and, perhaps, you may even prove useful to me; for one who owns an elephant can obtain more lucrative employment than he who has only his strong arms and good-will to offer."
To show him that I accepted his proposal to live with him for the future, I bent my forefoot, inviting him to mount on my back. He understood, and climbed up, and when he had settled himself to the best of his ability, he said:
"Go ahead! Follow the road before you! Perhaps the Gods have sent you to me for my advantage! Choose your own way. I have neither house nor friends; anybody may receive us who will."
I was no longer alone; and in my forlorn condition this was a bit of good luck. I walked along the road, feeling less despondent, and carrying my new master.
This new master was called Moukounj. Many a time when we tramped long distances without finding any one who would give work to either or both of us, I would hear him talking to himself, and recounting his misfortunes, and I ended by knowing them by heart. His tale was simple enough. He belonged to a rich family of Brahmans, and had spent his youth at Lahore, where he had received instruction in all that it behoved a Brahman to know, at the hands of excellent masters. Later on the Rajah of the Mahrattas took him into his service as "pourohita"; the "pourohita" is a priest whom the princes employ to offer sacrifices to the Gods in their name. I have heard the English say that rich Europeans employ priests of their own religion to perform similar duties, and that they are called "chaplains."
Moukounj was highly thought of by the Rajah of the Mahrattas, who treated him in the most friendly manner; and he might have risen to eminence and great honour, had it not been for a terrible fault. He could not resist the temptation of drinking strong liquors and was continually getting drunk. When intoxicated, he had several times been guilty of grave infractions of the Court etiquette, and in spite of the regard felt for him by the Rajah, he was dismissed.
This disgrace did not cure Moukounj of his weakness; on the contrary, he fell into the way of drinking more and more. At last, avoided by everyone, turned out of every household, despised by the other Brahmans, he finally sank to beggary, and tramped about the country, thankful to take any sort of work that offered. He had been a Cook; he had been a Stone-mason—but everywhere his fault prevented him from remaining any length of time.
At present he was engaged most of the time in helping the Navvies and the Stevedores, and he lived on very meagre wages, the greater portion of which he spent for that yellow liquor which the Europeans call "Eau-de-Vie" ("Water-of-Life")—why I do not know, for it seems to me that, far from giving themlife, it slowly kills them!...
Thanks to me, Moukounj was now a little better off; he hired me out to carry heavy burthens, and himself to carry light ones; and the coarse vegetables he bought to feed me cost but very little.
Our life was very monotonous. If we found ourselves in a city where Moukounj could not find work—we left, and wandered on till we found something to do.
Moukounj was, on the whole, not a bad fellow—always ready to be useful where he could—the way he had received me was proof of this! He was jolly and good-natured, and loved to remember and recite the fine speeches he had learned at Lahore. But when drunk his disposition changed; he grew irritable; he became ugly and violently angry; he quarrelled with his fellow-workmen, and went so far as to beat me.
I certainly was not happy. When the work I was employed in seemed too humiliating, and when Moukounj lashed me with blows—I suffered bitterly. But why rebel? Things might be worse—so I submitted.
I thought constantly of my old life, wondering what had become of the lovely Parvati; did the Prince love her?... Was she happy?... Did she ever remember me?...
I tried to frame replies to these questions that would be as comforting as possible, and these thoughts softened somewhat my sorrows.
I never could tell you the names of all the cities we saw, all the rivers I crossed, the mountains I climbed with Moukounj. I remember one French city where I helped to build a palace for the Governor; I also carried the rails for a tramway they were building just outside of Madras. I did much other work of about the same kind, and I passed several years in this wandering and monotonous existence.