He felt something cold pass over his hand; he started, and became aware that the good priest had finished his devotions. He tapped gently, and was told to enter, which he did hesitatingly.
In the middle of the cell sat the priest, who seemed, even in his old age, full of the vigor of manhood; his legs were crossed, his arms folded, and his eyes cast down; he did not even raise them at the entrance of the young man; he was in that semi-stupor commonly called contemplation. In one corner a narrow plank, quite bare, and a wooden pillow served for his bed; beside it an old fan, a pot for water, an earthen vessel for rice, some rude oldinstruments and books; beyond these the cell was bare, damp, cold, slimy, and unhealthy. It was without any light, save where the moonlight fell in ghastly lights and shadows through the slits in the wall.
"My father," said the young man, as he reverently prostrated himself before the priest, who half opened his dull eyes, and said: "S'amana phinong" (peace, brother).
"Alas!" replied Dhamaphat; "in this life there is no peace, no rest, no freedom from suffering; the endless revolutions of the wheel only crush out life, to reproduce it again in another form."
"Take the reins, and ride over it, then," said the priest, meditatively. "What says the Dharma padam?"[8]
"Stop the chariot valiantly; arrest the horses of desire. When thou hast comprehended that which is made, thou wilt understand that which is not made,—the uncreate. Some do not know that we must all come to an end here; but some do know it, and with them all conflicts cease. He who lives for pleasure only, his passions uncontrolled, immoderate in his enjoyments, idle and weak, him will the tempter overcome, as the wind overcomes a worm-eaten tree."
"If we could live a thousand years, it would be worth our while to struggle after the pleasures of this world. Death comes too soon. There are many beginnings, but no ending to life. Let us practise the four virtues, my brother; they alone are real, satisfactory, the true illuminators of the mind; without this inward illumination, what is life but darkness, storms, wild, unconscious tumult, the ceaseless tumbling of the fierce tides of passion; and death, but exhaustion?"
"Alas!" cried the young man, in a voice full of emotion; "is life indeed such an empty void? Is there no compensation anywhere?"
The priest opened wide his half-closed eyes, looked full into Dhamaphat's face, and remarked: "Thou art strangely disturbed to-night, my brother. Is it not well with thee?"
Dhamaphat made no reply.
There was sympathy, and a touch of tender feeling in the voice of the priest, as he bent close to his young pupil, and said: "What is thy suffering? Speak freely to me, and I will aid thee to the utmost of my ability." Saying this, the priest arose, and passed his hand slowly over the clefts in the wall. Instantly the moon withdrew her light.
At this moment the night-owl suddenly gave a harsh and prolonged cry.
"That bird answers to thy thoughts," said the priest.
Dhamaphat shuddered; he believed that in the cry of the bird he heard an echo of his own wild desire to frustrate his father's plans.
Then in a few stirring words he told the priest of his love for the Rajpoot's daughter, of her present situation, and of his desire to help her and her father to escape.
At the words, "Rajpoot's daughter," the old man started, and there passed over his face, unseen, an expression of regret mingled with desire, with which a thirsty man sees afar off, out of his possible reach, a cup of cold water, for which he is dying, but which is not for him. Then, as suddenly, he sat down, and resumed his calm exterior.
A full hour passed in complete silence; the old man and the young man sat in the darkness, with their faces turned to one another, each on his side thinking over the same things, and feeling the same impulses.
"This is very strange," said he, at length; "when I made my annual pilgrimage to P'hra Batt, last year, a lovely girl, Rama the Rajpoot's daughter, who called herself Devo Smâyâtee, brought me food every morning, andwashed my feet every evening. She was then hardly a woman, but she filled my heart with a fragrance which is all-abiding. But," added the priest, in an undertone, as if for himself, "death carries off a man who is gathering flowers, as a flood sweeps away a sleeping village. He in whom the desire for the Ineffable (Nirwana) has sprung up, whose thoughts are not bewildered by love, he is the 'Ordhvamsrotas,' borne on the stream of immortality; he will stand face to face with the Infinite." He spoke slowly and deliberately, repeating each word as if they conveyed some peculiar meaning to his mind and some subtle charm to his senses.
"Nay, father," rejoined the young man, interrupting him, "you do not tell me how I can help her."
The good old priest—for good he was in spite of the strong natural man within him—turned on Dhamaphat a look partly of sorrow and partly of affection. Then, drawing towards him one of his mysterious books, he placed it on his head; with his hands spread out to heaven, he gradually moved his body to and fro, until his gyrations became rapid and grotesque, uttering strange prayers and incantations. After a short time he began to prophesy, and said, in fitful spasms: "Thy father's days are numbered; the long night for him is at hand; fear not, this mountain flower will blossom in spring-time on thy bosom."
For more than an hour a cloud had darkened the sky; the moment the priest had done prophesying, a ray of moonlight suddenly lighted up his pale face, and was reflected from his smoothly shaven head like a luminous circle.
After gazing upon it for some ten minutes, Dhamaphat began to tremble, and turned deadly pale; feeling that he was in the presence of a supernatural being, he once more prostrated himself, and withdrew. Some secret influencefrom the priest had for the moment benumbed into icy coldness and even indifference his ardent love for Smâyâtee.
It was almost dawn when he sought his couch for rest.
A DREAM OF THE NIGHT.
Meanwhile the prisoner Rama had had a plentiful repast, and was sleeping heavily, with fatigue and despair for a pillow, on the damp floor of his cell.
Towards morning a cold sweat broke out on his brow. He felt creeping over him an indefinable horror, a sort of nightmare, which he struggled in vain to shake off. He groaned, panted, and at length sat up with a tremendous effort.
In a niche in the wall he fancied he saw a pale, blue, misty outline of a human figure, so indistinct that at first he could only distrust his own vision, but gradually it began to take form; at length it was as clear and palpable as a shape of life. It was the face and figure of the priest P'hra Chow Sâduman, whom he had met a year ago in the mountains of P'hra Batt. He was dressed in a loose robe of cloudy yellow; his legs were crossed, his arms folded across his breast, his eyes cast down; he seemed to be praying. The shadow of the shade in the background grew darker, and the form grew lurid, as if surrounded by fire.
Rama stared, rubbed his eyes; plainer did the figure of the priest appear, until it seemed to rise and swell and fill the whole cell. A dark, heavy mist settled on the prisoner's face, but the apparition grew brighter. He could bear it no longer; shuddering with horror, he cried: "Speak, whoever thou art, and tell me thy commands; they shall be obeyed."
Suddenly he felt a violent shaking of the ground on which he was seated; each moment he expected to behurled into an abyss below; he clung to the earth, and cried again: "Speak! For by the gods Dâvee and Dhupiyâ I vow to fulfil thy behest, even if it be to offer thee a human sacrifice."
He then perceived a soft cloud filling the cell, and in the centre of the cloud were luminous characters, which he read thus: "Sell not thy daughter to the duke."
The apparition vanished almost as soon as he had deciphered the words. Rama fell back against the wall of his cell, and awoke.
It was long before he could collect his scattered faculties, and what were left to him seemed steeped in illusion; he could only wonder, and bow in mystified adoration before the niche in his cell.
FOOTNOTES:[8]Dharma padam, the "Path of Virtue."—Buddhist Bible.
FOOTNOTES:
[8]Dharma padam, the "Path of Virtue."—Buddhist Bible.
[8]Dharma padam, the "Path of Virtue."—Buddhist Bible.
CHAPTER XI.
THE HEROISM OF A CHILD.
It was morning. All were assembled once more in the great hall, eager for a termination of their work.
Fresh troops of men to be enrolled and branded arrived every moment.
Then came Nai Dhamaphat; the Kromathan, or overseer; and lastly the Grand Duke, followed by an army of slaves, attendants, scribes, and cup and punka bearers. As he looked about him he saw, with a gleam of satisfaction, the veiled figure seated at her post, guarded by Amazons.
After a few minutes of conversation with the scribe who sat at his side, he ordered the prisoner Rama Singalee to be brought in.
No one remembered when the old, white-headed stranger was ushered in. But every one heard the wild cry of joy that seemed to die away on the lips of the strange girl, as, throwing off her saree, she sprang across the hall, and clasped the old man about the neck. After the first paroxysm of joy was over, she realized that her father was a prisoner; she looked still hopefully into his face, but, seeing no light there, laid her head upon the fetters that bound his feet, as if the iron had entered into her very soul.
Dhamaphat started, as if struck, and gazed sadly at the girl and her father.
Never scene so touching had been presented in that hall before. It arrested every eye, and filled every heart with sympathy; and it was no wonder,—the girl was a creature such as that country had never before produced.Her beauty was of the purest Indo-European type, rich brown complexion, delicate almond-shaped eyes, finely arched eyebrows, nose almost Greek in the purity of its outlines. Her feet, which had never worn either sandals or shoes, were large and perfect in shape; her arms, slender as those of a very young girl, were set off to great advantage by the metallic and glass bangles she wore; her rich black hair hung in long braids over a coarse blue bodice, which revealed a form of faultless proportions; on her breast, suspended by a yellow cord, was a flat silver ring, on which some mystic characters were inscribed.
The wondrous beauty of the prostrate girl filled the father and the son first with pleasure, then with fascination, afterwards with rapture; drawn on by irresistible steps, they both arrived, unknown to the other, at that stage of passion which blinds the sensibilities to everything else.
But the desire of one was to possess, the other to rescue.
The old soldier did not attempt to raise his daughter, but, taking off his turban, buried his face in it.
The duke was transported, stupefied; he paused, hesitated, then, suddenly, without knowing what moved him, he said, in a gentle, tender voice: "Why, girl? Raise up your head. See! your father is now going to be set free."
Smâyâtee lifted up her head, and looked at the speaker with an expression of childlike gladness and trust that brought to the heart of the wretch before her the long-lost sense of shame, and he could not for the moment give utterance to the iniquity he was about to perpetrate against her; he beckoned to an attendant, however, a sort of treasurer, with a heavy box, who approached, crawling, and at his instructions counted upon the floor forty pieces of gold,—sixteen times the value of an ordinary slave-woman.
Rama still covered his face with his turban, so that none could have told what was passing within him. His daughter laid her hand upon his arm, saying: "O, my father, the good duke gives us all this gold and promises us freedom! take it, and thank him, that he may permit us to return home."
The unhappy Rajpoot turned a look full of mournful tenderness upon his child. At the same moment the scribe, who had been industriously writing, laid a paper before him, and said, in rather an authoritative manner: "Tham Khai khat thedeo" (make the sale good, i.e., sign the paper).
Even now it did not occur to the girl what the paper and the forty pieces of gold meant.
To her mind they brought visions of freedom, as her heart yearned for the hills and groves of her native land. She once more whispered to her father to "take the money, and thank the duke, that he may let us go back home."
But the old man looked at her in silence, seemingly unable to utter a single word; his breathing came quick and hard, and all at once he gasped out: "The gods forbid me to sell my daughter to thee, my lord. Indra, Agni, and the Maruts, at whose roaring every dweller upon earth trembles, forbid me. O, pardon thy servant, my lord, and let us depart hence in peace."
The duke was doubly enraged, because of his last night's promise and the forty pieces of gold with which he had hoped to bribe him into an easy parting with his child. He turned to the bewildered Smâyâtee, and said: "Come hither, girl." But as she only looked at him, and made no attempt to go nearer, he added: "One thing is certain; this old fool, thy father, is still drunk, and knows not his mind; he sold you to me last night, and now he refuses, saying the gods forbid it."
nobleman
A YOUNG SIAMESE NOBLEMAN.
Smâyâtee turned from the duke to her father, her look changing from incredulity to surprise, from surprise to anguish, while the duke continued: "Now it is you who must decide for him; shall I hand him over to the royal judges to be tried and executed for the crime he is accused of, or will you consent to be my slave for life? I will make you rich and happy, and I will give him this gold, and he shall return in safety to his home."
He uttered these sentences in a loud, harsh voice, very different from that in which he had spoken to her a few minutes before.
When he had finished, the crowd cheered the speech.
The girl looked at them, and, not knowing why, began to cry.
This exasperated the duke.
He blew a small silver whistle; instantly a hand of armed men entered the hall, and he gave orders that the prisoner should be conveyed to the supreme court to be tried for attacking the chief officer of the royal guard, with intent to murder him, while he was on duty.
At this instant the girl seemed to take her resolution; she crawled up to the savage duke's feet, laid her head down upon them and kissed them, saying: "I consent to be thy slave, my lord. O, give not my father up to the king's officers."
The duke countermanded his orders.
"Yes," said she, her face suddenly transfigured, beaming with the twofold radiance of beauty and nobility of soul, "strike off his chains, and let him go free, dear, good lord."
There were no longer any arms being pricked with lancet-shaped needles. There were no longer any scribes enrolling the people's names. There were only fixed eyes, listening ears, and beatings of sympathetic hearts. The crowd was dimly conscious of the sublimity of theact; they were thrilled, awed, as much by her beauty as by the simplicity of her heroic self-sacrifice.
But Dhamaphat, who felt more deeply than the rest, noted how suddenly she had overcome her horror, how readily she had sacrificed herself for her father, and thought he saw in her face the effulgence of a heavenly light.
The order was given, and the Rajpoot was free. One final embrace, one look of triumph and despair from the girl, and she was led away by some female attendants.
Rama disappeared in the crowd, regardless of the gold, and the paper which his daughter had signed.
The work of branding and enrolling went on again, and the red light of the noonday sun shone upon the walls of the palace as if no young heart had been broken within its halls that day.
Dhamaphat left his work and went away, cursing the old priest, his tutor, and himself, in the impotency of his rage and sorrow.
CHAPTER XII.
THE INTERIOR OF THE DUKE CHOW P'HAYA MÂNDTREE'S HAREM.
Every harem is a little world in itself, composed entirely of women,—some who rule, others who obey, and those who serve. Here disinterestedness vanishes out of sight. Each one is for herself. They are nearly all young women, but they have the appearance of being slightly blighted. Nobody is too much in earnest, or too much alive, or too happy. The general atmosphere is that of depression. They are bound to have no thought for the world they have quitted, however pleasant it may have been; to ignore all ties and affections; to have no care but for one individual alone, and that the master. But if you became acquainted with some of these very women under favorable conditions,—very rare, however,—you might gather glimpses of recollections of the outer world, of earlier life and strong affections, of hearts scarred and disfigured and broken, of suppressed sighs and unuttered sobs, that would dispose you to melancholy reflections and sad forebodings, and, if you were by nature tender, to shedding of tears. Their dress and manners often betray all sorts of peculiarities, and yet all is harmonious outwardly. They are unconscious of the terrible defacement they have undergone. Yet it sometimes happens that this same little world has its greatness, and always when a woman becomes a mother her life changes; she passes from the ignoble to the noble; then she becomes pure, worthy, honorable.
The wall that surrounded the duke's palaces andtemples enclosed also about five hundred houses, with gardens and artificial lakes and fountains and aviaries. Most of the houses were built of solid masonry, with here and there a theatre of carved wood; the streets were narrow, and the covered bazaars in no way remarkable except for the shops of female jewellers, gold and silversmiths. All the palaces and temples faced the river. The oldest Hindoo temple stood here, beside a Buddhist temple and monastery, from which the priests who officiated in the duke's household were supplied. The most remarkable edifice, however, was the duke's tower, or summer-house, of four lofty stories, opening all round into arches, made entirely of carved wood, and richly gilt. It commanded a magnificent view of the river, and overlooked more than one half of the city of Bangkok. When you mount the highest chamber, you open your eyes upon a scene too solemnly and mysteriously beautiful to be adequately described. You seem to be midway in the air, looking down upon a city of temples and palaces, gardens, lakes, minarets, pagodas and p'hra-chai-dees; thousands of boats glide noiselessly over the silver floor that winds on forever. The great height hushes out even the joyous voices that are hushed nowhere else. In the gloom at the upper end of the river many a boatman, perched on the prow of his boat, seems like the Angel of Death guiding some helpless passenger to the silent shore. And overhead the sky looks like some blue door, such as must lead straight into heaven.
In every ducal or royal harem there are a great many buildings designed and built for the express purpose of training and educating the women, and every girl has to go through certain forms and observances before she is admitted among the favored ones.
The female teachers, physicians, and judges, who are placed over them, generally receive a careful professionaleducation,—the best the country can supply. Mere children are often taken into these places and trained to be actresses, dancers, musicians, and singers.
Every department has a superintendent, who is generally a lady of high rank, and is responsible to the duke only.
The mode of teaching in the schools is peculiar; no books are used by the pupils, who are placed in rows, with female officers in attendance to administer the rattan in all cases of inattention. The teacher either reads or sings the first line of a poem, or plays the first bar of an air; the head pupil repeats it after her, and so on to the last girl in the class; then all together, until they have learned it by heart. Dancing and gymnastics are taught in the same way.
Often a hundred different airs and poems are committed to memory by very young girls, who are thus converted into walking libraries.
Smâyâtee was led into the adytum of the duke's palace, conducted to a small chamber, and left there; while her guards betook themselves to their dinner. Very soon, the rumor of her great beauty having spread, nearly all the lovely girls in the harem rushed in to get a glimpse of her; but finding her closely veiled, and that no persuasion could prevail with her to uncover her face, they gradually departed, one young woman only remaining behind, sitting apart in silent sympathy.
After a while two female physicians came in, talking in low tones one to the other. They then proceeded to question the girl, and to all of their questions she returned modest replies; after they were satisfied they bade her unrobe, which she did with some little hesitancy. When she laid aside her veil, her eyes met those of her silent visitor; an indescribable something beamed from every feature of the stranger, and they became friends.The physicians then examined the girl, just as if she were an animal; having finished their inventory of her perfections and imperfections, they dropped a few pleasant words, and departed. Smâyâtee had no sooner dressed herself and taken her place close to her new friend, and they had in the brief moment exchanged names, when another batch of women appeared, and told her to follow them. She rose, and went out, holding her new friend's hand. After passing through a dark and silent street, they brought her to a marble building, with baths and fountains all round it. Here she was again told to undress, and take her place on a marble couch. With her eyes she pleadingly besought her friend to stay, who did so, seated, leaning against a pillar. The bathers then anointed Smâyâtee's person with a fragrant preparation; when she was completely besmeared they suspended their labors, in order to let the stuff dry on the poor girl, who knew no more what was going to be done to her than if she had been a little kitten; and as she sat there, her skin glowing and her heart palpitating, she heard herself discussed by the bathers, whose language she only partially understood. But she heard enough to realize the life in store for herself. After half an hour they seized her again, rubbed off briskly the dried paste, and showered buckets of hot and cold water upon her. Another set of women now took charge of the poor girl, and dressed her in beautiful silk robes, like those worn by the Loatian women of high rank. Her hair was combed, perfumed, and ornamented with flowers, finally she was conducted to a pretty little house, luxuriously fitted up, and left in the charge of a number of female slaves.
Smâyâtee now wore a new veil of Indian gauze, but she would rather have kept the old one. She cowered down in a corner, and laid her tired head in the lap of her newfriend, who began patting and soothing her, without uttering a single word.
Most girls, as soon as they have overcome the horror which such a life must naturally inspire in the young and enthusiastic, begin to calculate on their chances of promotion to the highest place in the harem.
As for Smâyâtee, no thought but of escape presented itself to her mind; her nature was too wild and untamed to be flattered by the luxuries that now surrounded her; she looked upon them only as so many fetters. All kinds of wild plans for running away took violent possession of her brain; but the soothing influence of the bath, combined with the exhaustion of the day, overcame her, and she was soon sound asleep.
CHAPTER XIII.
A NIGHT OF MYSTERIES.
Mai Chandra, Smâyâtee's new friend, redoubled her tenderness and sisterly love for the poor, forlorn girl when she found that she was asleep. As midnight approached, she gently placed her head on a cushion, and then went home to her supper, deeply in love with the beautiful stranger.
The Duke Chow P'haya Mândtree's pavilion was thronged, as usual, with courtiers and nobles. All manner of attractions and diversions were there. The duke himself, partly intoxicated, sat amidst them, boasting of the rare purchase he had made that day: "She is so beautiful," said he to one of his boon companions, "that she inspires me as this glass of English brandy does." And he filled and refilled the jewelled goblet out of which he drank.
This man, in his whole person, was a type of many who may be seen any day in Siam,—a human being sunk in the lowest depths of sensualism and savage barbarity. From his hair, which was a dull gray, his wrinkled brow, his livid lips and watery eyes, there breathed forth an atmosphere which would have repelled even the mother who bore him.
At one time it was his intention to have Smâyâtee brought into the pavilion, that his friends might judge of her beauty; but, with his faculties already greatly enfeebled by the immoderate use of English brandy, he forgot his purpose.
At length the distant sounds of trumpets, conch-shells,and the ringing of multitudinous pagoda-bells proclaimed the last hour of day,—i.e. midnight. The nobles, courtiers, and friends retired and some elderly female attendants appeared; to them the duke gave orders to have the new slave-girl conducted to the upper story of his summer tower.
The day had been hot and sultry; no clouds were to be seen, except low on the eastern horizon, where they stretched in lengthened ridges of gold and purple, like the border between earth and sky.
As the women departed on their mission, a dark, heavy mass of clouds rose in the black outline of the distant hills. A sudden gust of wind, in fits and starts and snatches, came sweeping up the river, and tossed its waters wildly against the banks; then flashed incessant lightnings, and the winds rang and roared as though they heralded with joy the coming thunder-storm. Suddenly the moon was blurred with clouds, and the tempest raged outright. In the midst of the storm the poor terrified girl was roused from her slumbers, led to the lofty chamber, and left alone, while the attendants retired to one of the little alcoves to be in waiting.
Rama—who had that day made a circuit of the walls, and had promenaded every nook and corner in the vain hope of finding some means of getting, unseen, into the duke's palace, had hired a boat, and was sailing wildly up and down the river in front of it, laying desperate plans of finding his daughter and carrying her off at any risk and peril—was at the same moment, by one mighty sweep of the water, dashed on the banks that bounded on one side the gardens and temples of the palace. He staggered to his feet, and raised his head to the dreadful sky. A sudden flash of lightning revealed the gilded top of the lofty summer tower and the tapering summits of the Buddhist and Hindoo temples.
With a dreadful purpose burning in his heart, he walked straight on to the latter building, which was dimly lighted, and stood open as if inviting him to take shelter under its sacred roof. He entered. Happy memories, every sweet emotion he had known, came crowding upon him, as he once more recognized, in the partial darkness, the faint outlines of the images of his long-forgotten gods, Dâvee and Indra and Dhupiyâ.
There is compensation in all things. He had lost his child, and found his gods. Joy and sorrow are bound up in every event of life,—even as opposite poles are inseparable in the magnet. The pity is that the night of trouble is at times so dark that the interwoven gold with which Providence relieves the woof of calamity remains undiscovered.
Thus it was with Rama; there was joy and sorrow in his heart as he bowed before the gods of his fathers, but there was hatred and revenge there too, mingled with dark and bloody thoughts.
"Life is now a useless gift, an insupportable burden," groaned Rama.
In how many lives there lurks a hidden romance or a hidden terror. No one was near to mark the secret workings of this terrible man's nature. He recalled his home on the hills of Orissa, the yearly sacrifice that his fathers had been wont to offer up on Dâvee's altar, and he suddenly resolved that he would himself be the sacrifice to his long-forgotten and neglected gods.
Only one person could have saved him from his rash purpose, and she was sitting up there alone, midway between earth and heaven. He slowly drew out from his cumberbund a glittering knife, and his expression became exultant as he felt its sharp edge.
Not all the gods, not all the love-lit eyes, not all the hills of Orissa, can move him from his purpose now. Helaid the knife upon the altar, and cried aloud to the insatiable Earth Goddess.
"O Dâvee, thou hast been unworshipped for years; multitudes crowd thy sister temples, but thine they pass unnoticed by. Behold my child now in the grasp of the spoiler. Defend, preserve her, that her honor may shine bright among men, and I will pour out to thee the life of my heart. Drink of my blood, and be revenged on the defiler of my house and my race."
Then, snatching up the knife, he waved it thrice over his head, and thrust it into his side. Leaning forward, he tried to picture his child's face, but could not for the light that love threw around her, and the mist that death wrapped round him; he drew nearer to his childhood's God, and, drawing out the knife, fell down at its feet, turning up his face to it, reverently, lovingly; and there was joy—joy of conscious strength, of victory—mingling with the life-blood of the heart that was fast flowing away forever.
It is two o'clock. The night is changed. The storms and clouds and darkness are all dispersed. The blue sky has thrown aside her veils, and the moon rides serenely in limitless range, undimmed by a single fleck of cloud. The very air breathes sweetness and perfume and peace.
But of all the mysteries of the night there is one yet to be solved.
Smâyâtee still sits on one of the sills of the arches in the topmost chamber of the summer tower, nearest to where the women have retired out of sight. She hears them whispering. She hears, too, some one slowly mounting the stairs; the footsteps are heavy, and sound like those of an aged man. She looks around to see if there is any way by which she may escape. The tower has but a single spiral stairway. She remains still and motionless. In a few minutes the sound of the footstepscomes nearer; through the archway opposite, the tottering figure of a dark, heavy man enters and approaches her. In the dim light she looks up at him with a terror-stricken, pleading face, daring neither to breathe nor speak; she shrinks away to the other side, where the women are in waiting. The duke, rather admiring her coyness, laughs a drunken laugh, and attempts to follow her. In crossing the threshold he stumbles. In trying to recover his footing he is thrown back. His head strikes violently against a massive gold spittoon.
A wild cry, and Smâyâtee rushes from her hiding-place, springs across the prostrate figure, down the flights of stairs, and through the labyrinths of flowering shrubs and plants, to hide herself beside a low tank of water.
The attendants and slaves who were lying around heard wild cries for help proceeding from the summer tower, and hurried to the spot with lamps and lanterns. All the piazzas, streets, gardens, and avenues are alive with anxious faces and inquiring looks.
The duchess's fears are aroused. She too summons her maidens with their lanterns, and sets out for the tower.
Suddenly she stops.
A few steps from her she sees an object dressed in bright colors, crouching in a pool of rain-water by the tank. She stooped to scrutinize the figure, and found it was that of a young and strange girl. She bent over her again, and said, gently, "Why art thou hiding here, my child?"
"I am afraid of him, dear lady," replied the girl, pointing to the lofty chamber.
"Afraid! art thou, indeed?" said she, a little coldly, remembering the news of the day; "didst thou not sell thyself to the duke in spite of thy father's wishes?"
"O yes, I did, dear lady," replied Smâyâtee; "but—" and she began to cry bitterly, and could not say another word for her tears and sobs.
The true woman triumphed in the "wife," for she put out her arms, and raised the forlorn stranger to her bosom, and comforted her with such words as women who have great and loving hearts only can. Then, confiding her to the tender care of her own women, she went on her way to find out the meaning of those dreadful cries.
Nai Dhamaphat, who had been watching in sadness and despair the marvellous expression of Nature's tears and smiles, was the first to mount the spiral staircase, to find his father in the last agonies of death. He takes him up gently, with the assistance of the women, and places him on his luxurious couch.
The duke is dead.
Everything is forgotten. He sees the pale face of the duchess, his mother, that silent woman, and, catching a glimpse of the bitter sorrow of that patient soul, who was so worthy of his father's love in her right of youth and beauty,—the foremost to love him, the last and only woman of all those whom he had wronged to mourn him,—he bows his head and weeps. The son and the mother are drawn closer than ever. They two had suffered in silence apart. Now they sorrowed together.
CHAPTER XIV.
"WEEPING MAY ENDURE FOR A NIGHT, BUT JOY COMETH IN THE MORNING."
A year has passed since the occurrence of the fearful events here related.
The river in front of the palace is thronged with a numerous procession of gayly gilded boats and barges.
It is the morning after the cremation of the Duke Chow P'haya Mândtree.
The king, with sixty or more nobles and princes of the land, all armed and in regal attire, presides in the grand hall of the late duke's palace.
The duchess and her two sons, and a fair sprinkling of Siamese ladies and children, are here assembled. A vast number of serfs, soldiers, pages, and women are in waiting.
Around the deep embrasure formed by the windows in the massive wall, there ran a low seat, the space thus occupied being raised as a kind of dais above the general level of the floor. Here were seated on either side of the wall the principal officers, male and female, of the duke's household, headed by the priests of Brahma and of Buddha, who were to play a part in the important drama of the day.
The hall is hung with tapestry of the most original design, for the birds and beasts and flowers which are pictured there had surely never prototypes, unless in some lost geological formation, though patterns very like them seemed to be unanimously adopted as models by all the fair embroideresses of Siam.
In the middle of the dais were two ducal chairs of state. On one was seated a young girl, very closely veiled, on the other the young duke, now Chow P'haya Dhamaphat; over them is spread a canopy of white muslin, decorated with the sweetest white flowers.
The girl, beneath her white veil, thinks it all perfection, and her eyes light up, and her cheeks burn, and her heart beats in perplexing fashion; and Dhamaphat believes that he alone holds the key to the temple of Elysium.
It is one of those rare occasions when the whole assembly is rapt in the regions of fancy.
The old priest, P'hra Chow Sâduman is there too, and he often raises his eyes in admiration, and his heart in prophecy of a propitious marriage. At length he begins the grand, old, harmonious nuptial chant, and all the priests of Buddha and of Brahma join in sonorous concert, and through the canopy over the happy couple the typical waters of consecration, in which had been previously infused certain leaves and shrubs emblematic of purity, sweetness, and usefulness, are gently showered.
And now Smâyâtee's earnest friend, Mai Chandra, with her tender mother-in-law, the duchess, conduct her, all dripping, by a screened passage, to a chamber magnificently appointed, where she is divested of her former apparel, and arrayed in robes becoming her now lofty station.
Then Chow P'haya Dhamaphat is ushered in. At the moment of his entrance Smâyâtee rises to throw herself at his feet, according to the custom of the country; but he prevents her, embraces her in the European manner, and presents her, standing upright by his side, to his relatives, with which the ceremony for the day terminates.
There is a general move towards the gateway by which P'hra Chow Sâduman is to pass. All, even the king, press to the front and fall on their knees to ask hisblessing. He blesses them in a broken voice; he is strangely moved to-day.
Yet another year, and in this same palace nowhere will you find a trace of either Dhamaphat, Smâyâtee, or the gentle duchess. A younger brother fills his place, and is lord over all, following closely in the footsteps of his late father.
Far away, near the suburbs of Bijree Puree, i.e. the Diamond City, stands a lovely little cottage, where the ex-duke, his mother, and his sweet wife reside. He has freely resigned all the splendor and state of his position for the quiet and peace of a country life; and nothing is wanting here. The grand old trees are dressed in tender green, and the bright sun touches with its golden-yellow light every nook and corner of the lovely scene around.
The cottage within is furnished partly in the European and partly in the Oriental style. There are here no slaves, but hired servants, who have an air of freedom, loyalty, and comfort about them very delightful to witness.
In an inner chamber is Smâyâtee, rocking a little boy to sleep in a rude Laotian crib, with a mystic Hindoo triform suspended over it,—she cannot make up her mind to put him into the European cradle which stands close by; she fears some secret evil influence may lurk about its pretentious aspect,—and the boy, with his finger in his mouth, looks at his mother as if he felt she was divinely beautiful, and could not bring himself to shut his dreamy eyes for the light upon her face.
girl
SMÂYÂTEE.
Nai Dhamaphat has become a convert to the Roman Catholic faith, but his pagan wife cannot be persuaded to forsake the gods who have brought her so much happiness, to whom her father sacrificed his brave life, and therefore she has raised an altar in her nursery to Dâvee and Dhupiyâ and Indra. Her father's ashes, too,rest here in a golden pagoda; but with the true, loving, tender veneration of her womanly nature, she has exalted over them all, in a niche on either side of the altar, an image of the Christ, and another of the Virgin Mary with her infant Son in her arms. These, in their symmetry and beauty, are to her the most beautiful of the gods upon her altar. In those porcelain images of the Christ, and the Mother with her tiny Infant, she feels that there is something higher, purer, loftier, than in the forms of her own dear gods, and she bows in worship, and trembles at the height to which her thoughts of that Mother and her Son elevate her soul.
Her religion, you can see at a glance, is not a gloomy one like that of her ancestors. There is a smile all over the chamber, and happiness all over her sweet face. Loving everything in her purity, worshipping everything in her humility, morning and evening she raises her eyes and her heart from those sombre old gods of hers to the tender ones of her husband; and this quiet pagan city has never before been lighted up with such a gleam of heaven upon earth as when her evening prayer bursts into song:—
"To Thee are all my acts, my days,And all my lore, and all my praise,My food, my gifts, my sacrifice,And all my helplessness and cries.Dâvee! leave my spirit free,And thy pure soul bequeath to meUnshackled. Let me in thine essence share,Let me dwell in thee forever,And thou, O Dâvee! dwell in me."
CHAPTER XV.
THE FAVORITE OF THE HAREM.
The morning on which his Majesty set out on his annual visit to Pitchaburee was one of those which occur in the climate of Siam at almost any season of the year, but are seen in their perfection only in October. The earth, air, and sky seemed to bask in a glory of sunlight and beauty, and everything that had life gave signs of perfect and tranquil enjoyment. Not a sound broke the stillness, and there seemed nothing to do but to sit and watch the long shadows sleeping on the distant hills, and on the warm golden fields of waving corn.
Reluctantly quitting my window, I turned my steps toward the palace, leaving all this beauty behind me in a kind of despair; not that my temple school-room was not in itself a delicious retreat, but that it always impressed me with a feeling I could never analyze; when there, it seemed as if I were removed to some awful distance from the world I had known, and were yet more remotely excluded from any participation in its real life.
Taking out my book, I sat down to await the coming of such of my pupils as might not have accompanied the king on his visit.
In the course of an hour, only one presented herself; she was a young woman called Choy, a fair and very handsome girl of about twenty summers, or perhaps not so many, with regular features,—a very rare thing in a Siamese woman; but the great beauty of her face was in her large lustrous eyes, which were very eloquent, even in their seeming indifference. Her hair, which was so longthat when unbound it covered her whole person, even to her feet, was tied in a large knot behind, and ornamented with the jessamine and Indian myrtle. She had a careless, and I might almost say even a wicked, expression in her face, which was slightly marked with the smallpox.
Choy was the youngest sister of the head wife (or concubine) Thieng, and had been my pupil for about six months. This morning she brought me a flower; it was a common wild-flower, that grew up everywhere in great profusion, making a lovely carpet, blossoming as it did in every nook and crevice of the stone pavements within the palace. It was just like her to snatch up the first thing that attracted her, and then to give it away the very next moment. But I received it with pleasure, and made a place for her at my side. She seemed to be out of humor, and, jerking herself impatiently into the seat, said abruptly: "Why don't you despise me, as all the rest of them do?" Then, without waiting for an answer, she went on to say: "I can't be what you wish me to be; I'm not coming to school any more! Here's my book! I don't want it, I hate English!"
"Why, Choy, what is the matter?" I inquired.
"I am tired of trying to do so much; I am not going to learn English any more," she replied.
"Don't say so, Choy," I said, kindly; "you can't do everything at once; you must learn by degrees, and little by little, you know. No one grows good or clever at once."
"But I won't learn any more, even to grow good and clever. There's no use, no one will ever care for me or love me again. I wish they had let me die that time," she continued. "Bah! I could kill that stupid old consul who saved my life. It were better to be quartered, and cast to the crows and vultures, than to live here.Every one orders me about as if I were a slave, and treats me like a dog. I wish I could drown myself and die."
"But, Choy, you are here now, and you must try to bear it more bravely than you do," I said, not fully understanding the passionate nature of the woman.
"Mam," she said, suddenly, laying her hand upon my arm, "what would you do if you were in my place and like me?"
"Like you, Choy? I don't quite understand you; you must explain yourself before I can answer you."
"Listen, then," she said, passionately, "and I will tell you."
"When I was hardly ten years old,—O, it seems such a long, long time ago!—my mother presented me, her favorite child, as a dancing-girl, to his Majesty. I was immediately handed over to that vicious old woman, Khoon Som Sak, who was at that time the chief teacher of the dramatic art in the palace. She is very clever, and knows all the ancient epic poems by heart, especially the Rāmāyānā, which his Majesty delighted to see dramatized.
"Under her tuition we were subjected to the most rigorous training, mentally and physically; we were compelled to leap and jump, to twist and contort our bodies, and bend our arms, fingers, and ankles in every direction, till we became so supple that we were almost like young canes of rattan, and could assume any posture the old hag pleased. Then we had to learn long passages from all sorts of poets by heart, with perfect correctness, for if we ever forgot even a single word, or did not put it in its right place, we were severely beaten. What with recitations, singing, dancing, playing, and beating time with our feet, we had a hard life of it; and it was no play for our instructress either, for there were seventy ofus girls to be initiated into all the mysteries of the Siamese drama.
"At length, with some half-dozen of my companions, I was pronounced perfect in the art, and was permitted to enter my name among the envied few who played and danced and acted before the king.
"I would not have you think that the tasks imposed upon me were always irksome, or that I have always felt so depressed and unworthy as I do now. The study of the poets, and above all of the Rāmāyānā, opened to me a new world as it were; and it was a great gain to have even this, with the half-smothered yearning for life in the outer world that it inspired. It helped me to live in a world of my own creation, a world of love, music, and song. Rama was my hero, and I imagined myself the fair and beautiful Sita, his wife. I particularly delighted to act that part of the poem describing Rama's expedition to Lanka[9]to rescue Sita from the tyrant Râwânâ, and their delicious meeting in the garden, where Rama greets her with those beautiful lines,—
'O, what joy! abundant treasuresI have won again to-day,O, what joy! Of Sita Yanee[10]Now the hard-won prize is mine.
O, what joy! again thou livest, within this breast.So mighty, armed with love, and with the wealth of heaven beyond[11]Soon shall Sita, Indara's fairest daughter,Stand by my side, as stands her matchless mother,Aspārā, in heaven refulgent by the great Indara.'
"My face is slightly pock-marked I know; but when painted and dressed in the court jewels I looked remarkably well as Sita, with my hair floating away over my shoulders and down to my feet, bound only by an exquisite crown of gold, such as Sita is supposed to haveworn. On the very first occasion of my performing before the king I had to take part in this drama. As soon as we had got through the first scene, the king inquired my name and age. This set my heart beating in great wild throbs all through the rest of the play. But after this weeks passed by, and I heard nothing more from his Majesty. He had forgotten me.
"I grew tired of reciting, and keeping time, and singing my sweetest songs for no one's amusement but that of the old hag, who made me work like a slave for the benefit of the rest of her pupils.
"I began to wish there would be some greatfêteoutside of the palace, where all the court, nobles and princes, and the king, would assemble, and where I could act Sita and sing like Narawèke,[12]and dance like Thawadee.[13]
"Then father and mother might see me too, and O, how pleased they would be! I thought. You do not know how dull it is to be acting before women, and with women only, dressed in robes of kings and princesses. If it were only a real king, or a prince, or even a noble, it would not be quite so bad; but all that mockery of love, bah! it is too stupid. I was sick of my life. I wished mother had kept me at home, instead of Chand. I could then have done just what I had a mind to, and have been just as gay and idle as she was.
"Well! the day came at last. I was all but sixteen when that great and eventful day arrived. Thefêtewas in honor of the king's grandson's hair-cutting.
"Though I had performed several times at the court, his Majesty had taken no further notice of me, and I was sorely discontented with myself, piqued at the indifference of the king, and enraged against the old ladies, who seized every opportunity to snub me, and take down mypride, declaring that a pock-marked face was not a fit offering for the king.
"The longed-for day arrived at length. How elated I was! I had to represent the character of the wondrously beautiful Queen Thèwâdee in one of those ancient dramas of Maha Nagkhon Watt, whose beauty is said to have entranced even the wild beasts of the forest, so that they forgot to seize upon their prey as her shadow passed near them. My dress was of magnificent silk and gold, covered with precious gems; my crown was an antique and lovely coronet, one that had graced the brows of the queens of Cambodia. It was richly studded with rubies and diamonds. The first day of my rehearsal in this costume, all my companions declared that I looked enchantingly beautiful, that my fortune was made, and that, if I would only look and act thus, I could not fail to captivate the king. The bare idea of being elevated above my hateful old teacher, and above some of the proud women who domineered over me, half intoxicated me. In this mood I began to realize my future as already at hand, and, growing impatient with my doubts and fears, I sought at nightfall a crafty old female astrologer named Khoon Hate Nah. She took me into a dark and dismal cell underground, and, putting her ear to my side, numbered the pulsation of my heart for a whole hour; she then bound my eyes, and bade me select one of the dark books that lay around me. This done, she expounded to me my whole future, out of her mysterious book of fate, in which all my romantic visions of greatness were as clearly predicted as if the old fiend himself had revealed to her my secret and innermost thoughts. I was troubled only at one part of the old woman's revelations, which said, that, though I was destined to rise to the greatest honors in the realm, a certain malignant star which would greatly influence my destiny would be in ascendency during the month of Duenjee,[14], and that if I neglected to pass the whole of that period in deep fasting, prayer, and meditation, I should sink at once from the highest pinnacle of my grandeur into the lowest and most terrible abyss.
"I resolved that I would fast and pray for that entire month every year of my life. How I wish now that I had never consulted the old hag, because my confidence in her predictions made me proud and defiant to the old duennas, who are now my bitterest enemies!
"Alas! dear father and mother. It were better to have cast your daughter Choy into the Mèinam than to have given her to amuse a king.
"On the day of thefête, I awoke at five o'clock in the morning, and began anointing my person with the perfumes and unguents provided for us at the king's expense. I then spent the rest of the forenoon in making my hair glossy and lustrous, which I did by rubbing it with the oil of the doksarathe.[15]How I gloried and exulted to see it floating away in long shining masses, waving over my shoulders and covering my feet! The afternoon came, and with it the old hags bearing my dress and the costly jewels I was to appear in. They opened the box and laid them before me. I had never seen anything so beautiful. The boxes absolutely sparkled like the stars of heaven in one blaze of light and beauty.
"When I saw these jewels I was seized with a fit of temporary madness. I could not help skipping and dancing in a sort of frenzy about my chamber, saying all sorts of absurd things and foretelling my future triumphs. My slave-women looked on amazed at the wildness of my spirits; and as for the old women who had the care of robing me for the evening, they were wrathful and silent.
actress
A ROYAL ACTRESS.
"We were all ready at last. A small gilt chariot of a tower-like form, made of ivory and decorated with garlands and crowns of flowers, drawn by a pair of milk-white ponies, and attended by Amazons dressed superbly in green and gold, conveyed me, as the Queen Thèwâdee, to the grand hall where we were to perform. My companions, similarly attended, followed me on foot. His Majesty, the princes, and princesses, surrounded by all the courtiers, were already there. The king and royal family were seated on a raised dais under a tapering golden canopy.
"The moment the king saw me approach, my ponies led gently forward by Amazons, he rose and, before the whole court of lords and nobles and princes assembled, inquired my name of one of the duennas. This recalled me once more to his memory, for he said aloud, 'Ah! we remember, she is the one who dances so beautifully.' O, what a moment of triumph that was for me! I felt as if my heart in its wild, ecstatic throbs would burst through its gorgeous fetters of silk and gold. I rose up in my chariot and bowed low before him three times. 'But, how now!' he exclaimed angrily, looking around; 'where are the nobles who are to lead the ponies? Let those Amazons fall back to the right and left.' In an instant there emerged from the crowd two most distinguished-looking noblemen, dressed in flowing white robes, threaded with gold and sparkling with gems; they took their places beside the ponies on either side of my chariot. One was P'haya[16]Râtani, the other was a stranger to me.
"They did homage to me, as if I were a real queen, and stationed themselves at my ponies' heads.
"At this moment I was saluted with a burst of music and the curtain fell. P'haya Râtani bent his head closeto mine and whispered, 'How beautiful thou art!' I turned a frowning look upon him for his presumption, and replied, 'Have a care, my lord, a word from me may be too much for thee'; but he immediately assumed so humble and penitent an expression that I forgave him. I was both flattered and piqued, however, at the other nobleman's conduct; for though he looked admiringly at me, he said not a word. I would have given my eyes if it had been he who said I was beautiful; for there was a majesty of youth, strength, and manly beauty about him that made a blinding radiance around my chariot, and excited an oblivious rapture in my heart. I panted, I was athirst, for one word of recognition from him. At length I became so vexed at his silence that I asked him what he was looking at. He replied more cautiously than his companion, 'Lady, I thought that I beheld an angel of light, but thy voice recalls me to the earth again.'
"I was so enraptured at this speech, that I could hardly contain myself. A flood of delight swept over me, my breast heaved, my eyes glowed, my lips parted, my color came and went through the maize-colored cream that covered my face and concealed my only deformity.
"When the curtain rose, I, with this new life rushing through my veins, looked triumphantly at the troop of my companions who did me homage. This new existence made me so joyous that I must have been beautiful. Thus inspired I acted my part so wondrously well that a deep murmur of applause ran throughout the hall. His Majesty's eyes were riveted upon me in startled astonishment and evident admiration. I acted my part with a keen sense of its reality, and gave utterance to the burning passion of my heart. As if I were really a queen, I commanded my courtiers to drive away the suitors who wooed me, declaring that anything beneath royalty would stain my queenly dignity and beauty.
"But when the banished prince, my lover, appeared, I rose hastily from my gilded and ivory chariot, and with my hair floating round my form like a deep lustrous veil, through which the gems on my robe shone out like glorious stars of a dark night, I laid myself, like the lotus-stem uprooted, prostrate at his feet. I pronounced his name in the most tender accents. I improvised verses even more passionate than those contained in the drama:—
'Instantly I knew my lord, as the heat betrays the fire,When through the obscuring earth uncloudedShining out thou didst appearWorthy of all joy; my soul is wrung with rapture,And it quivers in thy presence, as the lotus petals before a mighty wind.'
"The courtiers raised me up from the floor, and led me back to the chariot. The prince, who was no other than 'Murakote,' took his, or more properly her, place beside me, and the curtain fell. The play was over. With nothing but the memory of a look, I returned to my now still more dismal rooms. I disrobed myself of all my glittering ornaments with a sigh, bound up my long, shining hair, and sat down to enjoy the only happiness left me,—my proud, swelling thoughts. I was just losing myself in soft, delicious reveries, which illuminated as with a celestial light the whole world within me, when I observed a couple of old duennas, who came fawning upon me, caressing and praising me, while telling me that his Majesty had ordered that I should be in attendance in his supper-chamber that evening.
"I listened in mute pain. The power of the new passion that now filled my heart seemed to defy all authority, and the very thing for which I had so long worked and longed had become valueless and as nothing to me. But I dared not excuse myself, so I silently followed my conductresses, and for the first time in my life ascended to his Majesty's private supper-chamber.
"How changed I was! that which had been my sole ambition ever since I was ten years old came down upon me with a gush of woe that I could hardly have believed myself capable of feeling.
"I sat down to await the coming of the king; but I could have plucked out the heart that had rushed so madly on, casting its young life away at the feet of a man whose name even I did not know, whose face I had not seen till that day, but the tones of whose voice were still sounding through and through my quivering pulses.
"Well, my forehead, if not my heart, I laid at his Majesty's feet. 'I am your slave, my lord,' said my voice, the sound of which startled my own ears, so hollow and deceptive did it seem.
"'Do you know how fascinating you were this evening?' said the king. 'Older by forty years than my father,' thought I, as, dissembling still, I replied, 'Your slave does not know.' 'But you were, and I am sure you deserve to be a queen,' he added, trying to play the gallant. 'My lord is too gracious to his slave,' I murmured.
"'Why, Thieng!' he said, speaking to my eldest sister; 'why have you hidden this beauty away from me so long? Let her not be called Choy[17]any longer, but Chorm.'[18]I would weary you if I tried to tell you how he praised and flattered me, and how before a week was over I was the proudest woman in the palace.
"I became a stranger to my dismal rooms in the street, to my slave-women as well as to my companions. I lived entirely in his Majesty's apartments, and it was only when he was asleep or in the council hall that I rushed down to plunge into the lotus-lake or to ramble in the rose-garden. But I never stopped to think. I would not give my heart a moment to reflect, not a moment to the past, not a moment to the future. I was intoxicated withthe present. Every day gifts rare and costly were brought to me from the king; I affected to despise them, but he never relaxed his endeavors to suit my taste, to match my hair and my complexion. The late proud, insolent favorite, who used to order us girls about as if we were dogs, knelt before me, as half fromennuiand half from coquetry I feigned illness and inability to rise from my master's couch. I cannot tell you how well I acted my part; I was more daring than any favorite had yet been.
"In the tumult and excess of the passion I felt for a stranger, I was able to make the king believe that he was himself its object; and he was so flattered at my seeming admiration and devotion, that he called me by the tender name 'Look' (child), and indulged me in all my whims and fancies.
"But at length I grew tired of so much acting, and the intensity of my manner began to flag. I complained of illness in order to escape to my own room, where I flung myself down upon my leather pillow, and drove my teeth through and through it in the after-agony that my falseness brought upon me. I was worn with woe, more than wasted by want of food. My sister observed my paleness, and said, half in earnest and half in jest: 'Don't take it so much to heart, child; we have all had our day; it is yours now, but it can't last forever. Remember, there are other dancing-girls growing up, and some of them are handsomer than you are.'
"'What do you mean?' I retorted, fiercely; 'do you suppose I am sorrowing because of my grandfather? Bah! take him, if you want him.' 'Hush, child,' she replied, 'and don't forget that you are in a lion's den.'
"'Lion or tiger,' I said, laughing bitterly, 'I mean to play with his fangs, even if they tear my heart, until I am rich as you at least.' 'Do you, indeed?' she rejoined. 'Be quick, then, and give him a p'hra ong.'[19]With thatshe left me to my own wild, bitter, maddening, condemning self.
"Months of triumph, rage, agony, and despair wore away, and my day was not over I was acknowledged by all to be the wilful favorite 'Chorm.' In the mean time I had one ray of comfort. I found out the name of the man I loved, from a new slave-woman who had just entered into my service. It was P'haya P'hi Chitt. That very day I took a needleful of golden thread and worked the name into a scrap of silk which I made into an amulet and wore round my neck. This greatly solaced me for a little while, after which I began to crave something more.
"The new slave-woman who had entered my service, just because I was the favorite, seemed so kind and attentive, and was such a comfort to me, whenever I rushed to my rooms for a respite, that I determined to employ her in obtaining information of the outside world for me. 'Just to beguile me of my weary hours,' I said. She seconded the idea with great alacrity. 'To whose house shall I go first?' she inquired. 'O, anywhere,' I replied, carelessly; then, as if suddenly remembering myself, I said, 'O Boon, go to P'haya P'hi Chitt, and find out how the groom of the Queen Thèwâdee lives in his harem.'
"When she returned, which was close upon nightfall, I was impatient to hear all she had to tell me; but after she had told me all, I became more impatient and restless still. Her face lighted up as she expatiated on the manly beauty of P'haya P'hi Chitt, and her voice trembled slightly—she did it on purpose, I thought—as she went on to say that ever since the day he had met the lovely Thèwâdee he had become so changed, and had grown so melancholy, that all his dearest friends and relatives began to fear some secret distemper, or that some evil spirit had entered into him. This was ample food for me for months. It comforted me to think that he shared my misery.
"Then I drooped and languished once more, and began to long for some more tangible token of his love for me. I grew bolder and bolder, and the tender-hearted slave-woman sympathized with my passion for him. At last I sent her out with a message to him. It contained but two words, Kit-thung,[20]and he returned but two more, Rak-mak.[21]
"All this while I still visited the king, and was often alone with him; he continued to indulge me, giving me costly rings, betel-boxes, and diamond pins for my hair. Every petition I made to him was granted. Every woman in the palace stood in awe of me, not knowing how I might use my power, and I was proud and wilful. My father was created a duke of the second rank in the kingdom, my brothers were appointed governors over lucrative districts. I had nothing left to wish for but a child. If I had had a child, I might have been saved. A child only could have subdued my growing passion, and given to my life a fairer blossom and a richer fruit than it now bears. At last, I don't know what put it into my head, but I began to solace myself by writing to P'haya P'hi Chitt every day, and destroying the letters as soon as they were written.