Part 5

And suddenly, she raised her face, and looked at him with eyes that were full of smiles and tears and shyness and playfulness and blue colour and the tremble of the moon. And she said: Canst thou tell of what I thought, as I looked upon all those men? And he said: Of what? Then she said: They seemed to me to be worthy only to be servants to such as thee: and I saw that it was as I had thought, and that mine was a man even among men. And then she stopped, and she said again in a low voice: Now, if thou wilt, I wilt give thee an answer to that question of thine which I left unanswered. And the King said: Which? And she said: Dost thou not remember? Thou didst ask me, what was he like whom I would follow through the world. Now canst thou guess, or shall I tell thee? And the King leaned over her, bending her a little back as she lay in his strong arms, and as she closed her eyes, he kissed her trembling lips, which shrank a little from the touch of his own. And after a while, he looked, and saw heaven reflected in the eyes of his wife beneath him, and beyond them, their two shadows, clinging together, black on the moonlit ground. And suddenly he pointed, and said to her: See, thy wish is gratified, and thy shadow has come to life. And she put both her arms round his neck, and drew him down, and kissed him again. And she said: It is not my shadow, but it is I myself that have come to life, and thou art the life that has come to me. And hadst thou gone away without me, I should not be living now: for I would have thrown myself into the river, the moment I was alone. And the King said, with a smile: Did I not tell thee, that I feared lest thou shouldst plunge into the river? And she laughed, and said: Let me go, and see. And they looked at each other for a moment, and laughed without a reason. And they embraced each other passionately, and the King said: Give me now another kiss. So she did. And he said: Now another, and another. And so they continued, she giving and he receiving; while the night passed away.

And at last he said: Now I must carry my property away with me, for thou art no longer thy father's but mine. And we will come again, and tell thy father, but in the meantime, I will take thee, for never will I part from thee again. And she said: Do with me as thou wilt: so only that thou dost not leave me.

Then he said: Blue-eyes, thou hast seen a horse to-day for the first time, and now thou shalt ride one also. And she said with a smile: But how can I ride without falling? Then he said: Fear nothing. Dost thou think that I would trust my treasure on a horse alone? But that good horse, which brought into the wood to-day a single rider, shall carry back a pair. And he has run a race to-day that will have robbed him of his fire. Wait, now, there, for a little while, till I return: and beware! that thou dost not jump into the water. And as she smiled, they kissed each other again with insatiable lips. And then he went towards the wood, and shouted for his men. And when they came, he gave them orders, and they brought his horse, and prepared him as he said, placing for her reception soft rugs upon his back. And the King mounted, and he said: Watch me when I go, and follow me at a distance. And then he rode back to where she waited for him by the river bank.

Then he came close up to her and said: Give me now thy left hand, and place thy little foot on mine, and I will lift thee up before me. So she stretched out to him her hand, shrinking from the horse as it tossed its head and trampled the ground, and seeking with timidity for an opportunity to place her foot upon his own. So as she waited, gazing at the horse with doubtful eyes, the King laughed. And he exclaimed: This way will not do, and now I must make another. And suddenly, he turned the horse towards her with his knee, and letting fall the reins, he leaned from the saddle and caught her in his arms, and lifted her up before him. And at that moment the horse started off, and the King felt for the reins with his left hand, holding her in his right arm, while she clung to his neck for fear of falling. And for a while the King let the horse go, for the sweetness of her terrified embrace was such that he said to himself: Ah! could this only last for ever!

Then after a while, he checked the horse, and brought him to a walk. And as they went slowly through the forest, now in the shadow and now in the moonlit glades, he let the reins fall on his horse's neck, and took his wife in both his arms, kissing her lips that kissed him again, and murmuring inarticulately words without a meaning, and filling his soul to the very brim with the intoxication of her shadowy eyes and the perfume of her hair that hung about her escaping from its knot. And suddenly, there came as it were night over his eyes. And he felt her slipping from his embrace, which closed in vain on empty air. And before him her face wavered and flickered, and it lit up like a dying lamp for a single instant with vivid brightness, and then went out and disappeared.

IX

ECHOES AND REGRETS

And in an instant, he saw before him, no wood and no horse. But he found himself floating as at first like a cloud in the blue sky, with his wife still in his arms. And he said: Ha! how is this? I lost thee but now in the forest, and here we are together in the sky. But I seem to have but just awoken from a dream. And wert thou then with me in my dream? Then she said: Yes. And as she spoke, she caught him in a convulsive grasp, for she knew that the end was come. And as she gazed at him with agony in her eyes, he said: Ah! dost thou remember how we rode together, and lingered as I brought thee home, in that delicious wood? Dost thou remember how we laughed, and how we wept for joy? Dost thou remember how at last thou didst fall asleep from sheer fatigue, and I carried thee sleeping home? Dost thou remember how I sat and watched thee in thy sleep, and how at thine awakening thou wast frightened, forgetting where thou wert? Dost thou remember, how everything was new to thee, and strange, and how all day long I laughed for joy to see thee, my plaything and my pretty child? Dost thou remember how we played at King and Queen, counting the whole world as a straw, and never parting, night or day? Dost thou remember how thou wast by day, the sun, and by night, the moon, of all the hours, lighting up my gloomy palace with the blaze of thy beauty and the soft light of thy love? Dost thou remember how thy voice echoed in my empty halls, and thy laughter filled up all its corners with music and delight? Dost thou remember how I used to follow thee about from room to room, and how sometimes, rogue! thou wouldst hide from me, to drive me to despair? Dost thou remember that last night, when I parted from thee to go to war, leaving my soul behind? But ah! alas! for the day, when I rode like a whirlwind into the court, and they told me of thy death!

And as he spoke, there shot through his heart a mortal pang like a sharp sword. And at that instant, his wife vanished, and he felt himself falling, falling like a heavy stone, down through empty space. And he uttered a fearful cry, for he understood that he was returning swiftly back to earth. And struggling with vain and frenzied grief and rage, he screamed aloud, in the ecstasy of despair: Ah! my wife! my wife! Ah! not to earth! ah! not again! not without thee! not without thee!

Epilogue

The Break of a Heart

Epilogue

But in the meanwhile, the King's attendants sat on in the palace hall, waiting while the King slept. And he slept on, while they waited, and they watched him lying very still, on his couch upon the floor.

So as they watched and waited, the day slowly passed away. And hour succeeded hour, as the sun moved steadily on to his home behind the western hill. And all the while, the old merchant remained motionless in his place, stiller even than the sleeping King, for he never even breathed. So they watched and waited on, till for very weakness their souls were almost parting from their bodies, and slumber began to steal over their eyes. And day began to turn to twilight, and the darkness began as it were to gather and creep out of the corners of the room, in which was heard no sound, save the deep breathing of the sleeping King.

And suddenly, like a flash of lightning, there rang through that silent room a cry, that pierced those weary watchers' ears like the point of a molten spear; for it resembled the cry of a woman, forced by the agony of abject fear into the very mouth of death. And as they bounded to their feet, and looked towards the King, there burst from his heart another cry, and yet another. And they saw his body, like a worm, writhing and quivering as it lay; and all at once he leaped from the couch and stood erect, and staggered across the floor.

And he stood there, swaying like a reed, and gazing straight before him, seeing nothing, with open eyes, that were dazed with the depth of their own despair. And every limb of his body shook, and drops of sweat stood on his brow, and his breath came hard and fast and hoarse, from a chest that heaved and trembled like the bosom of a frightened girl. So he stood, while they all watched him, silent and aghast, and listening as it were to the beating of their own hearts.

So as they watched him, holding their breath, he began to wail like a child. And he wept aloud, with great sobs, that shook him from head to foot, till the tears rose and stood in the eyes of all that saw him, as if drawn from their sources by the sight of his own, which fell on the ground like rain. And all at once, he stopped short. And he looked up, and stared before him, with weeping and imploring eyes, that hunted as it were among them for something they could not find.

And as they watched him silently, spellbound by those troubled eyes, they saw their expression alter, and over them pass a dreadful change, till like a fire they shone with scorn and hatred and disdain. And he stepped forward, and spat at them all as they stood before him, stretching out both his arms. And as he did so, his gaze was as it were caught by the glitter of the glancing gems that hung upon his wrists. And he looked at them for a moment, and suddenly he took those jewels and tore them from his hands and arms, and from his neck and breast. And he broke them all to pieces, snapping asunder cords and chains, and tossed all over the palace hall pearls and rubies and all the rest, till they rattled on the floor like hail. And when he had no more jewels to tear, he fell upon his clothes; and he stripped them off him with giant strength, and rent them into bits and shreds, till he stood before them breathing hard, dripping with sweat, and bleeding, as naked as he was born.

And as his eyes ran over them all as they shrank before him, they fell suddenly upon the old merchant, who sat still in the self-same place, never having stirred. So when the King saw him, suddenly he began to laugh, with laughter that was divided from sobbing by only a single hair. And he exclaimed: Ha! old vendor, art thou there, waiting for thy price? For now my dream is over, and it only remains to pay. Take for thy dream, my whole kingdom, and all that it contains. And even so, thou art unpaid: for such a dream could not be ransomed, even by the three great worlds.

And then, with anguish in his eyes, he threw his arms to heaven. And he uttered a long low cry, like the howl of a dog whose lord is dead, and turned, and ran out of the hall.

And they stood, like pictures on a wall, while the sound of his disappearing steps died away upon their ears. And then in an instant, the hall was filled with tumult. But the King's physician rushed forward. And he exclaimed: The King's frenzy has come again, and much I fear, that it will never again depart. But as for this old merchant, who has given the King a deadly drug, let him not escape. Seize him, and let him answer for the madness of the King.

Then the guards surrounded that old merchant, but he never moved or stirred. And suddenly, seized with anger, the captain of the guards stooped down, and seized him by the beard, to drag him roughly to his feet. And lo! that old man's head came off his neck, and hung by the beard in his hand. And they looked, and saw, that the body was hollow, and empty, and without a soul, like the trunk of a withered tree.

Then they gazed at one another, with open mouths, and eyes that were dull with fear. And after a while, the chaplain spoke. And he said slowly: Surely this was an old Rákshasa, playing with the King's life. Or who knows? For it may be, the Deity took this form, to punish the King, by means of a dream, for the sins of a former birth.

An Essence of the Dusk

Translated from the Original Manuscript

_Love turns venom, now I see, Flouted Beauties vipers be_

COPYRIGHT, 1906 BY F. W. BAIN

Dedicated to the Other Sex

Preface

More generally known, perhaps, than any other Hindoo legend, is the story of the demon, RÁHU, who brings about ECLIPSES, by devouring the Sun and Moon. For when the gods had upchurned the nectar, the delectable Butter of the Brine, Ráhu's mouth watered at the very sight of it: and "in the guise of a god" he mingled unperceived among them, to partake. But the Sun and Moon, the watchful Eyes of Night and Day, detected him, and told Wishnu, who cast at him his discus, and cut his body from his head: but not until the nectar was on the way down his throat. Hence, though the body died, the head became immortal: and ever since, a thing unique, "no body and all head," a byword among philosophers, he takes revenge on Sun and Moon, the great Taletellers, by "gripping" them in his horrid jaws, and holding on, till he is tired, or can be persuaded to let go. Hence, in some parts of India, the doleful shout of the country people at eclipses: _Chor do! chor do!_[1] and hence, also, the primary and surface meaning of our title: _A Digit of the Moon in the Demon's grip_: in plain English, an eclipse of the moon. And yet, legend though it be, there is something in the old mythological way of putting the case, which describes the situation in eclipses far better than our arid scientific prose. I shall not easily forget, how, as we slid like ghosts at midnight, through the middle of the desert, along the Suez Canal,[2] I watched the ghastly pallor of the wan unhappy moon, as the horrible shadow crept slowly over her face, stealing away her beauty, and turning the lone and level sands that stretched away below to a weird and ashy blue, as though covering the earth with a sepulchral sympathetic pall. For we caught the "griesly terror," Ráhu, at his horrid work, towards the end of May, four years ago.

But our title has yet another meaning underneath the first, for _Ahi_, the name employed for Ráhu (like all other figures in Indian mythology, he is known by many names), also means a _snake_. _Beauty persecuted by a snake_ is the subject of the story. That story will presently explain itself: but the relation between _Ráhu_, or eclipses, and a snake is so curiously illustrated by a little insignificant occurrence that happened to myself, that the reader will doubtless forgive me for making him acquainted with it.

Being at Delhi, not many years ago, I seized the opportunity to visit the Kutub Minár. There was famine in the land. At every station I had passed upon the way were piled the hides of bullocks, and from the train you might see their skeletons lying, each one bleaching where it died for want of fodder, scattered here and there on the brown and burning earth; for even every river bed was waterless, and not a single blade of green could you descry, for many hundred miles. And hence it came about, that as I gazed upon the two emaciated hacks that were to pull me from the station, a dozen miles out, and as many more back, I could bring myself to sit behind them only by the thought that thereby I should save them from a load far greater than my own, that would have been their fate on my refusal. Therefore we started, and did ultimately arrive, in the very blaze of noon.

The Kutub Minár is a needle of red stone, that rises from a plain as flat as paper to a height of two hundred and fifty feet; and you might compare it, as you catch, approaching, glimpses of it at a distance, to a colossal chimney, a Pharos, or an Efreet of the Jinn. The last would be the best. For nothing on the surface of the earth can parallel the scene of desolation which unrolls itself below, if you climb its 380 steps and look out from the dizzy verge: a thing that will test both the muscle of your knees and the steadiness of your nerves. Round you is empty space: look down, the pillar bends and totters, and you seem to rock in air; you shudder, you are falling: and away, away below, far as the eye can carry, you see the dusty plain, studded with a thousand tombs and relics of forgotten kings. There is the grim old fortress of the Toghlaks: there is the singular observatory of the rájá astronomer, Jaya Singh: and there the tomb, Humaioon's tomb, before which Hodson, Hodson the brave, Hodson the slandered, Hodson the unforgotten, sat, for two long hours, still, as if man and horse were carved in stone, with the hostile crowd that loathed and feared him tossing and seething and surging round him, waiting for the last Mogul to come out and be led away. The air is thick, and sparkles with blinding dust and glare, and the wind whistles in your ears. Over the bones of dynasties, the hot wind wails and sobs and moans. Aye! if a man seeks for melancholy, I will tell him where to find it--at the top of the old Kutub Minár.

And then, that happened which I had foreseen. We had not gone a mile upon our homeward way, when one of the horses fell. Therefore, disregarding the asseverations of my rascally Jehu that the remaining animal was fully equal to the task alone, I descended, and proceeded on foot. But a ten-mile walk on the Delhi plain in the hottest part of the day is not a thing to be recommended. After plodding on for about two hours, I was, like Langland, "wery forwandred," and went me to rest, not alas! by a burnside, but in the shadow of one of the innumerable little tombs that stand along the dusty road. There I lay down and fell asleep.

Nothing induces slumber like exertion under an Indian sun. When I awoke, that sun was setting. A little way before me, the yellow walls of Delhi were bathed in a ruddy glow; the minarets of the Great Mosque stood out sharp against the clear unspotted amber sky. And as I watched them, I suddenly became aware that I was myself observed with interest by a dusky individual, who was squatted just in front of me, and who rose, salaaming, when he saw that I was awake. It appeared that I had, so to say, fallen into a "nest of vipers "; that I had unwittingly invaded the premises of a snake dealer, who, no doubt for solid reasons, had made my friendly tomb the temporary repository of his stock-in-trade.

The Indian snake charmer, _gáruda, hawadiga_,[3] or whatever else they call him, is as a rule but a poor impostor. He goes about with one fangless cobra, one rock snake, and one miserable mongoose, strangling at the end of a string. My dweller in tombs was richer than all his tribe in his snakes, and in his eyes. I have never seen anybody else with real cat's eyes: eyes with exactly that greenish yellow luminous glare which you see when you look at a cat in the dark. They gleamed and rolled in the evening sun, over a row of shining teeth, as their owner squatted down before me, liberating one after another from little bags and baskets an amazing multitude of snakes, which he fetched in batches from the interior of the tomb, till the very ground seemed alive with them.[4] Some of them he handled only with the greatest respect, and by means of an iron prong. Outside the Zoo (where they lose in effect) I never saw so many together before: and it is only when you see a number of these reptiles together that you realise what a strange uncanny being, after all, is a snake: and as you watch him, lying, as it were, in wait, beautiful exceedingly, but with a beauty that inspires you with a shudder, his eyes full of cruelty and original sin, and his tongue of calumny and malice, you begin to understand his influence in all religions. I was wholly absorbed in their snaky evolutions, and buried in mythological reminiscences, when my _gáruda_ roused me suddenly, by saying: _Huzoor_, look!

He leaned over, and administered with his bare hand a vicious dig to a magnificent hamadryad that lay coiled upon itself in its open basket. The creature instantly sat up, with a surge of splendid passion, hissing, bowing, and expanding angrily its great tawny hood. The _gáruda_ put his _púngí_ to his lips, and blew for a while upon it a low and wheezy drone,--the invariable prelude to a little _jadoo_, or black art,--which the beautiful animal appeared to appreciate: and then, pointing with the end of his pipe to the "spectacles" on its hood, he said, with that silky, insinuating smile which is characteristic of the scamp: _Huzoor, dekko, namas karta[5]_:--

Nágki phani, chánd ka dúkh Uski badi, áp ka súkh.[6]

I did not understand his lunar allusion, but, judging that his rhyming gibberish, like that of the rascally priests in Apuleius, was a carefully prepared oracle of general application, kept in stock for the cozening of such prey as myself, I repeated to him my favourite Hindu proverb,[7] and gave him in exchange for his benevolent cheque on the future, a more commonplace article of present value, which led to our parting on the most amicable terms. But I did him injustice, perhaps. Long afterwards, having occasion to consult an astronomical chart, with reference to this very story, all at once I started, and in an instant, the golden evening, the walls of Delhi, and my friend of the many snakes and sinister eyes, suddenly rose up again into my mind. For there, staring at me out of the chart, was the mark on the cobra's head. It is the sign still used in modern astronomy for "the head and tail of the dragon," the nodes indicating the point of occultation, the symbol of eclipse.

What then induced or inspired the _gáruda_ to connect me with the moon? Was it really black art, divination, or was it only a coincidence? Reason recommends the latter alternative: and yet, the contrary persuasion is not without its charm. Who knows? It may be that the soul grows to its atmosphere as well as the body, and living in a land where dreams are realities, and all things are credible, and history is only a fairy tale--the land of the moon and the lotus and the snake, old gods and old ruins, former births, second sight, and idealism--it falls back, unconsciously mesmerised, under the spell of forgotten creeds.

POONA, April, 1906.

[1] _Let go! Let go!_

[2] Though nothing can be less romantic than a canal, gliding through that of Suez is a strange experience at night. Your great ship seems to move, swift and noiseless, through the very sand: and if only you could get there without knowing where you were, you would think that you were dreaming.

[3] _Háwa_, in Canarese, is the name of Ráhu.

[4] I did not count them, but there were several dozen, nearly all different. I have reason to believe that this man must have been one of the disciples of a former very celebrated snake charmer, who was known all over India.

[5] _See, he makes obeisance_.

[6] Which we may roughly render: _Hood of snake brings joy and rue, this to moon and that to you_. In all Oriental saws jingle counts for much.