CHAPTER XXII

FLIGHT

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 words_ _That 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_! _But_ I, _deprived of thee_, _Shall be only a poor wandering brute_, _With naught to comfort me_ _But 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.