and thither, like a bubble on the waves of time. And he went from
village to village, and from city to city, asking everywhere of all
whom he met: Have you seen Shrí, my wife? you will know her by her
eyes, for they are full of the colour of heaven. But however much he
asked, he found no answer: nor could anyone tell him anything about
her. On the contrary, all wondered at him and turned him to
ridicule. And one would say: Who is this moon-struck vagabond who
roams about looking for a blue-eyed beauty? And another: What wonder
that Shrí has deserted such a ragged mendicant, who forsakes even the
well-to-do! And others said: This distracted Rajpoot wants the moon,
but he needs medicines[2]. And at last he abandoned altogether the
dwellings of men, and wandered continually in the jungle, with no
companions but his shadow and his sword, looking in vain for the path
by which he had gone on his former journey to the Land of the Lotus,
and gazing by day at the pools of blue lotuses, and by night at the
heaven with its stars, for they were like mirrors and images of the
hues and shadows of the eyes of Shrí.
[1] _dinmohita=desorienté_.
[2] The point of these gibes depends on the various meanings of the
word Shrí: which may mean his wife, or the goddess of fortune, or the
moon: out of which come herbs or medicines.
XI.
The Lord of the Beasts
Now in the meanwhile it happened that Maheshwara, as he roamed
through the sky with Párwati on his breast, looked down to earth, and
caught sight of Umra-Singh wandering in the forest, uttering
lamentations, and exclaiming: O Shrí, where art thou hiding? Hast
thou, like the desert, no pity for the antelope that is dying of
thirst for the water of thine eyes[1]? And immediately he remembered
his boon to Kamalamitra, and grasped the whole story from beginning
to end. So he said to Umá with a smile: Go now to thy father[2], and
wait for me: for there is here a matter that demands my attention.
Then his consort said to him in a cajoling tone: What is the matter?
tell me. Maheshwara said: I will tell thee afterwards: at present I
have no leisure: depart. Thereupon the goddess went off pouting to
the Snowy Mountain. But the moon-crested god descended to earth.
And there, taking the form of an ascetic, he entered the forest. And
standing in its densest part, his body white with ashes, garlanded
with a necklace of skulls, with a half-moon in his yellow hair, he
created by his supernatural power a gong, hanging from a banyan tree
in the centre of the wood. And he struck with his trident a blow on
that mind-born gong that resounded through the forest like thunder.
Then instantly, hearing that terrible summons, all the denizens of
the wood, Yakshas and Pisháchas, Rákshasas and Hamadryads, with the
wild animals and the rest, assembled together and flew towards the
sound, and crowded around the gong like flies or bees to honey or a
dead body. And when they had mustered, they enquired humbly of that
Lord of Creatures animate and inanimate: What orders has the Lord of
All for his servants, and why are we now summoned? Then said the
Great Ascetic: There is in this wood a lover looking for his bride.
And she on her part will sometime or other be here to join him. See
that none of you do them actual harm, by devouring or destroying
them: for they are to work out their redemption in the wood, by the
decree of destiny and my will and pleasure[3]. For they fell under a
curse, and so became mortals: but when they meet here, and the
circumstances are favourable, their curse will have an end.
Therefore delude them if you will, but beware that you touch not a
hair of their heads.
Thus he spoke, and all assented, prostrating themselves at his feet.
And then he began to dance. Then all joined furiously in the
festival of his favour, seized with the madness born of devotion,
uttering ecstatic hymns of praise, each in his own language. So
after that he had sported sufficiently, and bestowed on those adorers
the nectar of his presence, that Lord whose left half is his wife
remembered his promise to the Daughter of the Mountain, and returned
to the snowy peak of Kailàs, to tell her the story and coax away her
sulks.
[1] There is here an untranslateable play on the word mriga-trishná,
'the thirst of the antelope,' i.e. the mirage of the desert, to which
he compares her eyes.
[2] i.e. the Himálaya mountain, of which, or rather whom, Párwati is
the daughter, as her name signifies.
[3] The Hindoos never had a Lucian, to laugh at their mythological
contradictions. They were always too much under the spell.
XII.
The Other Body
But in the meanwhile Shrí[1], when she abandoned the body in
Indirálayá, flew in the twinkling of an eye to the Land of the Lotus
of the Sun. And there she entered that other body, lying in a couch
in the Palace hall. Then instantly she opened her eyes, and rose up,
as if awaking from a dream. And she was filled with astonishment,
terror, and dismay, when she found herself alone in the empty hall.
And she exclaimed: Alas! what is this mystery, and how came I into
this deserted hall, and in which quarter of the world am I, and what
has become of my husband? Now do I see the terrible consequences of
sins committed in a former birth. Alas! how am I to regain him, and
where is he to be found? Surely we are like two tiny fishes in the
infinite ocean of time. Yet even so, despair is unavailing. Did not
Sítá recover Ráma, and Shakuntalá, Dushyanta, and Damayanti cross the
ocean of separation, and repose on the shore in the shape of the
embraces of Nala? Truly omnipotent is the power of love, and what
love was ever greater than mine? For it passes on from body to body,
and draws fresh fire from each new birth.
Then she dressed herself in the white pall[2], and went hastily out
of that empty palace, shrinking like a fawn at the echo of her own
footsteps, and passed out of the gates, and ran through the deserted
streets, down to the very edge of the sea. And there she stood with
her bare feet lapped by the waves, looking out eagerly over the sea,
with eyes that laughed at and shamed it of its blue. And it rose in
agitation at her beauty, as if stirred by the moon, while the wind
kissed her unaware, and played with her hair and clothes. Then she
said: O Ocean, art thou too parted from someone, that thou heavest
long drawn sighs? Art thou also wrenched with grief, that thou
sprinklest me with the salt tears of thy spray?
And as she gazed, there appeared tossing on the waves a ship, like
the realization of her desire to cross the ocean in visible form.
Now that ship belonged to a great merchant captain, who was returning
home from a trading voyage. And when he saw a female figure standing
alone on the shore, he came quickly in a boat to take her captive.
But when he got to the shore, and saw the wonderful beauty of her
dark blue eyes and snow white raiment, he was struck with wonder, and
became afraid. And he said to her in awe: Surely thou art some
divinity, and no mere mortal maiden. Tell me thy name, that I may
know whom to adore. Then said Shrí: Sir, I am no divinity, but a
king's daughter; and I am seeking for my husband. Carry me, of your
kindness, over the sea, for I must find my way to Indirálayá. But
hearing this, that merchant was overjoyed; for he thought: Indirálayá
is in another quarter of the world, and I will be her husband. For
he was drowned in the ocean of her eyes. So he said to her: O thou
true daughter of a King, my ship is thine and all that it contains.
Come now, and I will carry thee whithersoever thou wilt. So Shrí
consented. And the merchant in his delight counted the whole world
as a straw, thinking he had got her for a wife.
So when he got to the ship, he said to her: Truly this husband of
thine is a sorry rascal. Out upon him, who could leave such an
incomparable beauty as thine to roam about the world without him!
Forget him now, for I will be thy husband. Then said Shrí: This is
impiety, nor is my husband to blame in this matter. Know, too, that
to a good wife her husband is a deity. Then said the merchant: Thou
shalt marry me whether thou wilt or not: and I care nothing for piety
or impiety, but only for thy wonderful eyes. And now I have thee, I
will keep thee. So he carried her in his ship, very carefully,
closely guarded, to his own city, and shut her in an upper chamber of
his house, hoping to prevail on her in course of time, neglecting his
affairs.
Then Shrí said to herself: Alas for my beauty, which is a curse and
no blessing to me, in that it has placed me in the power of this
headstrong merchant! Nevertheless, even so, I have got over the sea.
And now, I must lose no time in escaping from this infatuated sinner,
or worse things may come about. And she went to the window and
looked out. Now by the ordinance of fate it so happened, that at
that moment the King of that city was passing by on his elephant. So
when she saw it, Shrí said to herself: There is my deliverance in the
form of an elephant. And now I must sin a little, to save myself
from greater guilt. Then she called to the _mahout_: Come nearer, O
driver of the elephant: for I am anxious to taste the delight of
riding on an elephant. And hearing this, the mahout looked at the
King. And the King looked at the face of Shrí. And Shrí shot at the
King a blue glance from her eye. And instantly the King lost his
senses, and said to the _mahout_: Do as she bids thee. So the
_mahout_ brought the elephant under the window, and Shrí let herself
fall from the window on to his back. And she caught hold of the King
to save herself from falling, and the King almost fainted from excess
of joy, and the nectar of her touch. And without losing a moment, he
carried her off to his palace, as delighted as if he had conquered
the whole earth. But the merchant, when he found that she had gone,
abandoned the body in his despair.
Then as soon as they reached the palace, the King said to Shrí: What
is thy name and family? Shrí said: I am a King's daughter from a far
country, and my name is Shrí. Then said the King: Thou didst well to
forsake that miserable trader for me. Should the lioness, forsooth!
mate with the jackal? And now will I place thee, like a choice
jewel, in the centre of my diadem, and thou shall be the very apex of
the summit of my fortune[3]. Then said Shrí: King, do not speak
thus. For I am the wife of another. And I fled to thee for refuge,
and not for frivolity: for yonder merchant would have made me his
wife by force. So do me justice, and let me go: for I may not be a
wife to thee.
Then said the King: Thy dark blue eyes have utterly destroyed my
sense of right and wrong, which are now mere words without meaning,
impotent to hold me as is a lotus stalk to fetter that elephant which
brought thee hither; and in vain dost thou talk to me of letting thee
go: thou askest me for my life: for till I saw those unfathomable
blue lakes which thou hast stolen to make thee eyes, I never lived.
Only consent, and I will efface by my devotion the memory of thy
husband, as the sun dries up a shallow pool. But Shrí said: Say not
pool, but ocean, on which the sun shines for ever, yet never makes it
any less: for such is my love to my husband. But the King paid no
heed to her words, which entered at his ear, but never reached his
mind. For all his soul was in his eyes, feasting on the face of
Shrí, which made him drunk like the juice of Soma[4].
Then seeing the state of the case, Shrí said to herself: Alas! I
have escaped the lesser danger only to incur the greater, and become
the prey of this unrighteous King. Now there is no help for me, save
in stratagem, and the natural craft of woman. And she lifted up her
lashes, and cast on the King a crooked glance, that almost deprived
him of his reason. And she said, moving her bow-arched eyebrows,
with a smile: Out upon the heart of woman, for it is soft as a
flower, and averse to constancy! Leave me awhile, for I must
consider this matter. And yet, stay not away too long, for thou art
good to look upon, and well-fitted to be my husband, were I not
already the wife of another man. But hearing this, the King was
utterly bewildered, and doubted the testimony of his ears. And he
thought: Now she will consent, after a little coaxing. And he looked
at her as she stood smiling at him, bowing like a flower from the
weight of her bosom and the slenderness of her waist, and laughed in
his intoxication, befooled by the roundness of her limbs and the
blueness of her eyes, and forgetting that the Creator made woman to
be an instrument of delusion, with an exterior of honey and an
interior of poison. And he left her to perform his kingly duties,
intending to return without delay, and thinking the fruit of his
birth attained.
But as soon as he was gone, Shrí summoned a chamberlain, and said to
him: Take me to the Head Queen, and lose not a moment, or it will be
the worse for thee. And that chamberlain trembled and obeyed her,
for he feared her power, saying to himself: The King would throw his
kingdom into the sea for a glance from her eye, and now my life is on
her forefinger. So when Shrí came before the Queen, she said to her:
Lady, thou art my sole refuge. Know, that the King thy husband found
me to-day in the city, and stole me away, seeking to make me his
wife. Now contrive my escape, for I am the wife of another, and I
may not be his wife. And do it very quickly, for this is an
opportunity which will never occur again. Then the Queen looked at
her, and said to herself: She says well, and I must indeed send her
away without losing a moment. For if she remains here, and becomes
his wife, the King will abandon everything for her sake, and the
state will go to ruin. Moreover, he will never again have anything
to do with me or any other of his queens: for her beauty is like a
very feminine incarnation of the five arrows of the god of love.
So she summoned her confidential women; and they disguised Shrí as a
dancing girl, and conveyed her secretly out of the palace without
delay. But when the King returned, and found that she was gone, he
became mad. And he put to death, of his retainers, everything that
was male.
[1] See note, p. 21.
[2] As this might sound bizarre to the English reader, accustomed to
the elaborate toilettes of western ladies, he should know, that
nothing can be more simple than the dress of a Hindoo woman. A
single long piece of stuff, wound like a petticoat round the waist,
secured, and thrown over the head to form a veil, forms a garment
that the Greeks might have envied. Nothing can surpass the taste,
beauty, and grace of the way in which it follows and reveals without
betraying the figure of its wearer.
[3] He plays on her name. The old Hindoo rájás had the same
veneration for their royal fortune (_Shrí_) as the Romans for their
_Fors Fortuna_.
[4] A play on her name, as a digit of the moon: Soma is the moon, and
the famous intoxicant of the early Hindoos.
XIII.
The Light in Darkness
But Shrí, when she got out of the palace, instantly went out of the
city by unfrequented paths, and entered the Great Forest. For she
said to herself: If I remain in the city, I may fall again into the
power of the King, or, it may be, of someone still worse. For alas!
every man that sees me is blinded by my eyes, and I shall not always
find a door of escape from persecution. Moreover, to beauty without
its guardian, wild beasts are less dangerous than men with souls
through the influence of passion worse than those of beasts. Better
far to be devoured by an animal, than become perforce the wife of
another man.
So she went on through the forest for many days, supporting her life
on roots and fruits and the water of the pools and streams. And she
tore her clothes to pieces in the bushes, and pierced her feet with
their thorns, leaving where she passed on the grass drops of blood,
like rubies, mingled with the pearls of her tears that fell beside
them, as often as she thought of her absent husband. And the deeper
she went into the wood, the more her spirit sank, and the more her
soul longed for the nectar of her husband's arms. Alas! the courage
of women is but a pale and lunar image in the mirror of that of men,
and vanishes in their absence. And at last there came a day when she
was seized with panic, and a fear of unknown evil: and she sank down
at the foot of a tree, and watered its roots with her tears.
Now it happened, that some Bhillas, hunting, by the decree of
destiny, in the forest, came upon her track, and saw the drops of
blood upon the leaves. And they followed them up, saying to
themselves: Some wounded animal has passed this way. So as they came
along, every now and then they stopped and listened. And suddenly,
they heard the sound of the voice of a woman, weeping in the wood.
Then full of astonishment, they proceeded in the direction of the
sound: and all at once they saw Shrí, sitting under a tree, looking
like an incarnation of Rati grieving for her husband, when burned by
Maheshwara[1]. For her clothes were torn, and her hair was
dishevelled, and her great eyes filled with tears resembled the
petals of a blue lotus sparkling with drops of water cast upon them
by the sporting of swans in a pool. So those wild Bhillas wondered
when they saw her, and said to each other: What is this marvel of a
dancing girl, so ragged and so beautiful, weeping alone in the wood?
And then they went up to her and stood round her in a ring. And she
looked in the midst of those black barbarians like a digit of the
moon in the jaws of Ráhu. Then after a while the spell of her beauty
entered and poisoned the hearts of those Bhillas, like one of their
own arrows. And each one said secretly to himself: She shall be my
wife. So they debated about her, and proposed to each other to draw
lots for her. But they could not agree about it, and fell to
quarrelling, and it was as if a stone had been dropped into a nest of
serpents.
Then one laid hands upon her, and then another, till she was nearly
torn in pieces. And finally they came to blows, and fought for her
over her body, filled by the frenzy begotten by her beauty, and the
desire of exclusive possession[2]. And very soon they were all
either dead or dying of wounds, for each was more eager to destroy
another than to protect himself: and they lay all about her unable to
move. Then Shrí, seizing her opportunity, and urged by terror, rose
up and fled away from them, being sprinkled by their blood, mingled
with her own, for she had received in the struggle a blow from a
Bhilla that was meant for another. And she ran on, stumbling over
roots and creepers in her haste, till she came at last to a forest
pool. And there she lay down at the edge of the water and drank
greedily; and afterwards washed her wound and stains, and bathed her
feet, and overcome by weariness, fell asleep. Then the moon rose,
and stole through the trees and kissed her with beams that trembled
with admiration[3]; and the wild animals came down, one by one, to
drink at the pool, and obedient to the commands of Triambaka, did her
no harm, but licked her feet and hands as she lay.
Now, as fate would have it, this was the very pool, at which
Umra-Singh had met with Ulupí, the daughter of the Daitya. And in
course of the night, Ulupí came herself to the pool, to dance and
sport according to her wont. And when she arrived, she saw Shrí,
lying asleep by the pool. So she came and stood over her, and
marvelled at the beauty of her limbs, even though her eyes were shut.
And at last, out of curiosity, she touched her on the bosom with her
finger, saying to herself: Is this an illusion, or is it a real
woman, and is she dead or alive? But Shrí shuddered at her touch,
for it suggested evil to her sleeping soul. And she opened her eyes,
and their deep blue awoke the envy of the daughter of the Daitya, and
astonished her even more than before.
Then they looked at each other, like light and darkness, and each
wondered at the loveliness of the other, forgetful of her own. And
at last Ulupí said: Who art thou, and what is thy name and family,
and whence hast thou come to my pool, and why? Shrí said: I am a
King's daughter, looking for my husband, whom I lost, by the
operation of crimes in a former birth, at the very moment that I
found him again, after that he had returned to me from the Land of
the Lotus of the Sun. But when Ulupí heard her, she was filled with
sudden rage and malice. And she said to herself: Ha! so this is that
absent lotus of the day, by reason of whom my beauty was scorned, and
set at nought by the handsome stranger who saw me dancing by my pool.
And instantly she started up, and assuming a terrific form, she
gnashed at Shrí with teeth like saws, and made horrible grimaces at
her, saying: Wretch, thou shalt never quit this wood, but wander for
ever with thy accursed beauty among its trees, haunted and beset by
hideous illusions till thou shalt long for death. Let thy absent
husband save thee if he can. And she vanished with a peal of
laughter, leaving Shrí fainting by the pool.
But Ulupí flew through the wood, and found Nightwalker, the old
Wairágí, and told him all, and begged of him a boon, saying: Torment
this miserable mortal woman, and deceive her with illusions for she
has done me deadly injury. And Nightwalker rejoiced at the
opportunity, for he remembered how Umra-Singh had defied him, and cut
off his tongue in the wood. But he said: This is no easy matter, for
we are forbidden by Pashupati to do her harm. But though I will do
her no injury, I will delude this wandering wife of a vile husband,
till she will desire to abandon the body of her own accord.
[1] See note, p. 9.
[2] ahamahamiká, 'each one saying I, I.'
[3] The Moon proper, in Sanskrit, is _Lunus_, not _Luna_.
XIV.
Illusion
But Shrí, when she came to herself, sat weeping, and fearing for
herself in the future: for she foreboded evil from the malicious
pranks of the daughter of the Daitya. And yet she could not tell,
how she could possibly have offended her, or deserved her anger. And
as soon as day broke, she rose up, and began to go trembling through
the wood, in which the shadows of night still hung among the trees,
starting at the noise of the falling leaves, and yearning for
emancipation from danger in the form of her husband's presence.
Then after a while, she stopped and listened: for she heard among the
trees steps, as of one coming in her direction. And her heart beat
violently, as if to say: Let me abandon thy body, and so escape the
danger coming on thee. So she hid herself in a hollow tree, and
peeped out in terror. And suddenly, strange! there in the dim
twilight she saw her husband coming towards her, looking just as he
did, when she left him in the palace at Indirálayá. And instantly
she ran towards him, overcome by emotion and great surprise, and
caught him in her arms, exclaiming: At last, at last, I have found
thee again. And she wept aloud, and forgot in that moment all her
sorrow; and she looked at him, and laughed for joy, and closed her
eyes, as if, like the sun, the sight of him dimmed and overcame the
faculty of vision. Then after a while, she opened them again, and
started and shrieked, and her blood became ice, and her heart
stopped. For he that held her in his arms was not her husband, but a
hairy thing with hideous eyes, that resembled an incarnation of the
brute in human shape; and it fastened those fearful eyes upon her
own, and laughed and whined and panted like a beast with hot quick
breath into her face. Then her senses abandoned her, like cowards,
and she sank down to the earth in a swoon.
And when at length she revived, she looked, and saw that the sun was
declining in the western quarter. But the moon had not yet risen,
for it was the beginning of the dark half of the month. Then all at
once memory came back to her, and she shook with agitation. And she
said to herself: Was it a reality, or was it only an evil dream?
Surely it was but a dream; for I am very weak and tired. And even
now I cannot tell, whether I wake or sleep.
So she sat with her eyes closed; fearing to open them, lest she
should see she knew not what among the shadows of the trees. And
then the waning moon rose, and poured through the interstices of the
leaves beams faint and pallid, as if sharing her own terror. And at
last, unable to endure any longer the silence and the solitude, she
rose up and began to move slowly, with hesitating steps, through the
dark wood, not knowing where to go, yet not daring to stay where she
was.