open space, again she saw her husband, lying still under a tree.
Instantly she stopped, and stood, balanced in the swing of
vacillation. For the joy of reunion, and the desire of safety, and
the fear of solitude drew her towards him like a threefold cord:
while the memory of her deception, and the fear of illusion, and the
anticipation of unknown danger, fixed her to the ground like roots.
And she wavered and swayed on her feet, like a young shoot fanned by
opposing breezes: while large tears fell from her eyes, like drops of
camphor from a moonstone[1]. And as she stood there doubting whether
he were dead or alive, for his face was wan in the light of the
pallid moon, his eyes opened, and met her own. And he sprang up, and
ran towards her, while she remained unable to stir, and took her in
his arms, while she shrank from his embrace. And he exclaimed: The
sight of thee has lifted me out of the mouth of death, for I had
determined to abandon the body. And then he said again: Alas! and
why, O thou of the lovely eyes, dost thou shrink from me? But Shrí
remained silent, torn by suspicion, and shaken by the beating of her
own heart. And ever and anon she raised her eyes, and looked at him
in doubt. And then at last she said slowly: Art thou indeed my
husband? is it really thyself and no one else? Then he said: What is
thy question or thy doubt? Hast thou forgotten me already? Surely
it is but a little while since I lost thee in the palace of
Indirálayá. Then said Shrí, sighing: There came to me but now one
who resembled thee in every feature, and deceived me: and even now, I
shudder when I think of it, lest thou too should be another such as
he.
Then he said: Dear, thou art weak, and a dream has deceived thee: but
this time, it is no dream. Know that I am none other than myself,
and thou art with me. Let me dispel thy terror with a kiss. And he
bent down, and she raised her face with a smile, saying to herself:
It was nothing but a dream. But even as she touched his face, it
changed, and became gigantic and misshapen, with a large tongue that
hung out of lips that resembled those of a cow; and it broke out into
loud laughter, and disappeared. But Shrí fell to the ground, as if
menaced by the outstretched forefinger of death.
[1] The Hindoos have a superstition, illustrated in a previous page,
that moonstones in the rays of the moon distil a sort of lunar syrup,
nectar or camphor, supposed to be composed of the substance of the
moon.
XV.
The Dead of Night
So she lay, all night long: and when at length the day dawned, she
came, though with difficulty, back to herself. And she tried to
rise, but could not, for her limbs refused to do their duty. So she
lay there, cold as snow, and shivering like the surface of a lake
ruffled by the wind.
Then gradually the sun left his home in the eastern mountain, and
ascended the sky. And warmed by his beams, a little of her strength
returned: and after a while, she rose to her feet, which wandered
away, and carried her where they would, until they brought her to
another forest pool. And there she lay down, and leaned and drank of
its water. And she looked into its mirror, and saw herself, slender
and emaciated as the old moon, but pale and colourless as that moon
at mid-day[1]. And her long hair fell down over her shoulder into
the water. Then she bound up that wet hair into a knot, and remained
all day by the pool, not endeavouring to go further: for she said to
herself: Rather let me stay here to perish of hunger, or furnish
myself food to some wild beast, than continue my journey through a
wood filled with illusions worse than a hundred deaths. For they
wear the guise of a friend, and so finding entrance into my heart
sting it like serpents, turning into poison the nectar of him whom
most of all I long to see. Surely my sins in a former birth were
terrible in their enormity: for I have suffered in this existence
pain sufficient for many lives. And now I feel that I cannot long
endure, for my strength is becoming exhausted. O that I could indeed
find my husband, were it only to die in his arms!
So she sat by the pool, grieving like a female _chakrawáka_ for her
mate, while the sun made, like the enemy of Bali, but three steps
over the sky. And when at last he sank, she also grew weary, and
fell asleep on the edge of the pool. And in her dreams she saw her
husband, and drank her fill of the nectar of his embraces. And then,
in the dead of night, she awoke, and sat up, and looked, and lo!
there in the moonlight she saw him again, silently sitting beside
her. And she leaped to her feet in agony, and turned to fly, and
screamed aloud. For there stood before her another husband on the
other side. Then suddenly the whole wood was full of laughter. And
her reason fled, and she became mad. And she exclaimed: Out on this
wood, for it is full of husbands! And she began to run through the
wood, shutting her eyes, and stopping her ears.
[1] The same idea is beautifully put by Butler in Hudibras, where he
calls the sun's light on the moon a
Mysterious veil, of brightness made,
That's both her lustre and her shade.
XVI.
Before Dawn
And now, by the decree of destiny, it so happened, that Umra-Singh,
having wandered through the whole world looking for his wife, roaming
up and down in the forest, was lying asleep in another place, close
to that very pool. And suddenly he laughed in his sleep. For in his
dreams he had found again the Land of the Lotus of the Sun. And he
stood once more in the moonlit hall, beside the golden couch. Then
slowly, slowly, he raised the pall, and looked long at the face of
Shrí. But as he gazed, it became apeish, and stuck out at him a
large red tongue. And he saw before him, not Shrí, but the old
Wairágí. Then a shout of laughter rang in his ears, mingled with the
voices of criers and the din of drums; and he started to his feet
awake, with an icy sweat on his brow.
And as he stood there, doubting still, for the laughter in his waking
ears, whether he woke or slept, he looked before him, and saw in the
moonlight the figure of a woman, running towards him: and instantly
he knew her to be Shrí. For out of the shadow of her floating hair
her great eyes glittered in the moon like the blade of his own sword,
and flashed into the night before her like lightning from a dark blue
cloud. And he ran to meet her with a shout of joy. But Shrí, when
she saw him coming, stopped short, and began to laugh like one
possessed by a vampire. And crying: What, another! she turned and
fled away from him faster than ever, covering her eyes with her
hands. But Umra-Singh was so astonished, that he stood like a tree,
rooted to the ground: saying to himself: Is it reality, or is it a
dream? Yonder she flies from me in terror as if I were an enemy.
And then, seized with frenzy, he began to pursue her, calling aloud:
Shrí! Shrí! So they ran through the wood in the moonlight, in and
out of the trees, like a spotted panther and a black antelope. And
suddenly, Shrí slipped and fell. And a tawny lion leaped out of the
wood, before the eyes of Umra-Singh, and stood over her as she lay.
Then Umra-Singh turned white with fear, and uttered a groan. And in
a moment he reached them as he ran, and struck at the lion, with all
his force, a blow of his sword. Then lo! that phantom lion vanished,
for he was but an illusion of the crafty Nightwalker. But the sword
fell, sharp and true, on the shoulder of Shrí, and cut through to her
heart.
Then Umra-Singh fell on his knees beside her with a wail, and took
his darling in his arms, while her blood gushed out over him like a
river, carrying away her life. And as his hot tears fell on her face
like rain, Shrí opened her dying eyes: and instantly they were full
of peace, for she knew that it was her husband at last. And she said
slowly: Weep not for me, O my lord, for I have attained the
emancipation of union with thee. All day long, I have sought thee:
but I have found thee in the evening, before my sun goes down: that
is enough.
Dawn.
And at that very moment, the curse came to an end. Then those two
erring lovers regained their immortal natures. And they looked at
one another, dazed and bewildered, for they thought that they had
awoken from a dream. And their spirits rose out of those mortal
bodies which they had abandoned, and soared away to their heavenly
home, locked in each other's arms.
But Maheshwara, from his seat on Kailàs, saw them go. And perceiving
all, by the power of his mystical intuition, he said to himself:
There are those two foolish lovers rejoicing to have awoken from a
dream; not knowing that it was but a dream within a dream, and that
they are still asleep. And he laughed aloud: and the thunder of the
shout of his laughter rolled and reverberated, and rattled in the
blue hollows of Himálaya, like the sound of a drum.
PRINTED BY JAMES PARKER AND CO.,
CROWN YARD, OXFORD.