VIII

And when I came back to myself, I opened my eyes, and saw her,

standing close beside me, bending over towards me, and watching me

with eyes that were full of an expression that was half anxiety and

half compassion. And as I rose to my feet, in confusion, she said

quietly: Nay, it would be better for thee to sit still, for a little

while, until thou art recovered. Art thou ill, or what is the matter

with thee? And I looked at her, making as it were sure of her being

really there, and I said with emotion: Nay, on the contrary, I am

very well indeed, now that I find thee still here, as I never hoped to

see thee. For I was terribly afraid, lest I should lose thee as I did

before. And the shock was like a blow, for I have waited so long, to

see thee again. And she looked at me with astonishment, and she said:

Before? Again? What dost thou mean? When have we ever met before? And

I said: In a dream. And it may be, even earlier, in some former birth.

I cannot tell. But instantly, I knew thee again, and my heart stopped,

unable to endure the unutterable joy, and the choking pain, and the

suddenness of the surprise: for it came upon me like a thunderbolt,

without warning. And as I said, I was white with terror, lest thou

shouldst have taken advantage of my swoon, to disappear, as thou didst

before. For if I had not seen thee, when I woke up, I should have

died.

And she looked at me for a while, with curiosity, and as if meditating

over what I said. And then she sighed. And she said in a low voice, as

if speaking to herself: This is my fault. Alas! I foresaw that there

would be danger in thy coming. And I exclaimed: Danger! Be under no

concern. Thou hast nothing at all to fear from me, or indeed from

anything whatever, as long as I am near thee. Then she said: Nay, but

thou dost not understand. It is not for myself that I was afraid, but

for thee. And as I looked at her, as if to ask her what she meant, she

said again: It is I who am the danger. For I know by experience that I

always act on thy sex like a spell: only in thy case, the spell was

very strong: so strong, as almost to destroy thee. And yet, it is not

my fault, after all. Blame me not, but rather blame the Creator who

made me as I am. And I exclaimed: Blame him! nay, rather worship and

adore him, for the wonder of his work: as thou art very certainly his

masterpiece. What! wouldst thou have me blame him, for producing a

thing that I could worship, instead of himself? And she shook her head

slowly as I spoke, and she said: Thou seest: it is exactly as I said.

I am a poison to thee. And I looked at her, trembling with sheer

ecstasy to look at her and listen to her: and suddenly I burst out

laughing, with my eyes full of tears. And I said: Poison! Thou! Ah!

let me only drink such poison to its dregs! I ask for nothing more.

And she said: Come! let us sit on the step, and thou wilt recover. And

when we were seated, she said, after a while: Forget me, if thou

canst, for a moment, and listen, and I will tell thee of the

difficulty which led me to summon thee to my assistance.

And then she began to speak to me of the musical intervals, while I

sat gazing at her, drunk with admiration, and growing hot and cold by

turns, never so much as hearing a single word she said, but listening

only to the unutterable sweetness of the voice that spoke, that

sounded in my ears like the noise of a waterfall coming from a

distance to the ear of one that lies dying of thirst. And all at once,

I broke in abruptly, without any reference whatever to her words: and

I said: O Táráwalí, they named thee well who chose thy name: for thou

art indeed like the star on thy brow. And when I think how nearly I

never came to thee at all, I shudder for sheer terror, to think I all

but missed my opportunity, and lost thee for ever. And I owe thee an

apology, for a crime, done to thy divinity in ignorance. Aye!

Chaturiká was right, when she told me I was worthy of death, for

confounding thee with her.

And she said, with a sigh: Thou art not listening to what I say. And

then she smiled, with a little smile that shook my heart for delight,

and she said: Aye! Chaturiká told me of thy error. But trust her not,

when she speaks of me, for she is a flatterer. And yet, thy crime was

venial, and one easily forgiven: for she is very pretty, as I am not.

But we are wandering from the point, and wasting time, and talking

nonsense. Forget us both, and listen with attention, and I will begin

all over again. And I swept away her beginning with a wave of my hand,

and I exclaimed: It is useless, for I can listen at present to

absolutely nothing. There is no room in my soul for anything but thee.

Speak to me of thyself, and I will listen never moving for the

remainder of my life. And once again she sighed, lifting her hands,

and letting them fall again, as if in despair. And she said gently: If

thou absolutely wilt not attend, where was the use of thy coming at

all? And I said: If thou wilt only send for me every day, at sunset,

for a year, it may be that I shall at last be able to forget thee

sufficiently, for a very little while, to attend to something else.

And suddenly she laughed, with laughter that exactly resembled the

laughter of a child, and she said: Thou art very crafty indeed, but

thy cunning plan would take a long time, with but little result. And

even then, I am not sure I could rely on thy forgetting. And I

exclaimed, with emphasis: Thou art absolutely right, for the moment of

oblivion would never come at all. But O thou miracle of a queen, tell

me at least one thing about thyself. And she said: What? And I said:

How can the King thy husband be so utterly bereft of his reason as to

let any other man see his star? Or is he, in very truth, actually

blind? For I could understand it, if he really cannot see.

And she looked at me with surprise: and she said slowly: Dost thou

actually not know, what everybody knows? And I said: I know nothing

that everybody knows, being as I am a stranger. But this I know, very

well, that if thou wert _my_ pearl, I would take very good care to

hide thee. For even an honest man might well turn robber, tempted by

the sight of such an ocean pearl. And she said, very quietly: It needs

no thief to steal the pearl, if indeed it be a pearl, which its owner

cast away long ago as a thing of no value, for anyone to pick up as he

passes by.

And I stared at her in stupefaction, and I struck my hands together

and exclaimed: Art thou mad, or am I dreaming? And she said gently: It

is true. And anybody but a stranger like thyself would have known it,

without needing to be told. And she dropped her eyes, and sat for a

while, fingering the string of her lute, as if on purpose to make

herself into a picture for my intoxicated gaze: and suddenly she said:

Why should I make a secret of a thing that another will tell thee, if

I do not, adding to the truth slanders that are false? It is better

for thee, and for me, to learn from my own mouth what it is impossible

to hide. There is a relation of the King, whose name is Narasinha. And

one day he saw me by accident, on the roof of the palace, and

instantly he lost his reason, as all the men who see me always do. And

not long after, the King was set upon by numbers in a battle, and

within a very little of being slain; and Narasinha saved his life,

very nearly losing his own. And the King said, when all was over: Now,

then, O Narasinha, ask me for anything I have, no matter what: it is

thine. And Narasinha saw his opportunity. And he shut his eyes, like

one that leaps from a precipice to life or death. And he said: Give me

thy Queen, Táráwalí: or else, slay me, here and now, with this very

sword that saved thy life. And then, to his amazement, as he stood

with his head bowed, expecting death, the King burst out laughing. And

he said: Is that all? Aha! Narasinha, we were both frightened, thou

and I: thou, of asking, and I, of what thou mightest ask. Didst thou

not think, I should slay thee, for thinking of her even in a dream?

But my life were worth little, if I haggled with its saviour over its

price. And Táráwalí is thine, to do with as thou wilt. For I have only

one life, whereas queens can be found in all directions, and I can

very easily replace her, whenever I choose. Only she must not leave

the palace, for after all, she is my Queen, and so she must remain,

for everyone but me and thee. And so he gave me clean away to

Narasinha, in secret, but it is a secret that everybody knows, and

tells in secret to everybody else. And I have gained by the exchange.

For Narasinha risked his life, twice, to win me, and the King would

never have risked so much as his little finger to save the life of a

hundred queens, and gave me away, like a straw, for the mere asking,

not even stopping to consider, that in the straw he gave away his own

honour lay hidden, which he gave away with me. And I could have

forgiven him for giving me away, but who could forgive the King who

valued his own honour less than his own life? And to the King I was

never more than a necessary ornament, a thing like a sceptre and a

throne, and a mere piece of royal furniture: whereas I am more than

the life of Narasinha, and the apple of his eye.