THE Place was the Harem.
The Time was the Morning.
And the Occasion was the Toilet.
The wives and the women of the Maharajah were being made beautiful for
the pleasure of their lord and master.
Their bodies were bathed in the pool.
And anointed with oils.
And burnished with buffers.
With infinite care and patience, blue veins were traced on their limbs,
and red tips were painted on their breasts.
Their raven locks were scented, and their dusky cheeks were tinted.
Their eyes were darkened with kohl, and their mouths were brightened
with carmine.
The nails of their fingers and of their toes were stained a ruddy hue.
But none of the wives or the women demanded or received more care or
attention than did Lotus Flower, the favorite dancing girl of the
Maharajah.
For none was so lithe of limb nor so supple of joint as was this same
Lotus Flower.
She it was who could sway the slowest.
And she it was who could whirl the fastest.
Lotus Flower was a young Circassian beauty.
She had been brought from Bagdad.
For two days the Maharajah had had in the palace as his guest an
English officer, one Captain Esme Lawrence.
And for two nights Lotus Flower had been summoned to the Court of
Delight to dance before the visitor.
The first night Lotus Flower had performed the Dance of the Flames.
She had pirouetted in and out among lighted candles.
The English officer had watched her intently.
The second night Lotus Flower had performed the Dance of the Sword.
During her gyrations she had borne a scimitar upon her head.
Again the English officer had watched her intently.
To-night Lotus Flower was to perform the Dance of the Cobra.
And to-morrow morning the English officer was to go away.
Lotus Flower must do credit to the Maharajah.
And to herself.
She did not need to be told so.
She understood it fully.
So she devoted the entire morning to the beautifying of her body.
And she devoted the entire afternoon to the selecting of her adornments.
The English officer had watched her hands.
So she put jingling bracelets around her wrists.
The English officer had watched her feet.
So she put jangling bangles around her ankles.
The English officer had watched her body.
So she swathed herself in gleaming gauze.
And the English officer had watched her face.
So she painted, perfumed and powdered until even the other dancing
girls admitted among themselves that Lotus Flower had never looked
lovelier.
But still Lotus Flower was not satisfied.
The English officer had watched her eyes.
So she put cosmetics around them to make them darker.
And she put cosmetics into them to make them brighter.
But that was not why he had watched her.
That was not _how_ he had watched her.
He had looked beyond the blackness of cosmetics.
He had looked beyond the whiteness of cosmetics.
He had looked in, in, in--to her soul.
And her soul had looked out, out, out--to him.
Lotus Flower realized that she did not need kohl and carmine with which
to charm the English officer.
And this knowledge made her glad.
And this knowledge made her sad, too--at the same time.
Do you doubt that such a paradoxical state of mind could exist?
Out upon you then,--truly you can know but little of the ways of
woman!...
* * * * *
That night a splendid repast was served in the Great Banquet Hall.
Afterwards the Maharajah escorted his guest to the Court of Delight.
Two throne-like chairs were brought forward for the two men, the Indian
Prince and the English officer.
The Maharajah wore pantaloons of crimson silk, a coat of purple velvet
embroidered in gold, and a turban of yellow silk embellished with an
aigrette of diamonds.
Around his neck were strings of pearls.
And on his fingers were enormous rubies.
The Maharajah was an ugly man.
But he looked magnificent.
Captain Lawrence wore the conventional evening clothes of an English
gentleman.
He was a handsome man.
And he looked attractive.
A young boy with a stringed instrument sang two songs for them.
One was a song of joy.
And one was a song of sorrow.
An old man with a black cloth did some tricks for them.
First he made various objects appear out of the cloth.
And then he made various objects disappear into it.
Finally, to the beating of tom-toms, and the lilting of pipes, Lotus
Flower was brought forward for her part of the performance.
She bowed before the Maharajah, but she almost forgot to look at him.
Then she looked at Captain Lawrence, but she almost forgot to bow to
him.
The Maharajah looked at Lotus Flower and he smiled.
Captain Lawrence looked at Lotus Flower and he did not smile.
He was too much interested in her to remember to smile.
Just as she was too much interested in him to remember to bow.
Once more she felt that he was looking in, in, in--to her soul.
And once more she felt that her soul was looking out, out, out--to him.
“Lotus Flower,” said the Maharajah, “you must dance your best to-night!”
“Yes, my lord,” said Lotus Flower.
“To-morrow our guest departs,” said the Maharajah.
“Yes, my lord,” said Lotus Flower.
“He returns to England--where he is going to be married,” said the
Maharajah.
Lotus Flower stood and stared.
Her heart stopped beating.
She gasped for breath.
“Yes, my lord,” said Lotus Flower.
She had known that the English officer was departing the next day.
But she had not known that he was going to leave India.
She had not known that he was going back to England.
And she had not known that he--was going to be married.
Somehow, she had imagined, from his eyes, that he was going to stay in
India.
Somehow, she had imagined, from his eyes, that she was going to see him
again.