My kinsman and myself were returning to Calcutta from our Puja trip when
we met the man in a train. From his dress and bearing we took him at
first for an up-country Mahomedan, but we were puzzled as we heard him
talk. He discoursed upon all subjects so confidently that you might
think the Disposer of All Things consulted him at all times in all that
He did. Hitherto we had been perfectly happy, as we did not know
that secret and unheard-of forces were at work, that the Russians had
advanced close to us, that the English had deep and secret policies,
that confusion among the native chiefs had come to a head. But our
newly-acquired friend said with a sly smile: "There happen more things
in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are reported in your newspapers." As
we had never stirred out of our homes before, the demeanour of the man
struck us dumb with wonder. Be the topic ever so trivial, he would quote
science, or comment on the Vedas, or repeat quatrains from some Persian
poet; and as we had no pretence to a knowledge of science or the Vedas
or Persian, our admiration for him went on increasing, and my kinsman,
a theosophist, was firmly convinced that our fellow-passenger must
have been supernaturally inspired by some strange "magnetism" or "occult
power," by an "astral body" or something of that kind. He listened
to the tritest saying that fell from the lips of our extraordinary
companion with devotional rapture, and secretly took down notes of his
conversation. I fancy that the extraordinary man saw this, and was a
little pleased with it.
When the train reached the junction, we assembled in the waiting room
for the connection. It was then 10 P.M., and as the train, we heard, was
likely to be very late, owing to something wrong in the lines, I spread
my bed on the table and was about to lie down for a comfortable doze,
when the extraordinary person deliberately set about spinning the
following yarn. Of course, I could get no sleep that night.
When, owing to a disagreement about some questions of administrative
policy, I threw up my post at Junagarh, and entered the service of
the Nizam of Hydria, they appointed me at once, as a strong young man,
collector of cotton duties at Barich.
Barich is a lovely place. The Susta "chatters over stony ways and
babbles on the pebbles," tripping, like a skilful dancing girl, in
through the woods below the lonely hills. A flight of 150 steps rises
from the river, and above that flight, on the river's brim and at the
foot of the hills, there stands a solitary marble palace. Around it
there is no habitation of man--the village and the cotton mart of Barich
being far off.
About 250 years ago the Emperor Mahmud Shah II. had built this lonely
palace for his pleasure and luxury. In his days jets of rose-water
spurted from its fountains, and on the cold marble floors of its
spray-cooled rooms young Persian damsels would sit, their hair
dishevelled before bathing, and, splashing their soft naked feet in the
clear water of the reservoirs, would sing, to the tune of the guitar,
the ghazals of their vineyards.
The fountains play no longer; the songs have ceased; no longer do
snow-white feet step gracefully on the snowy marble. It is but the vast
and solitary quarters of cess-collectors like us, men oppressed with
solitude and deprived of the society of women. Now, Karim Khan, the old
clerk of my office, warned me repeatedly not to take up my abode there.
"Pass the day there, if you like," said he, "but never stay the night."
I passed it off with a light laugh. The servants said that they would
work till dark and go away at night. I gave my ready assent. The house
had such a bad name that even thieves would not venture near it after
dark.
At first the solitude of the deserted palace weighed upon me like a
nightmare. I would stay out, and work hard as long as possible, then
return home at night jaded and tired, go to bed and fall asleep.
Before a week had passed, the place began to exert a weird fascination
upon me. It is difficult to describe or to induce people to believe;
but I felt as if the whole house was like a living organism slowly and
imperceptibly digesting me by the action of some stupefying gastric
juice.
Perhaps the process had begun as soon as I set my foot in the house, but
I distinctly remember the day on which I first was conscious of it.
It was the beginning of summer, and the market being dull I had no work
to do. A little before sunset I was sitting in an arm-chair near the
water's edge below the steps. The Susta had shrunk and sunk low; a broad
patch of sand on the other side glowed with the hues of evening; on
this side the pebbles at the bottom of the clear shallow waters were
glistening. There was not a breath of wind anywhere, and the still air
was laden with an oppressive scent from the spicy shrubs growing on the
hills close by.
As the sun sank behind the hill-tops a long dark curtain fell upon the
stage of day, and the intervening hills cut short the time in which
light and shade mingle at sunset. I thought of going out for a ride,
and was about to get up when I heard a footfall on the steps behind. I
looked back, but there was no one.
As I sat down again, thinking it to be an illusion, I heard many
footfalls, as if a large number of persons were rushing down the steps.
A strange thrill of delight, slightly tinged with fear, passed through
my frame, and though there was not a figure before my eyes, methought I
saw a bevy of joyous maidens coming down the steps to bathe in the Susta
in that summer evening. Not a sound was in the valley, in the river, or
in the palace, to break the silence, but I distinctly heard the maidens'
gay and mirthful laugh, like the gurgle of a spring gushing forth in a
hundred cascades, as they ran past me, in quick playful pursuit of
each other, towards the river, without noticing me at all. As they were
invisible to me, so I was, as it were, invisible to them. The river was
perfectly calm, but I felt that its still, shallow, and clear waters
were stirred suddenly by the splash of many an arm jingling with
bracelets, that the girls laughed and dashed and spattered water at one
another, that the feet of the fair swimmers tossed the tiny waves up in
showers of pearl.
I felt a thrill at my heart--I cannot say whether the excitement was due
to fear or delight or curiosity. I had a strong desire to see them more
clearly, but naught was visible before me; I thought I could catch all
that they said if I only strained my ears; but however hard I strained
them, I heard nothing but the chirping of the cicadas in the woods. It
seemed as if a dark curtain of 250 years was hanging before me, and I
would fain lift a corner of it tremblingly and peer through, though the
assembly on the other side was completely enveloped in darkness.
The oppressive closeness of the evening was broken by a sudden gust of
wind, and the still surface of the Suista rippled and curled like the
hair of a nymph, and from the woods wrapt in the evening gloom there
came forth a simultaneous murmur, as though they were awakening from
a black dream. Call it reality or dream, the momentary glimpse of that
invisible mirage reflected from a far-off world, 250 years old, vanished
in a flash. The mystic forms that brushed past me with their quick
unbodied steps, and loud, voiceless laughter, and threw themselves into
the river, did not go back wringing their dripping robes as they went.
Like fragrance wafted away by the wind they were dispersed by a single
breath of the spring.
Then I was filled with a lively fear that it was the Muse that had taken
advantage of my solitude and possessed me--the witch had evidently come
to ruin a poor devil like myself making a living by collecting cotton
duties. I decided to have a good dinner--it is the empty stomach that
all sorts of incurable diseases find an easy prey. I sent for my cook
and gave orders for a rich, sumptuous moghlai dinner, redolent of spices
and ghi.
Next morning the whole affair appeared a queer fantasy. With a light
heart I put on a sola hat like the sahebs, and drove out to my work. I
was to have written my quarterly report that day, and expected to return
late; but before it was dark I was strangely drawn to my house--by what
I could not say--I felt they were all waiting, and that I should delay
no longer. Leaving my report unfinished I rose, put on my sola hat, and
startling the dark, shady, desolate path with the rattle of my carriage,
I reached the vast silent palace standing on the gloomy skirts of the
hills.
On the first floor the stairs led to a very spacious hall, its roof
stretching wide over ornamental arches resting on three rows of massive
pillars, and groaning day and night under the weight of its own intense
solitude. The day had just closed, and the lamps had not yet been
lighted. As I pushed the door open a great bustle seemed to follow
within, as if a throng of people had broken up in confusion, and rushed
out through the doors and windows and corridors and verandas and rooms,
to make its hurried escape.
As I saw no one I stood bewildered, my hair on end in a kind of ecstatic
delight, and a faint scent of attar and unguents almost effected by age
lingered in my nostrils. Standing in the darkness of that vast desolate
hall between the rows of those ancient pillars, I could hear the gurgle
of fountains plashing on the marble floor, a strange tune on the guitar,
the jingle of ornaments and the tinkle of anklets, the clang of bells
tolling the hours, the distant note of nahabat, the din of the crystal
pendants of chandeliers shaken by the breeze, the song of bulbuls from
the cages in the corridors, the cackle of storks in the gardens, all
creating round me a strange unearthly music.
Then I came under such a spell that this intangible, inaccessible,
unearthly vision appeared to be the only reality in the world--and all
else a mere dream. That I, that is to say, Srijut So-and-so, the eldest
son of So-and-so of blessed memory, should be drawing a monthly salary
of Rs. 450 by the discharge of my duties as collector of cotton duties,
and driving in my dog-cart to my office every day in a short coat and
soia hat, appeared to me to be such an astonishingly ludicrous illusion
that I burst into a horse-laugh, as I stood in the gloom of that vast
silent hall.
At that moment my servant entered with a lighted kerosene lamp in his
hand. I do not know whether he thought me mad, but it came back to me
at once that I was in very deed Srijut So-and-so, son of So-and-so of
blessed memory, and that, while our poets, great and small, alone could
say whether inside of or outside the earth there was a region where
unseen fountains perpetually played and fairy guitars, struck by
invisible fingers, sent forth an eternal harmony, this at any rate was
certain, that I collected duties at the cotton market at Banch, and
earned thereby Rs. 450 per mensem as my salary. I laughed in great glee
at my curious illusion, as I sat over the newspaper at my camp-table,
lighted by the kerosene lamp.
After I had finished my paper and eaten my moghlai dinner, I put out
the lamp, and lay down on my bed in a small side-room. Through the
open window a radiant star, high above the Avalli hills skirted by the
darkness of their woods, was gazing intently from millions and
millions of miles away in the sky at Mr. Collector lying on a humble
camp-bedstead. I wondered and felt amused at the idea, and do not knew
when I fell asleep or how long I slept; but I suddenly awoke with a
start, though I heard no sound and saw no intruder--only the steady
bright star on the hilltop had set, and the dim light of the new moon
was stealthily entering the room through the open window, as if ashamed
of its intrusion.
I saw nobody, but felt as if some one was gently pushing me. As I awoke
she said not a word, but beckoned me with her five fingers bedecked with
rings to follow her cautiously. I got up noiselessly, and, though not a
soul save myself was there in the countless apartments of that deserted
palace with its slumbering sounds and waiting echoes, I feared at every
step lest any one should wake up. Most of the rooms of the palace were
always kept closed, and I had never entered them.
I followed breathless and with silent steps my invisible guide--I
cannot now say where. What endless dark and narrow passages, what long
corridors, what silent and solemn audience-chambers and close secret
cells I crossed!
Though I could not see my fair guide, her form was not invisible to my
mind's eye,--an Arab girl, her arms, hard and smooth as marble, visible
through her loose sleeves, a thin veil falling on her face from the
fringe of her cap, and a curved dagger at her waist! Methought that one
of the thousand and one Arabian Nights had been wafted to me from the
world of romance, and that at the dead of night I was wending my way
through the dark narrow alleys of slumbering Bagdad to a trysting-place
fraught with peril.
At last my fair guide stopped abruptly before a deep blue screen, and
seemed to point to something below. There was nothing there, but a
sudden dread froze the blood in my heart-methought I saw there on the
floor at the foot of the screen a terrible negro eunuch dressed in rich
brocade, sitting and dozing with outstretched legs, with a naked sword
on his lap. My fair guide lightly tripped over his legs and held up
a fringe of the screen. I could catch a glimpse of a part of the room
spread with a Persian carpet--some one was sitting inside on a bed--I
could not see her, but only caught a glimpse of two exquisite feet
in gold-embroidered slippers, hanging out from loose saffron-coloured
paijamas and placed idly on the orange-coloured velvet carpet. On one
side there was a bluish crystal tray on which a few apples, pears,
oranges, and bunches of grapes in plenty, two small cups and a
gold-tinted decanter were evidently waiting the guest. A fragrant
intoxicating vapour, issuing from a strange sort of incense that burned
within, almost overpowered my senses.
As with trembling heart I made an attempt to step across the
outstretched legs of the eunuch, he woke up suddenly with a start, and
the sword fell from his lap with a sharp clang on the marble floor.
A terrific scream made me jump, and I saw I was sitting on that
camp-bedstead of mine sweating heavily; and the crescent moon looked
pale in the morning light like a weary sleepless patient at dawn; and
our crazy Meher Ali was crying out, as is his daily custom, "Stand back!
Stand back!!" while he went along the lonely road.
Such was the abrupt close of one of my Arabian Nights; but there were
yet a thousand nights left.
Then followed a great discord between my days and nights. During the day
I would go to my work worn and tired, cursing the bewitching night and
her empty dreams, but as night came my daily life with its bonds and
shackles of work would appear a petty, false, ludicrous vanity.
After nightfall I was caught and overwhelmed in the snare of a strange
intoxication, I would then be transformed into some unknown personage of
a bygone age, playing my part in unwritten history; and my short English
coat and tight breeches did not suit me in the least. With a red velvet
cap on my head, loose paijamas, an embroidered vest, a long flowing silk
gown, and coloured handkerchiefs scented with attar, I would complete
my elaborate toilet, sit on a high-cushioned chair, and replace my
cigarette with a many-coiled narghileh filled with rose-water, as if in
eager expectation of a strange meeting with the beloved one.
I have no power to describe the marvellous incidents that unfolded
themselves, as the gloom of the night deepened. I felt as if in the
curious apartments of that vast edifice the fragments of a beautiful
story, which I could follow for some distance, but of which I could
never see the end, flew about in a sudden gust of the vernal breeze.
And all the same I would wander from room to room in pursuit of them the
whole night long.
Amid the eddy of these dream-fragments, amid the smell of henna and
the twanging of the guitar, amid the waves of air charged with fragrant
spray, I would catch like a flash of lightning the momentary glimpse of
a fair damsel. She it was who had saffron-coloured paijamas, white ruddy
soft feet in gold-embroidered slippers with curved toes, a close-fitting
bodice wrought with gold, a red cap, from which a golden frill fell on
her snowy brow and cheeks.
She had maddened me. In pursuit of her I wandered from room to room,
from path to path among the bewildering maze of alleys in the enchanted
dreamland of the nether world of sleep.
Sometimes in the evening, while arraying myself carefully as a prince of
the blood-royal before a large mirror, with a candle burning on either
side, I would see a sudden reflection of the Persian beauty by the side
of my own. A swift turn of her neck, a quick eager glance of intense
passion and pain glowing in her large dark eyes, just a suspicion of
speech on her dainty red lips, her figure, fair and slim crowned with
youth like a blossoming creeper, quickly uplifted in her graceful
tilting gait, a dazzling flash of pain and craving and ecstasy, a smile
and a glance and a blaze of jewels and silk, and she melted away. A wild
glist of wind, laden with all the fragrance of hills and woods, would
put out my light, and I would fling aside my dress and lie down on my
bed, my eyes closed and my body thrilling with delight, and there around
me in the breeze, amid all the perfume of the woods and hills, floated
through the silent gloom many a caress and many a kiss and many a tender
touch of hands, and gentle murmurs in my ears, and fragrant breaths on
my brow; or a sweetly-perfumed kerchief was wafted again and again on
my cheeks. Then slowly a mysterious serpent would twist her stupefying
coils about me; and heaving a heavy sigh, I would lapse into
insensibility, and then into a profound slumber.
One evening I decided to go out on my horse--I do not know who implored
me to stay-but I would listen to no entreaties that day. My English hat
and coat were resting on a rack, and I was about to take them down when
a sudden whirlwind, crested with the sands of the Susta and the dead
leaves of the Avalli hills, caught them up, and whirled them round
and round, while a loud peal of merry laughter rose higher and higher,
striking all the chords of mirth till it died away in the land of
sunset.
I could not go out for my ride, and the next day I gave up my queer
English coat and hat for good.
That day again at dead of night I heard the stifled heart-breaking
sobs of some one--as if below the bed, below the floor, below the stony
foundation of that gigantic palace, from the depths of a dark damp
grave, a voice piteously cried and implored me: "Oh, rescue me! Break
through these doors of hard illusion, deathlike slumber and fruitless
dreams, place by your side on the saddle, press me to your heart, and,
riding through hills and woods and across the river, take me to the warm
radiance of your sunny rooms above!"
Who am I? Oh, how can I rescue thee? What drowning beauty, what
incarnate passion shall I drag to the shore from this wild eddy of
dreams? O lovely ethereal apparition! Where didst thou flourish and
when? By what cool spring, under the shade of what date-groves, wast
thou born--in the lap of what homeless wanderer in the desert? What
Bedouin snatched thee from thy mother's arms, an opening bud plucked
from a wild creeper, placed thee on a horse swift as lightning, crossed
the burning sands, and took thee to the slave-market of what royal city?
And there, what officer of the Badshah, seeing the glory of thy bashful
blossoming youth, paid for thee in gold, placed thee in a golden
palanquin, and offered thee as a present for the seraglio of his master?
And O, the history of that place! The music of the sareng, the jingle of
anklets, the occasional flash of daggers and the glowing wine of Shiraz
poison, and the piercing flashing glance! What infinite grandeur, what
endless servitude!
The slave-girls to thy right and left waved the chamar as diamonds
flashed from their bracelets; the Badshah, the king of kings, fell
on his knees at thy snowy feet in bejewelled shoes, and outside the
terrible Abyssinian eunuch, looking like a messenger of death, but
clothed like an angel, stood with a naked sword in his hand! Then, O,
thou flower of the desert, swept away by the blood-stained dazzling
ocean of grandeur, with its foam of jealousy, its rocks and shoals of
intrigue, on what shore of cruel death wast thou cast, or in what other
land more splendid and more cruel?
Suddenly at this moment that crazy Meher Ali screamed out: "Stand back!
Stand back!! All is false! All is false!!" I opened my eyes and saw that
it was already light. My chaprasi came and handed me my letters, and the
cook waited with a salam for my orders.
I said; "No, I can stay here no longer." That very day I packed up, and
moved to my office. Old Karim Khan smiled a little as he saw me. I felt
nettled, but said nothing, and fell to my work.
As evening approached I grew absent-minded; I felt as if I had an
appointment to keep; and the work of examining the cotton accounts
seemed wholly useless; even the Nizamat of the Nizam did not appear to
be of much worth. Whatever belonged to the present, whatever was moving
and acting and working for bread seemed trivial, meaningless, and
contemptible.
I threw my pen down, closed my ledgers, got into my dog-cart, and drove
away. I noticed that it stopped of itself at the gate of the marble
palace just at the hour of twilight. With quick steps I climbed the
stairs, and entered the room.
A heavy silence was reigning within. The dark rooms were looking sullen
as if they had taken offence. My heart was full of contrition, but
there was no one to whom I could lay it bare, or of whom I could ask
forgiveness. I wandered about the dark rooms with a vacant mind. I
wished I had a guitar to which I could sing to the unknown: "O fire,
the poor moth that made a vain effort to fly away has come back to thee!
Forgive it but this once, burn its wings and consume it in thy flame!"
Suddenly two tear-drops fell from overhead on my brow. Dark masses of
clouds overcast the top of the Avalli hills that day. The gloomy woods
and the sooty waters of the Susta were waiting in terrible suspense and
in an ominous calm. Suddenly land, water, and sky shivered, and a wild
tempest-blast rushed howling through the distant pathless woods, showing
its lightning-teeth like a raving maniac who had broken his chains.
The desolate halls of the palace banged their doors, and moaned in the
bitterness of anguish.
The servants were all in the office, and there was no one to light the
lamps. The night was cloudy and moonless. In the dense gloom within I
could distinctly feel that a woman was lying on her face on the carpet
below the bed--clasping and tearing her long dishevelled hair with
desperate fingers. Blood was tricking down her fair brow, and she was
now laughing a hard, harsh, mirthless laugh, now bursting into violent
wringing sobs, now rending her bodice and striking at her bare bosom,
as the wind roared in through the open window, and the rain poured in
torrents and soaked her through and through.
All night there was no cessation of the storm or of the passionate cry.
I wandered from room to room in the dark, with unavailing sorrow. Whom
could I console when no one was by? Whose was this intense agony of
sorrow? Whence arose this inconsolable grief?
And the mad man cried out: "Stand back! Stand back!! All is false! All
is false!!"
I saw that the day had dawned, and Meher Ali was going round and round
the palace with his usual cry in that dreadful weather. Suddenly it
came to me that perhaps he also had once lived in that house, and that,
though he had gone mad, he came there every day, and went round and
round, fascinated by the weird spell cast by the marble demon.
Despite the storm and rain I ran to him and asked: "Ho, Meher Ali, what
is false?"
The man answered nothing, but pushing me aside went round and round
with his frantic cry, like a bird flying fascinated about the jaws of a
snake, and made a desperate effort to warn himself by repeating: "Stand
back! Stand back!! All is false! All is false!!"
I ran like a mad man through the pelting rain to my office, and asked
Karim Khan: "Tell me the meaning of all this!"
What I gathered from that old man was this: That at one time countless
unrequited passions and unsatisfied longings and lurid flames of wild
blazing pleasure raged within that palace, and that the curse of all
the heart-aches and blasted hopes had made its every stone thirsty and
hungry, eager to swallow up like a famished ogress any living man who
might chance to approach. Not one of those who lived there for three
consecutive nights could escape these cruel jaws, save Meher Ali, who
had escaped at the cost of his reason.
I asked: "Is there no means whatever of my release?" The old man said:
"There is only one means, and that is very difficult. I will tell you
what it is, but first you must hear the history of a young Persian girl
who once lived in that pleasure-dome. A stranger or a more bitterly
heart-rending tragedy was never enacted on this earth."
Just at this moment the coolies announced that the train was coming.
So soon? We hurriedly packed up our luggage, as the tram steamed in. An
English gentleman, apparently just aroused from slumber, was looking out
of a first-class carriage endeavouring to read the name of the station.
As soon as he caught sight of our fellow-passenger, he cried, "Hallo,"
and took him into his own compartment. As we got into a second-class
carriage, we had no chance of finding out who the man was nor what was
the end of his story.
I said; "The man evidently took us for fools and imposed upon us out of
fun. The story is pure fabrication from start to finish." The discussion
that followed ended in a lifelong rupture between my theosophist kinsman
and myself.