soft seductive eyes, till he blushed, and wavered before her like the
flame of a candle in a wind. For her beauty bewildered him, and her
cunning story planted, as if against his will, the seed of suspicion in
his mind. And in spite of himself, he said to himself: What if it were
as she says, and my wife, like another Kasháyiní, were concealing from
me something that she shrank from avowing, lest I should think the
worse of her. And he turned pale at the thought, that any other lover
should, even a very little, have occupied her heart before him. And he
stood silent, and confused, striving to expel from his mind the doubt
that Natabhrúkutí had raised in it, saying to himself: Can I really be
only the last of many lovers? And all the while Natabhrúkutí watched
him, devouring him as it were with her eyes. And at last, she said
again: Sweet boy, thou art too young and too honest to cope with women,
who were framed by the Creator to deceive. But Aja said angrily: Thou
art thyself a woman, seeking at this very moment to deceive me: and as
for thy age, it is less than my own. And she said: Nay, nay: I am
older, for I am wiser than thyself. For when I see my husband, I
remember him, but me thou hast utterly forgotten, thy true and only
wife. Ah! foolish one, thou hast forgotten. And thou resemblest one,
who casts away a costly jewel, for the sake of a bit of glass, shining
only in the sunlight of thy ignorance, and trodden by the foot of every
passing stranger. What! can I do nothing to rouse thy recollection?
Look at me well! look hard, and it may be, something of me will touch
as it were a chord in thy soul.
And she came up close to him, so that the warmth and fragrance of her
beauty enveloped him like an atmosphere of intoxication. And she
joined her hands, looking up into his face, as it were compelling his
reluctant admiration by her humble submission to his will. And she
said: Hast thou, hast thou indeed forgotten all? And as he gazed at
her, two huge drops of crystal welled into her eyes, and hung poised
before they fell on the net of her long dark lashes. And she said:
Thou sayest, I am seeking to deceive thee. I love thee, and where is
the deception? Is it not rather thou that art the deceiver in this
matter? Is it any fault of mine if another has stepped in to defraud
me of thyself? Or am I to be blamed, if thy beauty still beguiles me
as it did long ago? And yet, dost thou accuse me as if I were a
criminal? O blue black bee, what is this behaviour, that thou seekest
as it were to pick a quarrel with the poor red lotus who loves thee but
too well? And she smiled through her tears, and exclaimed: Ah! but in
spite of thee, I will adore thee, whether thou wilt or no. Ha! and I
will compel thee to remember, and force my way through every barrier
and obstacle till I reach the recollection[1] in the bottom of thy
heart. O canst thou not remember the days of long ago, when my now
despised beauty was a joy to thee, and my hair a very net to snare thy
willing soul, and my eyes were more to thee than any diamonds, and
these two arms were thy prison and thy chain, and this agitated bosom
was thy pillow on which I lulled thee to slumber with the music of this
very voice? Hast thou really forgotten the nectar of my kiss? hast
thou actually forgotten thy own insatiable thirst? Ah! but if thou
hast forgotten, I have not: and the innumerable multitudes of thy too
delicious kisses come back to me, singing in my memory, and whispering
in my soul like the lisping of the sea. Hark! Dost thou not hear them
also, those voices of a former birth?
[1] The reader should remember that in Sanskrit, _love_ and
_recollection_ are the same word.
XI
And as Aja gazed at her, stunned and almost overcome by the pathos of
her irresistible appeal, and as it were swept from his feet by the
surge of her passion, suddenly she seized his left hand with her right,
and stood, grasping it as if convulsively, with the other hand raised,
and bending her head, as if to listen. And he listened, and lo! there
sounded in his ears a murmur resembling that of the sea, mixed with
faint strains of music, and echoes of indistinguishable singing voices
coming as it were from the ends of the earth. And a shudder ran
through him, as she turned, and looked at him as if in ecstasy, with
eyes that saw nothing, murmuring in an eager voice that chanted and
charmed his ear like the rushing of a stream: Dost thou hear the
voices, calling thee over to the other shore? For the sea is the sea
of separation, and the other shore is our former birth. Far away over
the setting sun hides the red land[1] of our old sweet love. And I can
take thee back to it, out of this dim and dingy wood. Only I can carry
thee back to the land beyond the sunset hill, where love is lying dead.
Over the sea where monsters lurk, and great pearls grow in sunless
deeps, I can carry thee back again to the land of long ago. Never a
ship with a silken sail could rock thee over across the waves so well
as I will waft thee there on the swell of this soft breast. Never a
breeze from the sandal hill could ferry thee over a silent sea so
gently as will I, by breathing into thy raptured ear tales of thy old
forgotten past with fond and fragrant lips. What! art thou still
oblivious of that old delicious birth? Dost thou never behold in
dreams the paradise of our little hut, and slake again thy raging
thirst in a long forbidden kiss? Does she never come back to thee, the
Brahmani girl with a face like mine, with lips that laughed and eyes
that shone, and a mango flower in her hair? Say, dost thou never dream
of her? And she shook his arm with frenzy, and exclaimed: Ha! wake
from thy magic sleep, and tear away the curtain that hides me from thy
blinded soul. I will, I will awake thee. I will not be forgotten.
And all at once, she burst into a passion of tears. And she reeled, as
though about to fall, and tottered, and threw herself, sobbing hard,
against his breast.
And while she spoke, Aja stood, like one pushed to the very edge of a
precipice, pale as death, and breathing hard, spellbound. And then at
last, when she threw herself upon his breast, again a shudder ran
through all his limbs. And as if her touch had shattered to pieces the
last fragment of his resolution, he caught her around the waist with
the one arm that was free. And with tears in his own eyes, he
stammered, as if in the extremity of desperation, hardly knowing what
he said: Alas! I have been harsh to thee. O lovely browed beauty,
cease to weep. Why, O why, did I not meet thee sooner by only a single
day?
[1] The Sanskrit _dwipa_ has exactly the same connotation as our
islands of the Blest, and like them it is placed in the setting sun.
XII
And at that very moment, he heard behind him a deep sigh. And as he
turned, wood, poppies, and all vanished from before his eyes. Once
more he stood on the city wall; and there before him was the King's
daughter. And she was standing in the doorway through which he had
come upon the wall, leaning against the open door, and paler than
Love's own ashes, while her great dark eyes were frozen as it were to
ice, and yet lit up by the triple fire of sorrow and reproach and
fierce disdain. And she looked like the daughter of Janaka, when
forsaken by the lord of the race of Raghu, and like the heavenly
Urwashi, when abandoned by Pururawas, a very spirit of despair carved
by the Creator into a stony female form, to break the heart of the
three worlds. And as if the very sight of her had broken the spell
that held him, reason and recollection suddenly returned to Aja, as it
were at a single bound. And he woke, as if from a magic sleep, and on
the instant, a sword ran as it were straight into his heart. And with
a cry, he flung away his sobbing burden like a blade of grass, not
caring where it fell: and ran towards the King's daughter. But she,
when she saw him coming, shrieked, and started, and exclaimed: Away!
Touch me not, save with the point of thy sharp true sword, to pierce me
through the body as thy perfidy has my soul.
Then Aja tossed away his sword, with a shudder, over the edge of the
wall. And he seized himself by the head with both hands, with a groan
like the roar of a wounded lion. And he exclaimed: Ha! Better now it
had been indeed, had I never emerged from the waste of sand. And he
turned fiercely upon Natabhrúkutí, saying: This is thy doing, thou vile
enchantress: and now I am indeed awake.
But even as he spoke, the words died away upon his lips; and he stood
still, like a picture on a wall, for wonder at what he saw before him.
For Natabhrúkutí was standing still, exactly where he left her, bolt
upright, like a spear fixed in the earth. And her beauty was greater
than ever, and yet such, that as he saw it, his heart stopped in his
breast. For every vestige of the nectar of her love-emotion had left
her, and in its place, the poison of immortal hate shone in her cold
and evil eyes, which were fastened, as if with a mixture of pain and
pleasure, with a glittering and fiendish stare, upon the King's
daughter. And as he watched them, cold ran in Aja's veins. For her
eyes shook, and changed colour, and a horrible smile played on her blue
and twitching lips. And she looked thin, for her two arms hung down
tight against her sides, and her fingers opened and shut, slowly, as if
of their own accord.
And after a while, she spoke. And she turned to Aja, and said, in a
voice that resembled a hiss: Fool! thou wouldst not take the blue
flower I offered thee, though its fragrance could not have been matched
by anything in the three worlds. Now, then, I will take another way.
So as he watched her, she was gone: and he saw before him nothing but
the empty city wall.
And as he looked again, not crediting the testimony of his own eyes, he
heard a sharp cry from the King's daughter. And he turned, and saw
Yashowatí sinking to the ground. And at that very moment Natabhrúkutí
stood again before him. And she looked at him with strange eyes, and
said slowly: Go now, and enjoy thy wife. But I must give thee just one
kiss, before I go.
And as Aja looked into her eyes, suddenly, like a flash of lightning,
he understood. And he struck his hand upon his brow, exclaiming: Ha!
Now, now, I understand, too late. Thou art that very she, that was
jealous of the King's daughter's beauty, and ruined her out of spite.
And I have been befooled by thee, and failed to stand the test. And he
ground his teeth with rage, that swept through him like a storm. And
he said to himself: Alas! I threw away my sword. No matter. Now,
then, as she said herself, I will take another way. And he looked at
her, as she stood waiting. And he held out his arms, saying: Come,
then. And as she put her face close to his own, he caught her by her
slender throat, with both hands, in a grip like that of death.
And then lo! she was gone again. But in her place, he held in his
grasp a huge yellow snake, which struck him, as he clutched it hard,
once and twice, upon the lips.
A Fatal Kiss
And then, little by little, the night gradually came to an end. And
the sun rose up, out of his home in the eastern mountain, and began
rapidly to climb into the sky.
And all at once, there arose a great hubbub, and an outcry in the
King's palace. And the women ran hither and thither, wailing and
screaming and crying out: Haha! haha! the daughter of the King is gone.
And they hunted in all directions, but could not find her anywhere: and
they went and told the King. But he, when he heard it, came running
just as he was in his night clothes, and hurried about with all the
women, looking into every corner, and finding nothing. So after
turning the palace upside down, he stopped short. And he said: What if
she should have followed her lover up on to the city wall, and shared
his fate! For beyond a doubt, like all his predecessors, he has
vanished never to return.
Then they all went up the winding stair, the King going first. And he
stepped out on to the wall. And instantly, with a piercing cry, he
fell to the ground in a mortal swoon.
Then terror seized on all those women, and they stood exactly where
they were, looking at each other with pale faces, not daring to
advance. But at last, after a long while, supporting each the other,
they pushed forward and looked out. And they saw the King's body,
lying on that of his daughter; and a little further off, Aja, lying
upon his face.
Then they went out, and took up those three bodies, and carried them
in, and examined them. And after a while, they said: Doubtless the
heart of the old King broke, when he saw his daughter lying dead. But
as for the other two, one snake has evidently bitten both. And yet,
this is a wonderful thing. For she has been bitten on the foot, but
her lover upon the lips. What then? Was he trying to kiss the snake,
that it should bite him upon the lips? For how could even the biggest
snake reach up so high, as this great Rajpoot's mouth?
* * * * *
A Selection from the
Catalogue of
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
Complete Catalogue sent
on application
Books by F. W. Bain
_Translated from Original Manuscripts_
A Digit of the Moon
And Other Love Stories from the Hindu
_Crown 8vo. Illustrated. Net, $1.50_
A Draught of the Blue
together with
An Essence of the Dusk
_Crown 8vo. Illustrated. Net, $1.50_
An Incarnation of the Snow
_Crown 8vo. Illustrated. Net, $1.25_
A Mine of Faults
_Crown 8vo. Illustrated. Net, $1.25_
The Ashes of a God
"Mr. Bain's stories are full of wistfulness and beauty. There is a
tenderness, a richness of color, a warmth of passion, and an elemental
understanding of men and women.... They seem to me to place Mr. Bain
on an eminence isolated and unique.... No words that I can write can
fittingly express the fascination of these books."--Mr. E. V. Lucas in
the _London Bookman_.
"Charming love stories that will be absolutely novel to most readers.
They are delicate, vivid, and told in beautiful English. They show
Hindu life and thought in the true light, a thing worth doing in view
of the mushy mysticisms and theosophical gibbering that have obscured
it in this country."--_N. Y. Sun_.
* * * * *
"Reading this book is like breathing strong refreshing air."--_N. Y.
Evening Sun_.
Bawbee Jock
By Amy McLaren
Author of "The Yoke of Silence," etc.
"Amid delightful Highland scenes and charming Highland people a very
pretty love duet is sung in Bawbee Jock.... A refreshing contrast to
most novels written nowadays."--_New York Sun_.
"One of the most delightful love stories of the year, as fresh as the
breath of heather on the Scottish hills."--_Columbus Journal_.
"Idealistic? Very. In a way that makes one glad that stories such as
it still appear."--_Chicago Inter-Ocean_.
Fifth Impression. $1.35 net. By mail, $1.50
* * * * *
_The Most Popular Books in the
United States_
By Florence L. Barclay
_Over 350 Thousand Sold_
The Rosary
Popular Edition. Cr. 8vo. $1.35 net. ($1.80 by mall.) Holiday
Edition, with Illustrations in Color by Blendon Campbell, and
Decorations and Cover Design by Margaret Armstrong. Handsomely printed
and bound. Uniform with the Holiday Edition of "The Mistress of
Shenstone." 8vo. $2.50 net.
"An ideal love story--one that justifies the publishing business,
refreshes the heart of the reviewer, strengthens faith in the outcome
of the great experiment of putting humanity on earth. _The Rosary_ is
a rare book, a source of genuine delight."--_Syracuse Post-Standard_.
_Over 550 Thousand Sold_
The Mistress of Shenstone
Popular Edition. Cr. 8vo, $1.35 net. ($1.50 by mail.) Holiday
Edition, with 8 illustrations in Color by F. H. Townsend, and
Decorations and Cover Design by Margaret Armstrong. Handsomely printed
and bound. Uniform with the Holiday Edition of "The Rosary." 8vo.
$2.50 net.
"An optimistic novel of true love, related with sincerity.... A worthy
successor to The Rosary."--_Phila. Press._
_First Printing 90 Thousand Copies_
The Following of the Star
With Frontispiece by F. H. Townsend. Cr. 8vo.
$1.35 net. ($1.50 by mail)
A beautiful Christmas love story, instinct with the same depth of
feeling, glowing imagery, and refinement of literary art as "The
Rosary," and is told with all the power and sweetness which won for
Mrs. Barclay's earlier books their place in the front rank of recent
fiction.
* * * * *
_By the author of "The Country House"_
FRATERNITY
BY JOHN GALSWORTHY
Author of "THE MAN OF PROPERTY," "VILLA RUBEIN," ETC.
"The foundation of Mr. Galsworthy's talent, it seems to me, lies in a
remarkable power of ironic insight combined with an extremely keen and
faithful eye for all the phenomena, on the surface of the life he
observes. These are the purveyors of his imagination, whose servant is
a style clear, direct, sane, illumined by a perfectly unaffected
sincerity. It is the style of a man whose sympathy with mankind is too
genuine to allow him the smallest gratification of his vanity at the
cost of his fellow creatures, ... sufficiently pointed to carry deep
his remorseless irony, and grave enough to be the dignified vehicle of
his profound compassion. Its sustained harmony is never interrupted by
those bursts of cymbals and fifes which some deaf people acclaim for
brilliance. Mr. Galsworthy will never be found futile by anyone and
never uninteresting by the most exacting."
MR. JOSEPH CONRAD in _The Outlook_.
_Crown 8vo. Fixed price, $1.35 net. (By mail $1.50)_
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK LONDON
* * * * *
By F. W. BAIN
_Translated from the Original Manuscripts_
A Digit of the Moon
And Other Love Stories from the Hindu
A Draught of the Blue
together with
An Essence of the Dusk
An Incarnation of the Snow
A Mine of Faults
The Ashes of a God