And the elephant said: Pippala, as I ended, I stepped forward, and I
took her, very gently, by the hand. And then, lo! the very moment that
I touched it, she started. And she leaped back, like one that has
suddenly put his hand into the flame of a fire, with a cry. And as I
watched her, she stood for a single instant, like one balanced on the
very verge of flying, or sobbing, or falling to the ground, for she
swayed on her little feet, and her body shook all over, like a tree
whose leaves are stirred by a sudden wind. And her great breast
struggled in violent agitation, as if striving to leap from its bodice
in sheer fright. And then in a moment, all at once she changed,
becoming still, as though she were an image, carved in stone, upon a
temple wall. Only her bosom went on heaving like the sea, as if she
could not breathe. And after a while she said, very slowly: My
blindness makes my battle hard, for I cannot either see my danger
coming, or escape it by flying when it comes. And now, well I discern
the terrible consequences of sins committed in a former birth, for now
I am without resource, resembling one that walks in inky darkness,
whose every step may plunge the point of a sword into his heart. And
yet that very blindness which puts me in thy power contains the weapon
to defeat thee; for within it I am shut from thee as in an impenetrable
fortress, around which thou art wandering in vain. For the Creator has
not left even the blind without their proper refuge, and has bestowed
upon them inner eyes, as if to balance the want of those without; and
being deprived by their infirmity of all that world which others see,
they fall back upon the world within, composed of memory and
meditation, and patience and emotion, and fidelity and hope. And as I
listen to thy words, falling on my ear out of the visible I cannot see,
tempting me, and seeking as it were to melt my resolution by a fiery
rain, I look into my soul, and I see at a distance, in its darkness, a
solitary star in the form of my husband, sending me as it were a ray of
support and consolation, to keep me from sinking in the waves of the
ocean of despair. And now I tell thee, all thy honied words are
worthless, and like arrows, they fall back blunted and shattered on the
rock on which I lean, in the form of his memory, and beating on my head
like particles of snow they do but add to the mound of cold resistance
which they aim removing by their ineffectual storm. And though I know
not where he is, nor even if he will return, yet when he does he shall
find his honour safe, and my soul like a temple shall preserve within
its shrine the candle that he lit, whose steady flame not all the winds
of flattery and temptation blown from thine or any other mouth shall
ever make extinct, or even cause to flicker for an instant, even in a
dream. And like Draupadi, or Damayanti, or Sita, or Sawitri, I shall
meet my husband, either in this birth or another, so, as that neither
he nor I will be ashamed. And well though I know that I am bodily at
thy mercy and in thy power, so that coming thyself or sending others,
thou canst carry me by violence away, as I think will be the case, yet
shall even that avail thee nothing. For the body thou shall ravish, as
I told thee, will be dead, and its soul will be away. For though it is
my duty not to quit it, for my husband has left me, as it were, as a
deposit in my own hands to be guarded for himself, yet I shall make no
effort to conceal it from thee like a coward; it is here for thee to
steal. Take, if thou wilt, a thing that can offer no resistance; thou
wilt gain absolutely nothing but dishonour for thyself, loving what
will not love thee, embracing what will not embrace thee, doomed to
remain everlastingly outside, and baulked of that treasure of the heart
within, like a robber with an adamantine casket to which he has no key,
and which, defying all his efforts to invade it, leaves him with
nothing to reward him but his crime. Aye! try, and thou shalt find,
that with nothing to defend it, armed only with a memory, the heart of
a woman is stronger than all the power of a king. Aye! bring, if thou
wilt, the ocean, and the wind, and the darkness to assist thee, and
thou shalt find that the little tongue of that flame which is fed on
the oil of reminiscence will utterly refuse to be extinguished by them
all.
And Trishodadhi, as he listened, murmured softly to himself: Ah! noble
wife, ah! Watsatarí, thou hast annihilated this robber of a king. And
utterly oblivious of his muttering, he listened, with a heart on fire,
for the remainder of the tale.