Chapter VI (2)

“Maker of verses, this is a rose of your own garden. Till now I never heard it, but it speaks of love. You shall not ask me twice. My rose, my pearl, my star!—” He caught the hem of her veil. Now I knew well from her eyes that he rushed on his fate, but it was written in the book of his destiny and what is written who can avert?

She drew back a little and looked at him with soft eyes—wells of delicious darkness, the swelling curves of her lovely form a temptation for true believers, and her lips smiling a little as if from delight at their own sweetness. And indeed her voice was gentle as moonbeams and as caressing, as though she could sacrifice all to please the man whom she exalted with the sight of her.

“Fortunate cousin, I am a weak woman. How dare I face the wrath of the Emperor? He did not love your father. He does not love your father’s son, yet if he did——”

She drooped her head a little as if with a soft shame that overwhelmed her in the depths of modesty. O very woman, divine yet a child!— She had turned wisdom into folly with a glance. And he trembling, and with eyes fixed, stammered out:

“Alas, I have dreamed of your sweetness and what is the dream to the truth? I am drowned in it. O give it to me; make it mine that in life and death it may enfold me and that I may never again behold a lesser light, having seen the ineffable.”

And he caught her hand passionately and drew her towards him, she yielding gently and slowly, resisting a very little, and looking at him as if with compassion.

And very softly in a voice like the breathing of a flute she said:

“O my cousin, how should we face the wrath of the Emperor?” as though all her soul were in that question.

And he, kissing her hands with frenzy, said in broken words:

“Ah, Moon of my delight that knows no wane, let me but watch with you through the starry hours of one night, and then, then if the Padshah’s will be to slay me, I shall at least have lived.”

“And I also,” she said, looking down like the feminine incarnation of modesty, so that enraptured he flung his arms about the yielding softness of her most exquisite form and kissed her on the lips as a thirsty man in the desert grasps the cup nor can sever his mouth from it. And when he would permit her to speak she leaned her head backward to gain space, and she said:

“What is my lord’s will with his slave? And in what shall I obey him?”

Now I, standing in the recess would have warned him, if I could, that not thus—O not thus, does the proudest and wisest of women abandon herself to such as he! For I had pity on his youth and the manly beauty of him, and the Imperial blood that he shared with her. But who was this creature of dust to obstruct the design of the Imperial Princess? And indeed even I wavered and was uncertain that I guessed her meaning, with such veiled submissive sweetness did she hold his hand in hers and touch it to her lovely brows.

And trembling like a man in a fever, he replied.

“O darling little slave, since you give me the right to command what is wholly mine, I say this— Let my slave, whose slave I am, expect me to-night when the moonlight touches the western corner of the Divan-i-Am, and I will come to this chamber of bliss, and my life, my soul, are in the hand of my slave whose feet I kiss.”

And throwing himself on the marble like a worshipper he kissed the flower-soft feet that showed like bare gold beneath the hem of her robe, and so rising to his knee, looked up at her as an idolater at the goddess vouchsafed to his eyes.

But she looked beyond him at the curtain that veiled the door. It lifted to a hidden hand, and Imami stood there, ash-pale, in her hand a dish of gold, and standing upon it a great goblet of jewelled glass with pomegranate sherbet brimming in it rose-red and rose-petals floating on the surface and beside it two cups of gold flashing with diamond sparks, and on her knee she offered it to the Princess, who took the goblet and a cup smiling.

“Fortunate cousin, since this is so, and I, my father’s best-beloved child, will petition him to grant me my heart’s desire, let us drink the cup of betrothal in the presence of the Hakim Abul Qasim and the lady Imami. Heart of my heart, I pledge you!” and setting the blossom of her lips to the jewelled rim she drank, and filled the other cup for him, and still kneeling before her breathless with adoration, he took the cup in both his hands, and I watched and could say no word because her purpose was clear to me and I knew well that of all women on earth she was the last to endure the insult of his presence. And Imami knelt by the door,—her face like ivory against the heavy gold curtain. Now, as he set his lips to the cup, suddenly Imami sprang to her feet and tottered back against the sculptured marble and with scarce breath to fill her voice——

“The Emperor comes,” she said, and fell again on her knees at the door, hiding her face in her hands.

I saw the sickening terror that struck the colour from the cheeks and lips of the lover. He knelt there with a glassy countenance like a man in the clutch of a nightmare who cannot flee from the advancing doom—his limbs weighted with lead, his heart with the pressure of an exceeding horror. But Glory of Women caught him by the hand.

“Exalted cousin, there is but one way from these rooms, and the Emperor closes it. Fly to the room beyond my bed-chamber, the room of the marble bath, and hide where you can while I hold him in talk. Allah hafiz! (God protect you!) Go!”

And she pushed him from her, and he fled. Then, most singular to see, she composed her veil, glancing in the mirror set in silver that was the gift of the Portuguese priests, and turned to the door, and as she did so the curtain was lifted and Aurungzib Padshah entered and Imami prostrated herself and I also, but the Princess Arjemand knelt.

Now I know not how this should be, but in a room where great events have just happened it is as if the waves of passion beat about the walls and waft the garments of those who have been present, and it seemed to my guilty heart as though the very flowers enamelled on the marble cried aloud,

“Majesty, there is a man—a man in hiding.”

And certainly the Padshah halted and looked with suspicion from one to the other of us. He was ever a man of suspicion, unlike the easy humour of his father Shah-Jahan, and the half drunken good-nature (shot with frightful angers) of his grandfather Jahangir. Aurungzib Padshah was a small man, dark exceedingly, with veiled eyes and shut lips, and never have I seen him warmed by any emotion of love, pity, fear, but always calm, cold, self-collected and austere. For it is well known that his only care was religion, and to this he sacrificed his all.

So looking hard at the kneeling Glory of Women he said coldly,

“In the name of the most beneficent and merciful God, what is this disturbance? Speak, exalted daughter, Princess of the family of chastity. It is revealed to this suppliant at the throne of Allah that there is a hidden thing in these chambers. Speak. What is it?”

And kneeling, my Princess answered.

“May joy attend my exalted father, the adorner of the gardens of happiness, the decorator of the rose-parterre of enjoyment! There is but one hidden thing in these chambers, and it is your unworthy daughter, who is known by your august favour as Makhfi, the Hidden One.”

I saw the eyes of the Padshah fix on the golden dish that lay on the marble with one cup emptied of the pomegranate sherbet and the other half emptied, the sherbet running in a red stream like blood along the marble.

“This was set down in haste!” he said through clipped lips.

“In haste, O Glory of Allah!” said the Princess with the wet beads clamming the silken tendrils on her forehead. “I drank and was about to drink the second when your auspicious feet blessed the threshold.”

“You are thirsty, happy daughter of sovereignty? Then drink the remainder. You have my permission.”

I saw the gleam in either black eye of him as he spoke, watching her sidelong. She lifted the cup to her lips with a hand that shook so that it rattled against her teeth, though she struggled to command herself.

“No, do not drink, royal daughter. It is stale,” he said, still standing and smiling coldly. And the Princess answered with quivering lips:

“Will not the Mirror of God be seated and partake of refreshment offered by the hand of his slave?”

“Not of that cup and not until I have observed your embroideries and manuscripts, daughter of high dignity,” the Padshah replied, and followed by my Princess, Imami still kneeling by the door, and I by the latticed marble window he walked about the hall and into the chambers beyond, talking pleasantly to the Princess at his shoulder, and so returning took his seat on the divan, and she served sherbets and fruits on a golden dish to his Majesty.

He was later to attend the Am-Khas, the Hall of Audience, and was attired kingly. His vest was of white and delicately flowered satin, with heavy silk and gold embroidery. His cloth-of-gold turban was aigretted with diamonds great as stars, with a topaz at the base that shone like the sun. A chain of great pearls hung to his knees, and above all these jewels was his cold repelling dignity as of a King too great to be approached even by the favourite child of his pride, and all the time he sat she knelt before him.

At length he spoke as if in meditation.

“Glory of Women, you have grown into beauty like that of the Maids of Paradise. Your long lashes need no antimony, your eyes are winter stars, and in that robe of gulnar (pomegranate blossom) you appear like that princess who bewildered the senses of the mighty Suleiman. [I saw a quiver pass over her features as she bowed her head beneath the weight of praise.] Does not the rose long for the nightingale? Does not your heart, exalted daughter, turn to love?”

And with her eyes on the ground, she answered.

“Exhibitor of Perfection, my heart is set on far other matters. If in this land of good fortune I be remembered as a poet, I ask no more of destiny save that the rank of the daughter of Emperors be attached to my name for ever.”

And he.

“It is well. Yet marriage must be considered. Fortunate daughter, have you bathed to-day?”

And she, deadly pale.

“Shadow of the benignity of the Creator, no.”

And with set lips he called to Imami by the door.

“Hasten, lady, and light the fire beneath the great vessel of water in the bathing room of the Begam, and I will remain in discourse with her until it is ready.”

And Imami casting a fearful glance on the kneeling Princess moved slowly to the inner chamber, and it is the truth that my soul sickened within me, for though I knew the young man worthless, and the son of a dangerous father, yet who could bear this without terror of spirit? And the Emperor, laying aside his awful Majesty, made his presence sweet as sunshine in the great chamber of marble, saying:

“Exalted daughter, it is but seldom we have leisure to relax, and yet the olfactory of my soul inhales with delight the ambergris-perfumed breezes of affection and concord, and daily if it were possible would I enjoy them. Yes, even when absent—

“‘I sit beside thee in thought, and my heart is at ease,
For that is a union not followed by separation’s pain.’

“It is in my mind to move with my ladies and the living family of dignity and glory to reside for a time at Lahore, and we shall then be more together, partaking of the irrigation of the rivers of affection.”

“Great father, you promise me a joy to increase health and exalt happiness.”

She swayed as she knelt, and leaned against the divan with closed eyes.

“Exalted father, the perfume of flowers and of the rose-water fountain have given me a faintness. May I retire for a moment with the hakim Abul Qasim to my inner chamber lest I fall at your feet?”

“It is granted, Glory of Women, and the lady Imami shall recite to me your latest verses until you return.”

I came forward making the salutation, and helped the Princess to rise, she leaning on my aged arm, and the lady Imami took her place unrolling a manuscript of verses splendid with Persian illuminations in blue and gold. The Emperor composed himself to listen with pleasure, for it is well known that all the sovereigns of that mighty line were skilled in versifying and just critics of _ghazal_ and _suja_.

And as we moved forward, I supporting her, the Princess breathed in my ear:

“I meant his death, but Allah knowing my heart knows I am innocent of this hideous thing. O Abul Qasim, father of my soul, is there aid in earth or heaven?”

But what could I say? Only the Great Physician of the Hidden Dispensary could assist that unfortunate. And meanwhile the sweet voice of the lady Imami read aloud the verses of the Princess.

“O love, I am thy thrall.
As on the tulip’s burning petal glows
A spot yet more intense, of deeper dye,
So in my heart a flower of passion blows,
See the dark stain of its intensity
Deeper than all.”

And then we lost the words as we moved into the inner chamber.

Now this inner chamber was all of pearl-pure marble, and in the midst a deeply sunk bath of marble long and wide and with its walls decorated with lotuses and their leaves, and a silver pipe led the water to this from a mighty silver vessel six feet and more in height and of great capacity, supported on a tripod of sculptured silver, and below it a place for fire, enclosed and fed with sweet-scented woods and balls of perfume made of rare gums. And, O Allah most Merciful, there the lady Imami had kindled fire by command of the Emperor, and within might be seen the brilliant blue flame licking up the perfumes and crawling like snakes about the cedar wood below the vessel. And certainly I looked that the Princess should do some desperate deed for the enlargement of the man most miserable hidden within the vessel, and releasing her I stood like a graven image of terror, expecting what she would do.

She laid her hand on the silver, and amid the crackling of the flames she said in a clear small voice:

“You came unsought. You violated the secrecy of the Hidden One. What then is your duty, exalted cousin?”

And from within he spoke in a voice—O Allah, most compassionate, grant that I may never hear such again!—the one word:

“Silence.”

And she:

“It is true. Keep silence if you are my true lover, for the sake of my honour. For if your voice is heard I am a dead woman. But I too will be faithful to death.”

And he answered:

“On my head and eyes.”

And by her command I gave her water to drink and applied an essence to her nostrils, and we left the room, pulling the heavy curtains before it, and we returned to where the Padshah sat with the pale lady Imami reading aloud and he smiling in calm content. Seeing us return, he motioned my Princess to a seat on the divan saying:

“I would hear your verses of ‘The Lover.’

“What is the fate of a lover? It is to be crucified for the world’s pleasure.”

And taking the manuscript from the hands of Imami she read aloud:

“Dust falls within the cup of Kaikobad
And King Jamshid,
Nor recks the world if they were sad or glad,
Or what they did.

“How many hearts, O Love, thy sword hath slain
And yet will slay!
They bless thee, nor to Allah they complain
At Judgment Day.”

And so read on steadfastly for the space of an hour, until the Padshah, replete with the sweetness of the melody, rose from the divan, and said graciously:

“May the tree of hereditary affection watered by this hour of converse grow in leaf and fruit and overshadow us both in peace. Go now, exalted daughter, and bathe your angelic person and rest with a soul sunned in the favour of the Emperor.”

And he went, we attending him to the door of the secluded chambers, and when we returned, the Princess lay in a dead faint on the divan, and the fire beneath the great vessel of silver was red and silent, and within was silence also.

The courage of Babar the gallant and Akbar the greatly dreaming was not dead in their descendant and thus in a great self-sacrifice he became a traveller on the road of non-existence, and I wept for him.

So the Court moved to Lahore.

But after this on my Princess came a change hard to be told.

She had despised the Prince alive. For his death she loved him, and with a poet’s passion and tenderness mingled with a woman’s. Her sole relief was in solitude, pouring forth the burning thoughts wherein the phoenix of her soul was consumed in perfumed flame which will forever kindle the heart of man to like ecstasies.

Great Princes sought her, among them Akil Khan, a most beautiful young man, aglow with courage and splendour. He had seen her, dreaming on the roof of her pavilion in the dawn, pensive and lovely, clothed in dawn-colour, her long hair braided with pearls falling about her, and mad with love, he sent her this one line, awaiting completion:

“A vision in crimson appears on the roof of the Palace.”

Kneeling, I implored her to give him some solace,

“For O, Light of my soul,” said I, “the years drift by like leaves, and shall this miracle of beauty and of intelligence clear as diamonds lead its graces to the grave and leave the world no copy? My Princess, my Princess, have pity on your youth! True, the high Prince died a hero for the sake of a lady’s honour, yet remember that until then the soul of him was at home in Devilsville, and not in the rose-gardens of Allah. You have mourned him long enough: awake now to joy.”

But she put it gently aside, saying:

“The soul washed in the lustration of death is pure. What is Shaitanpur to him now? He has forgotten it. And shall I who accepted the sacrifice, forget? O, that I had not failed in courage—that I had died with him! Give me the paper of Akil Khan.”

And considering the line he had written—

“A vision in crimson appears on the roof of the Palace,” she wrote beneath it this line completing the couplet:

“Neither supplications nor force nor gold can win her.” And so returned it.

Yet, gallant man as he was, this did not stifle his hope, and knowing that in her garden at Lahore she was building a noble marble pavilion, he entered the garden one day disguising his princeliness under the garment of a mason, carrying his hod on his shoulder, and passed where she stood apart watching her girls who were playing at chausar.

And as he drew near he whispered,

“In my longing for thee I have become as dust wandering round the earth,” and she whose soul was fixed as a lonely star, responded immediately,

“If thou hadst become as the wind yet shouldst thou not touch a tress of my hair.”

So it was always. An embassage was sent from the Shah Abbas of Persia entreating her hand for Mirza Farukh his son, and the Prince came with it, a gallant wooer. She dared not at once refuse the insistence of her father Aurungzib Padshah, and consented that he should come to Delhi that she might judge of his worthiness. And with a glorious retinue resembling a galaxy of stars he came, and she feasted the prince in the pleasure-pavilion in her own garden, and in its marble colonnade with her own fair hand offered him wine and sweetmeats, but veiled in gold gauze, so that not one glimpse had he of the hidden eyes. And exalted with wine and folly he asked for a certain sweetmeat in words which by a laughing play on words signify—a kiss!

This, to the proudest of women! One moment she paused and then haughtily,

“Ask for what you desire from the slaves of our kitchen,” and so went straight to her royal father and told him that though face and jewels were well enough, the man had the soul of a groom under his turban of honour, and she would have none of him. She had her royal way.

Raging with foiled pride and desire he sent her this verse,

“I am determined never to leave this temple.
Here will I bow my head, here will I prostrate myself.
Here will I serve, and here alone is happiness.”

But he beat against marble, for she returned this answer only:

“Child, how lightly dost thou esteem this game of love! Nothing dost thou know of the fever of longing and the fire of separation, and the burning flame of love!”

Alas, her heart knew them too well!

So he went away despairing and that was the last of her suitors.

Very sad grew my Princess. The dead have more power than the living, and the clutch of a dead hand chills the blood. She had the soul of a mystic and in her poems desire for the Eternal Beloved was mingled with love of him who was now also behind the Veil of non-existence, and I know not which was more in her thoughts when she wrote with tears that fall and falling gather,

“O idle arms,
Never the lost Beloved have ye caressed:
Better that ye were broken than like this
Empty and cold eternally to rest.

“O useless eyes,
Never the lost Beloved for all these years
Have ye beheld: better that ye were blind
Than dimmed thus by my unavailing tears.

“O fading rose,
Dying unseen as hidden thou wert born:
So my heart’s blossom fallen in the dust
Was ne’er ordained his turban to adorn.”

Very strange is the heart of a woman! I, remembering her scorn for this very Prince and her will to slay him with her own hand, could not at all commend nor comprehend her passion for him dead whom living she trod as the dust beneath her feet. She permitted my speech gently, but would reply only,

“He loved me and gave his life for me.” And I venturing to rejoin,

“But O exalted Lady, men will give their lives for a little thing, a jewel, a worthless intrigue, the slaying of a tiger, and is his sacrifice worth such a return as yours?” she replied with calm; “Greater love hath no man than in silence to lay down his life uncheered by commendation or the joy of battle, and to him I swore fidelity. Should I change? In his death was the high heart that in life would have grown to glory—and I broke it.”

And I said:

“It is greater love to live for a woman than to die for her and this he could never have done, for his profligacy and selfishness would have swept all love to ruin,”—and she, smiling, put this by, as one who has attained in her own heart to behold the innermost secrets of love. And which of us was right I cannot now tell.

But as love rose about her like a tide her thoughts turned more and more to the Supreme, the Self-Existent,—and this love also consumed her for He wounded her heart with the august secrets of His beauty, and perceiving in vision wafts of His sweetness she sank into a deep melancholy, desiring that to which no earthly passion may attain. So in this poem she beheld Him as the Hunter of the Soul:

“I have no peace, the quarry I, a Hunter chases me,
It is Thy memory.
I turn to flee but fall: for over me He casts His snare,
His perfumed hair,
Who can escape Thy chain? no heart is free
From love of Thee.”

So passioning for the Divine she spent her days in longing, and a great wisdom came upon her, for even as her mighty father narrowed in vision, persecuting the Hindus, and breaking the very Empire against the rock of their tortured faith, so she like the sun at setting illumined all beliefs, even the lowliest, with her level rays, declaring that where any prayer is made that place is the mosque and the Kiblah.

Had that lady been Emperor it is not too much to say she had saved the Empire. Would to Allah that she had been. But He knows all.

Yet a better fate was decreed for her for she lived, exhaling love as the lily its perfume, and departed in a white peace, a gently fading light like the cresset that for a little illumines the quiet of a tomb, and this she said in dying,

“I am the daughter of a King but I have taken the path of renunciation, and this shall be my glory, as my title signifies that I am the Glory of Women.”

This she is, for in India she is remembered by all who burn in the fire of love, human or divine.

Yet, since she was a woman and therefore a creature of unreason, must I condemn her passion for the worthless prince to whom her royal life was dedicate.

And here I set down the last words that Makhfi—the Hidden One—wrote with her dying hand, and they were these—

“Yet, Makhfi, unveiled is thy secret,
Abroad all thy passion be told,
Who saw not the beauty of Yusuf
When he in the market was sold.”

and as she lived she died, lamenting that too late she had known his hidden heart.

When she was departed a poet of Persia made these verses of her: concerning the serenity of her spirit:

“Love sings to himself of love and the worlds dance to that music, As wise snakes dance to the Charmer playing upon his pipe, Love gazes on deep waters for ever dreaming his face. Slay all my senses but hearing that I may immortally listen. Calm every wave of my soul that it may mirror the Dream.”

And her father the Emperor, grieving, made her a glorious tomb of marble domed and pinnacled with gold and the tower and minars roofed with turquoise tiles. Nay, the very sand of the paths was dust of turquoises, and about it a glorious garden where her sweet spirit might gladden to dream in the moonlight, her griefs forgotten, her joys completed in the ecstasy of union with the One, the Alone.

And yet—yet—thus wrote my Princess:

“If on the Day of Reckoning
God saith, ‘In due proportion I will pay
And recompense thee for thy suffering.’

“Lo, all the joys of heaven it would outweigh.
Were all God’s gladness poured upon me, yet
He would be in my debt.”

May the lights of Allah be her testimony and make bright her tomb.

For I loved her, and pray that her memory may be fragrant when I am dust.

And very strange and secret is the heart of a woman.

THE MARRIAGE OF THE PRINCESS

THE MARRIAGE OF THE PRINCESS

(Salutation to the Elephant-Headed God, who is the Remover of Obstacles and the Giver of discretion, and may he enable his worshipper the Pandit Gurdit Singh to relate this story with well-chosen words and harmonious periods that so it may enchain the hearts of all.)

Of all the lands that smile upon their lover the sun, surely the land of Kashmir is the loveliest. All round that Valley of Beauty the mountains stand like the guardians of a great Queen. No harsh winds may ruffle the lakes, darkly blue as the eyes of the goddess Shri, where the lotuses dream above their mirrored images in amazement at their own divinity, for the shields of the eternal snows piercing even the heavens turn aside all tempests and only a sweet and calm sunshine makes the air milk-warm.

And because the beauty that surrounds them is absorbed by the princesses of Kashmir until they become like the slender-waisted beauties of the ancient poems and stories of India, radiant as the sun, fair as the full moon mirrored in a lake dreaming of her own beauty, so are they eagerly sought by all the Kings from North to South, and great dowries are given for them with jewels piled high like grain in harvest, and elephants and garments with beaten gold laid on them such as would dazzle the eyes of the Queens of other countries. And nothing is too much to give for their seductive beauties.

Now, at one time the King of Kashmir had a daughter, his only one,—more exquisite than dawn blushing on the snows. She had stolen the hue of her eyes from the blue of the lotus of the hidden lakes, and the delicate shaping of her face was high craftsmanship of high Gods at the work they love best. And down to the ankle rolled her midnight hair, braided and jewelled, and Love’s own honey made her mouth a world’s wonder of rose and pearl,—and the curves of her sweet body were rounded as the snowdrifts of Mount Haramoukh and as pure. And even this was not all, for what is a flower without scent and beauty without charm? But grace went beside her like an attendant, and attraction that none could resist was in her glance, and whoso escaped the lure of her eyes would assuredly fall a victim to the seduction of her sweet laughter so that only in the protection of the Gods was there safety, and it is known that even the Gods cease their vigilance where a beautiful woman is concerned and forget their divinity.

Now this Princess Amra loved above all things the gardens of her royal father, and it was her custom, forsaking the Palace, to come for days with her women to the gardens by the lake, dwelling in the Pavilion of the Painted Flowers and passing the days in singing and feasting, wandering beneath the shade of the mighty chinar trees and breathing the perfume of flowers and the coolness of the high snows.

So on a certain day she and her ladies wandered through the roses in beauty so exquisite that the flowers swayed to behold them and the very waters of the cascades delayed to kiss their feet, and as they did this there came a message from the King her father that he had betrothed her to marry the King of Jamu, and the marriage would take place in the marriage month according to the auspicious calculations of the astrologers. And hearing this, the Princess stopped in terror beside the water that falls over the ripple of cut marble, and she said to her women:

“O sorrowful day! O fears that beset my heart! I who have never seen any man save my auspicious father and brothers and the old grey-beard, the Pundit Ram Lal,—what a fate is this! What do I know of men? How shall I learn? O, my misery!”—and she sat herself beneath the shade of a great chinar tree, and became inconsolable, weeping bitterly, and her women wept with her.

So passed an hour, and at last her confidante, Lailela, a girl from Bokhara, having dried her eyes began to look about her, and she saw that with the written command of the King had come a small object folded in rose silk and bound with threads of gold, and with the insatiable curiosity of a woman she said to the weeping Princess:

“Great Lady, here is a something—I do not know what, but I guess it to be a bridal gift from his Majesty.” And the Princess took it in her hands and her ladies gathered about her as stars surround the moon, and with her slender fingers and nails like little pearls she unthreaded the knots of gold and the inner treasure was disclosed, and it was a frame of gold filagreed and set with rubies and diamond sparks, and within it the portrait of a young man, and written on the back of it: “The King of Jamu.” The artist, whose skill resembled that of the Creator, had depicted him seated on his throne of ivory inlaid with gold, and in his turban blazed that great jewel known as the Sea of Splendour, but these did not for one moment detain the eye, for he was himself the jewel of Kings, young, noble, dark of hair and eyes, with amorous lips, proud yet gentle, and a throat like the column that upholds the world, and limbs shaped for height and strength and speed. And surely had he been a water-carrier, men had said, “This is the son of a King.”

And as the Princess Amra looked she sighed and changed colour, and the last tear fell from her long lashes upon the portrait, and she dried it with her gold-bordered veil, and looked and sighed again, and lost in thought she fell into a deep silence.

And Lailela said with sympathy:

“Surely a terrible doom, O Princess! Now had the King been an old man, kind and paternal, it would but have been passing from the arms of one father to another. But a young man— O, there is much to fear, and who shall sound the deeps of their hearts?”

And the Princess slowly shook her head, not knowing what she did, still gazing at the portrait, and Lailela continued:

“Little do we all know men. But I have been told it is safer to adventure in a jungle of tigers than to take a husband knowing nothing of their wiles and tyrannies, and it is now my counsel that we should all declare before the Princess any small knowledge that has reached us, that she may not go forth utterly unarmed.”

And all the ladies looked doubtfully at one another, and the Princess smiled faintly as a moon in clouds, and said:

“Sisters, it is my command that you do as Lailela has said, for her counsel is good, and she herself shall begin, for I perceive there is knowledge behind her lips. Let all now prepare to listen, for we speak of love.”

And she laid the portrait on her knees, and Lailela with laughter in her long eyes but a great gravity of speech, told this story:

“Now, Princess, this is one of the parables that the Sheikh Ibrahim related to his daughter, the Lady Budoor, that she might be admonished. For the damsel was the temptation of the Age, with heavy hips, and brows like the new moon, and a mouth like the seal of Suleiman, so that the reason of whoso saw her was captivated by her elegance. But she spoke little, or of trivial matters, and smiled not at all, relying on her beauty, which, indeed, was the perfection of the Creator’s handiwork. May his name be exalted! And her father accosted her, saying:

“‘Know, O daughter, that Shah Salim had five thousand wives and concubines of perfect loveliness, with languishing looks, high-bosomed, and of equal age, a delight to beholders such as astonished the mind. But the King was wearied because of the dullness of their society and it so befell that he yawned repeatedly and his jaw became fixed with the violence of his yawns, nor could the art of the _hakims_ unloose it. And the Queens and the concubines slapped their faces for grief, and the Emirs trembled because of the case of the King.

“‘Now it chanced that the King of Seljuk sent unto Shah Salim a slave girl from Tabriz, and the merchant who conducted her bore this message, written on ivory, bound with floss silk, and perfumed with ambergris: “Know, O King of the Age, that the perfume is not to be judged by the jar, nor the jewel by its weight, for the perfume is the soul of the rose, and the secret of the jewel is its fire. Receive, therefore this gift according to the measure of thy wisdom.”

“‘But the Shah-in-Shah, speaking with difficulty, for his jaw was held as in a vise, commanded, saying; “Enclose her with the Queens and the concubines, for they have brought me to this, and the sum of my wisdom and experience is that they are all alike, and whoso knows one, knows all. Yet, first let me behold her, since she is the gift of a King.”

“‘And they unveiled the damsel, and behold! she was slender as a willow branch, low-bosomed, green-eyed, and her hair was like beaten bronze, nor could she for beauty compare with the wives of the King, so that the beholders marvelled at the gift of the King of Seljuk.

“‘And she looked upon the King, and, seeing his case, she closed her eyes until they shone like slits of emerald and laughed aloud until the Hall of Requests echoed with her laughter, and her voice was like the flute and such as would bewilder the reason of the sages and cause the ascetic to stumble in his righteousness, and she could narrate stories like those of the Sultana Shahrazad (upon whom be the Peace!), and her effrontery was as the effrontery of the donkey-boys of Damascus. For there is none greater. Nor did she fear the Shah-in-Shah before whom all abased themselves.

“‘So she seated herself before the Wonder of the Age, and, casting down her eyes, the damsel related to him the true story of the Adventure of the Lady Amine and the Sage El Kooz. And the heart of the Shah was dilated and he laughed until there was no strength left in him, and the _hakims_ thumped his back, fearing that life itself would depart from him in the violence of his laughter. And his jaw instantly relaxed. So being recovered, he commanded saying: “Bring hither the artificers of gold and let them make a chain that shall bind the waist of this slave to my wrist, for where I go she shall go, that my soul may be comforted by her narratives and the sweetness of her laughter. For this truly is a gift worthy of a king. But place guards at the doors of the others.”

“‘And after consideration and counsel with his Wazir he bestowed upon the Queens great gifts and returned them to their parents. And there was a great calm. And he became distracted with love for this slave and they continued in prosperity and affection until visited by the Terminator of Delights and Separator of Companions.

“‘Extolled be He whom the vicissitudes of time change not and who is alone distinguished by the attributes of Perfection!

“‘Now this is a parable, my daughter, of the secrets of the hearts of men, and I will relate others that thou mayest be admonished.’

“And the Lady Budoor answered modestly: ‘Speak on, my father, I listen.’”

And when Lailela had finished this story she resumed her seat, and the ladies reflected deeply, and the Princess said:

“This must undoubtedly be true. As a man no longer observes an object which he sees daily, so must it be with a man and the beauty of his wife. Clearly it is not enough to be beautiful even as a Dancer of Heaven. It is also needful to be a provoker of laughter. Would that I knew the stories of this slave . . . Sisters, have they been heard by any of you? What is beauty, when the beautiful are forsaken or die? But tell me.”

And now Vasuki, a lady of the Rajputs, stepped forward in all the insolence of beauty, swaying her hips, and rearing her head like a Queen as she came, and she began thus:

“Princess, of my heart, let none tempt you to undervalue the gift of loveliness by which even the greatest of the Gods are subjected as my story will declare. And let it be remembered that if even a man weary of his wife’s beauty—there are yet other men in the world, and what though our faith forbid marriage there are other faiths. And, if this be impossible, a woman can always be captured if so she will! And I would have you recall the story of the Rani of Mundore who being left a widow was captured by a great King and ruled him and his Kingdom. But hear my story of why Brahma, a high God of my people, has four faces in his temple.

“In the ancient days in India two evil and terrible brothers rose to kingly power. They were inseparable as the Twin Stars, the Aswins, and together they did evil mightily and in their union was their strength. Finally they formed plans to storm the lower heavens and expel the Gods and there was every reason to believe they would carry out this determination. So the Gods held a great Panchayet (council) and some said one thing, some another, and at last Brahma the Creator spoke as follows:

“‘Great Gods and Heavenly Ladies, in the union of these wretches is their power, because where two perfectly agree their wisdom is unconquerable. It is only because this has never been the case on earth that we are able to keep any sort of order. Now of all influences the most powerful is love. True it is their palaces are full to over-flowing with handsome women but we are still the Gods, the makers of men. Let us take for our model the Goddess of Beauty herself, and send some exquisite one on earth to distract and divide the evil kings.’

“So the flowers of heaven were brought, and the Goddess of Beauty stood unveiled and divine before them, and from the ivory of the lotus blossom they made a sweet body, and from the dark blue lotus they made two dreaming eyes, and they took the storm cloud for the glooms of her heavy lashes, and the midnight deeps for the lengths of her silken hair, and for her smile they took the sunshine and for her blush the dawn, and for her coquetry the playfulness of the kitten, and for her seductions the wiles of the serpent, and for her fidelity—but all their materials were exhausted before the necessity for this was remembered. And Lakshimi gave her instead what is invisible but omnipotent, her own charm which none has ever seen but all the Universe has felt. And when all was done great Brahma breathed life into the fair image and she arose and looked down upon her own beauty with astonishment and in a voice of crystal music she said:

“‘I am Tillotama.’

“And all the Gods stood confounded at their own handiwork but the Goddesses turned angrily away.

“So they commanded her to go to earth and instructed her, each mighty heart beating with agony that she should go. And she passed before the Throne of Brahma making a _pradakshina_, a reverential threefold circuit, about him keeping him always to the right. And he gazed passionately upon her and she made a turn to the left, and for pride he would not turn his head, but from the energy of his soul’s longing another face sprang out on the left side of his head and the eyes still followed her, and as she made her circuit this again happened at the back and still he regarded her, and at the right side also, so that wherever that loveliness went his eyes fed upon her with more passion than the moon-bird who steadfastly regards the moon all night. And, Princess, this is the undoubted reason why the image of Brahma has ever since had four faces. So she went to earth with ruin for her dower, and the two evil kings desired her and slew one another for her possession. And Saraswati, the wife of Brahma, immediately demanded that their work should be undone and the fair creature resolved again into the elements of nature lest the peace of heaven should be broken. So it was done, but Brahma retains forever his four faces.

“Therefore, Princess, if beauty thus subjugates the greatest of the Gods, what will be the effect of such beauty as your own upon the heart of the King of Jamu?”

And Amra clasping her hands, replied:

“But this is a terrible story! For if the greatest of the Gods, who has a glorious Goddess for his wife, be not faithful, what hope is in men? I grow so terrified that death itself seems preferable to marriage. Is there no comfort in any of you?”

And now, treading delicately on little bound feet, came Ying-ning, the fair Chinese maiden from Liang, who had been presented to the Princess because of her skill in embroidery and cosmetics. And she saluted humbly, and requested permission to speak:

“Princess, a great lady has last spoken and who am I? Yet because I tremble to hear her speak of any other than a husband in the love of a woman, hear me, for of all dangers the greatest is the jealousy of a husband. And this is a true story of my country.

“There was a very great artificer long, long years ago and he made an image exactly resembling a man. It was composed of wood and glue and leather, and sinews of catgut, and so great was his skill that he made even a heart that beat and set it in the breast, and the features were exquisitely painted and it resembled a great Chinese lord, noble and handsome and able to sing, move, and talk. Finally he showed it to the King of Liang who was struck dumb at such handiwork, for it was like the power of the Immortals. And he said; ‘My Household must certainly view this marvel, and there can be no objection to this course of conduct since I have satisfied myself it is but a thing of springs and leather.’

“So, on the following day, the artificer brought his image to the Pepper Chambers, being himself an aged man and in circumstances which permitted his entry. Being introduced to the presence of the King, the Queen and the ladies who rejoiced in the King’s favour, these ladies all stared with the utmost bewilderment at the handsome young man thus represented. The artificer touched its chin and it burst into a love-song most delicately sung in a mellow and manly voice. It recited a passage from the poets in praise of wine. It kow-towed before the King. But unluckily, encouraged by success, the artificer touched its heart, and with the utmost audacity it gazed upon the ladies and winking one eye, seized the hand of the loveliest, and placed a sacrilegious arm about her person, she smiling. A frenzy of passion swept over the King on seeing this. He shouted for the death of the artificer, and though the aged man in a terror instantly rent the image apart into a heap of wood and leather, he could not be appeased and the unfortunate was led out and beheaded. Furthermore, he ordered the lady who had been thus polluted to be instantly strangled because she had not shrieked on the instant as (he asserted) any virtuous woman, a stranger to such a contact, must have done. And in spite of her piteous entreaties she was slaughtered. Was this reasonable, O my Princess? But be it known to you that in love and in possession also there is no reason, and that this is the manner in which all men would act. And moreover it is their right, and it is entirely just that even the looks or dreams of a woman should be faithful to her husband and to him only.”

And Ying-ning retreated to the circle, and the Princess wrung her hands and cried:

“What then is to become of women if they are thus surrendered to the mercy of the merciless! I will entreat at my father’s feet that I may live and die a maid. And I will——”

But she could not continue for the beating of her heart, and now the little lovely gesang, Pak, from Phyong-yang in the Land of the Morning Calm, whence come all the fairest singing girls, moved trembling forward and spoke in a voice of silver, but so low that the Princess called upon her to stand at her feet that she might hear. Enclosed in a great lotus blossom she had been presented to the Princess that she might cheer her with strange dances from the Korean land, and she had clapped her hands for joy when the ivory petals fell apart disclosing the small dancer crouched within. But the women of the Morning Calm have few words and all now leaned forward to hear what this silent one might say.

“Great Lady, near my home by the Green Duck River lived long ago a Yang-ban (noble) who had a beautiful daughter named Ha. She had a slender throat on which was set a face most delicately painted and of exquisite charm, the lips resembling ripe cherries and the eyes of liquid brilliance. Many marriage enquiries were made, but her father finally made the choice of a young Yang-ban of good position named Won Kiun, and on a day of favourable omens she was borne to his house and became his wife. For five years they lived together in harmony nor did he spend his time without the screened apartments, for she could even play chess and he could converse with her. But alas! she bore no child and daily did her anguish increase, for she could hear his sighs because he had no son to perform the rites for him when his time should come. Still hoping, she delayed, but this could not last, and on a certain day she approached him saying:

“‘Lord of my Life, may your worthless wife speak?’

“He gave permission.

“‘Five years,’ said Ha, ‘have gone by and I have not fulfilled my duty. It is certainly the evil destiny of your worthless wife which has caused this. Therefore I say thus:—I will sell my pins of jade and buy a concubine for you. Accede to my humble request.’

“Won Kiun could scarcely hide his astonishment, for though this was but fulfilling a duty, still it is not common for a wife to make this offer. But he agreed instantly for he earnestly desired a son, and after so many years naturally desired also a change of companionship. Ha therefore made search and found a girl named A-pao of as much beauty as the price she could pay would fetch.

“It was then that Ha’s sorrows began. She was neglected by Won Kiun, tormented by A-pao, but enduring in silence as a wife should, she went about her work with a smile. But A-pao also failed in her duty for there was no child, and presently Won Kiun whose health had always been frail, departed to the ancestral spirits, A-pao shamelessly took her place in the house of a rich man, and Ha was left a desolate widow, and the more so because her parents and her husband’s justly despised her as a barren wife.

“But, Princess, mark what followed!

“She had placed her husband’s spirit tablet, which contained his third soul, beside her bed, and before this made her offerings of bread and wine and prayers for pardon, and one night when she had wept herself to sleep a strange thing happened. The tablet moved,—a human figure slowly emerged from it and stood on the floor, and Ha, with eyes distended with terror, saw her husband. In the well-remembered voice he said:

“‘I have permission from the Junior Board of the Gods of Hades to visit you as a reward for my filial merit on earth, and this in spite of your conduct in that very mistaken business of A-pao. Had _I_ been consulted she was by no means the person I should have chosen. Yet I am come to visit you and shall do so nightly for a month.’