monsters, and bitterness, and brine.

So then, wishing to cajole him, one of them replied: Maháráj, were this city as full of beauties as the very sea of gems, how could any one of them come to thee in broad daylight? For is it not laid down in all the Shástras, that even an abhisariká,[20] were she dying for her lover, must notwithstanding observe times and seasons, choosing for her expedition only proper opportunities, such as are afforded by a winter night, or a dense fog, or the confusion caused by a whirlwind or an earthquake or an uproar, or a revolution in the state, or an illness of the king, or a festival, when all the citizens are drunk, or sleeping, or when the city is on fire. But as it is, not one of these occasions is present, to enable her to come to thee escaping observation. And a woman of good family is very different from a dancing girl. For when she leaves her home, on such an assignation, she wraps herself up, disguising her identity, and creeps along timidly making herself small, wishing even darkness darker, in addition to the screen provided by all the other circumstances that favour her attempt.

And Atirupa said: There is no difficulty in this: for could I think that there was even one woman in the city awaiting such an opportunity, who was worthy of it, I would very soon oblige her, by burning the city to the ground, reducing it to ashes for her convenience and my own.

And all at once, one answered from behind, who had entered as he spoke, unobserved: Ha! Maháráj, then, as it seems, I am come in the very nick of time, to save thy city from such a miserable end.

And Atirupa turned, and exclaimed joyfully: Ha! Chamu,[21] art thou returned? I was beginning to think thee lost, like a stone dropped to the very bottom of the sea. And Chamu said: Thou art right: for I am like the oyster, and contain a pearl.

And he looked at Atirupa, and laughed, rubbing his hands together, with cunning in his eyes, that resembled those of a weasel. And he said: Maháráj, as I entered, I heard thee wishing for Shrí[22] to visit thee in the form of an abhisariká; and lo! here she is, in my form. And do not despise her, on account of my deformity: for Shrí is a lady, and capricious, and comes in strange disguises. Thou knowest, that the city being dismal by reason of the obsequies, I seized my opportunity, and went away on a visit to my maternal uncle, who lives far off in a village in the wood that lies in the eastern quarter. And on my journey back, I lost my way in the wood, and went astray: and finally, growing very tired, I lay down in a thicket. And as I rested, after a while, I heard voices coming in my direction. And lying hidden, I looked out, and watched the speakers, till one of them, as I think, caught sight of my face among the trees, and took fright at its ugliness, and went away with his companion. And afterwards I rose myself and came away; and now, here I am.

And Atirupa looked at him, with disappointment: and he said: O Chamu, is this thy story, and is this all?

And Chamu laughed softly, and he said: Maháráj, he is a sage, who knows where to stop. But I will have compassion on thy curiosity, and this much I will tell thee in addition, that one of the speakers was a woman. And yet I am not sure about it, for if there is another woman like her in the three worlds, I will cut off my own head, and give to thee as a footstool, since it is fit for absolutely nothing else. And even as it is, I think, after all, that I must have fallen asleep in the clump of bushes, and seen her in a dream: compounding for myself a vision out of old memories of Apsarases and Yakshinis, and Nágás, and fragments of old fairy tales and stories that my mother told me long ago, when I was a child.

And Atirupa looked at him with surprise: and he said: Chamu, this is very strange, and thou art not like thyself. Hast thou been eating poppy,[23] or art thou only drunk with wine? For it is no ordinary vision that could turn thee into a poet. Come now, go on. Describe for me the beauty that has awoken such emotion in a soul as dull and muddy as thy own.

And Chamu said: O Maháráj, who can describe the indescribable? There are things that cannot be described, but only seen: hardly even then to be believed, when gazed at by the eye. Can anything imitate and reproduce the beauty of the blue lotus, but the pool in which it is reflected? The wandering wind may carry, like myself, its fragrance to a distance, but cannot perform the work that belongs only to the mirror of the pool. So take counsel of the wind, and go thyself, and become the pool.

And Atirupa laughed joyfully, and he exclaimed: O Chamu, thou art certainly bewitched, and this wood-nymph has cast over thee a spell: turning thee into a very breeze of sandalwood from Malaya.

And Chamu said: Laugh, Maháráj: and as I told thee it would be, so it is: thou dost not believe. But when thou hast seen her eyes, and when thou hast heard her voice, and when thou hast gazed at her, as I did, coming straight towards thee, walking, thou wilt laugh no longer: for the scorn incarnate in the pride of her great breast will make thee giddy, and the roundness of her hips will steal thy heart and burn it to a cinder, and the jingle of her anklets will haunt thy ears, as it does mine, like the sound of a stream, keeping time to the dance of her two little feet as they come towards thee, till thou wilt find thyself wishing that some strange magic might keep on drawing thee back for ever, so only that thou couldst go on gazing, as she kept on coming, like an everlasting incarnation of the rapture of anticipation of touching and caressing what it maddens thee to see. Maháráj, I tell thee, that were the three great worlds but one colossal oyster shell, she is its very pearl. And like a cunning diver, I have been down into the sea, and seen it, and now I can take thee where it is, to see it for thyself. And as I think, thou wilt discover, she is a quarry to thy taste, who will save thee from the necessity of seeking for others in the ashes of thy town.

II

THE THIRST OF AN ANTELOPE

I

Gazelle, gazelle, dost understand
Why the old skulls grin in this silent land?
My feet are fleet, and I drink at will,
There is something blue in the distance still.

II

But the old skulls grin in the silent waste,
Gazelle, gazelle, make haste, make haste!
I travel fast, and I fear no ill,
There is something blue in the distance still.

III

The old skulls grinned in the silent sand,
They beckoned her like a bony hand:
Gazelle, gazelle, hast drunk thy fill?
Is there something blue in the distance, still?

Kurangí.

I

A DAPPLED DAWN

I

A DAPPLED DAWN

I

Now in the meanwhile Bimba, when his cousin drove him off his throne, had fled away to the