THE DANCE OF THE COBRA
The Place was the Harem.
The Time was the Morning.
And the Occasion was the Toilet.
The wives and the women of the Maharajah were being made beautiful for the pleasure of their lord and master.
Their bodies were bathed in the pool.
And anointed with oils.
And burnished with buffers.
With infinite care and patience, blue veins were traced on their limbs, and red tips were painted on their breasts.
Their raven locks were scented, and their dusky cheeks were tinted.
Their eyes were darkened with kohl, and their mouths were brightened with carmine.
The nails of their fingers and of their toes were stained a ruddy hue.
But none of the wives or the women demanded or received more care or attention than did Lotus Flower, the favorite dancing girl of the Maharajah.
For none was so lithe of limb nor so supple of joint as was this same Lotus Flower.
She it was who could sway the slowest.
And she it was who could whirl the fastest.
Lotus Flower was a young Circassian beauty.
She had been brought from Bagdad.
For two days the Maharajah had had in the palace as his guest an English officer, one Captain Esme Lawrence.
And for two nights Lotus Flower had been summoned to the Court of Delight to dance before the visitor.
The first night Lotus Flower had performed the Dance of the Flames.
She had pirouetted in and out among lighted candles.
The English officer had watched her intently.
The second night Lotus Flower had performed the Dance of the Sword.
During her gyrations she had borne a scimitar upon her head.
Again the English officer had watched her intently.
To-night Lotus Flower was to perform the Dance of the Cobra.
And to-morrow morning the English officer was to go away.
Lotus Flower must do credit to the Maharajah.
And to herself.
She did not need to be told so.
She understood it fully.
So she devoted the entire morning to the beautifying of her body.
And she devoted the entire afternoon to the selecting of her adornments.
The English officer had watched her hands.
So she put jingling bracelets around her wrists.
The English officer had watched her feet.
So she put jangling bangles around her ankles.
The English officer had watched her body.
So she swathed herself in gleaming gauze.
And the English officer had watched her face.
So she painted, perfumed and powdered until even the other dancing girls admitted among themselves that Lotus Flower had never looked lovelier.
But still Lotus Flower was not satisfied.
The English officer had watched her eyes.
So she put cosmetics around them to make them darker.
And she put cosmetics into them to make them brighter.
But that was not why he had watched her.
That was not how he had watched her.
He had looked beyond the blackness of cosmetics.
He had looked beyond the whiteness of cosmetics.
He had looked in, in, in—to her soul.
And her soul had looked out, out, out—to him.
Lotus Flower realized that she did not need kohl and carmine with which to charm the English officer.
And this knowledge made her glad.
And this knowledge made her sad, too—at the same time.
Do you doubt that such a paradoxical state of mind could exist?
Out upon you then,—truly you can know but little of the ways of woman!...
That night a splendid repast was served in the Great Banquet Hall.
Afterwards the Maharajah escorted his guest to the Court of Delight.
Two throne-like chairs were brought forward for the two men, the Indian Prince and the English officer.
The Maharajah wore pantaloons of crimson silk, a coat of purple velvet embroidered in gold, and a turban of yellow silk embellished with an aigrette of diamonds.
Around his neck were strings of pearls.
And on his fingers were enormous rubies.
The Maharajah was an ugly man.
But he looked magnificent.
Captain Lawrence wore the conventional evening clothes of an English gentleman.
He was a handsome man.
And he looked attractive.
A young boy with a stringed instrument sang two songs for them.
One was a song of joy.
And one was a song of sorrow.
An old man with a black cloth did some tricks for them.
First he made various objects appear out of the cloth.
And then he made various objects disappear into it.
Finally, to the beating of tom-toms, and the lilting of pipes, Lotus Flower was brought forward for her part of the performance.
She bowed before the Maharajah, but she almost forgot to look at him.
Then she looked at Captain Lawrence, but she almost forgot to bow to him.
The Maharajah looked at Lotus Flower and he smiled.
Captain Lawrence looked at Lotus Flower and he did not smile.
He was too much interested in her to remember to smile.
Just as she was too much interested in him to remember to bow.
Once more she felt that he was looking in, in, in—to her soul.
And once more she felt that her soul was looking out, out, out—to him.
“Lotus Flower,” said the Maharajah, “you must dance your best to-night!”
“Yes, my lord,” said Lotus Flower.
“To-morrow our guest departs,” said the Maharajah.
“Yes, my lord,” said Lotus Flower.
“He returns to England—where he is going to be married,” said the Maharajah.
Lotus Flower stood and stared.
Her heart stopped beating.
She gasped for breath.
“Yes, my lord,” said Lotus Flower.
She had known that the English officer was departing the next day.
But she had not known that he was going to leave India.
She had not known that he was going back to England.
And she had not known that he—was going to be married.
Somehow, she had imagined, from his eyes, that he was going to stay in India.
Somehow, she had imagined, from his eyes, that she was going to see him again.
Somehow, she had imagined, from his eyes, that he—and she—
But now, all her hopes had been shattered.
All her dreams had been dispelled.
There was nothing for her to do—but to dance!...
And so she began.
She waved her arms.
Her bracelets jingled.
She stamped her feet.
Her anklets jangled.
The tom-toms began to throb.
The pipes began to lilt.
And Lotus Flower started to perform the Dance of the Cobra.
She swayed from side to side.
She darted to and fro.
She floated backwards and forwards.
Slowly at first.
Then faster and faster.
Finally she stopped.
“Is that the end of the Dance of the Cobra?” asked Captain Lawrence.
“No,” said the Maharajah, “that is only the beginning.”
Lotus Flower had been nerving herself for the ordeal.
She had been working herself up for the performance.
And now it began in earnest.
A strong eunuch stood guard over a big basket.
Lotus Flower stooped down, lifted the cover, thrust in her arms, and drew out a large cobra.
The cobra wriggled and writhed in her clutch.
The tom-toms started again.
And the pipes.
At first, Lotus Flower held the cobra far from her.
Then a little closer.
And at last, she placed it upon her body.
As she danced around, the cobra twined about her.
It crawled in and out among the soft folds of her gauzy drapery.
It disarranged the coverings of her shoulders.
And of her breast.
And of her waist.
Thus it was that Lotus Flower postured and posed before the Maharajah and his guest, her naked body gleaming under the light of the lamps, and the great cruel cobra crawling over her lithe young limbs.
The cobra twined about her shoulders.
Lotus Flower darted here and there.
The cobra twisted about her thighs.
Lotus Flower rushed hither and thither.
She seemed fairly to fly.
The notes of the music accompanied her.
And then, suddenly, the music ceased, and two big eunuchs sprang forward to tear the cobra from her body.
That was part of the performance.
The climax had come.
But—what was this?
Had the dancer gone mad?
Lotus Flower fought off the eunuchs.
She clung to the cobra.
It pressed tightly about her waist.
But Lotus Flower pressed it tighter still.
The eunuchs fought with her.
But Lotus Flower fought against them.
The Maharajah sprang up from his chair.
And Captain Lawrence sprang up from his.
They rushed towards the unfortunate dancer, to assist the eunuchs in attempting to save her.
But it was too late.
Lotus Flower lay on the ground.
The cobra was coiled about her in a grip of steel.
A grip of steel that would crush the life out of any human being.
Lotus Flower, the favorite dancing girl of the Maharajah, was dead....
Two days later Captain Esme Lawrence left India, and went back to England—to be married.