Such was the impersonation of the Vèdic beauty Damayanti. When she reached the centre of the circular pavilion she lifted her eyes, and, seeing five Nalas instead of one, started backward, clasped her lovely arms on her bosom, and, rocking herself gently to and fro, moaned, "Alas! alas! there are five Nalas, all so like my own true sinless chief. How shall I discover the one to whom alone I have pledged my undying love?"
At this juncture the music ceased and a deep silence fell upon the audience. Every eye was riveted on that lovely creature seemingly overcome with the tide of sorrow and uncertainty that swept over her. Suddenly pausing in her moans, she turned up her fine eyes to the sky, and with some new inward light dawning as it were upon her troubled soul said audibly, "To the gods alone I will trust. If they are indeed gods, they will not deceive a poor mortal woman like me."
Then, quivering and trembling, with flushed cheeks and lustrous eyes, she folded her hands and knelt in reverence before the gods and prayed aloud, and said, "O ye gods, as in word or thought I swerve not from my love and faith to Nala, so I here adjure you to resume your immortal forms and reveal to me my Nala, that I may in your holy presence choose him for my pure and sinless husband."
Kneeling there with her face turned up, her hands folded, the outlines of her beautiful form made even more lovely by the half-softened halo of light shed over her from above, she seemed like some beautiful vision, and not a thing of flesh and blood. I never witnessed anything more truly exquisite and tender in its simple womanhood than this rendering of the beautiful Vèdic character of Damayanti.
Again the voices of the musicians were heard interpreting for us the thoughts and feelings of the gods: "We are filled with wonder at her steadfast love and peerless beauty," etc., etc. Once more the curtain is dropped, and presently it folds up again, revealing the forms of the four bright gods as at first in all the splendor of their robes, crowned and flashing with jewels, and fragrant with the garlands of fresh flowers that hang around their necks.
Damayanti rose from her bended knees. With pleased and childlike wonder she gazed at the gods one moment, then turned to her own true Nala, who stood before her in striking contrast to the gods, with moisture on his brow, dust on his garments, soiled head-dress and faded garland. But on recognizing him as the true Nala she folded her hands in sudden rapture and gave a cry of joy; then, removing from her own neck her garland of mohgree-flowers, moved with quiet grace toward her lover, knelt and kissed the hem of his dusty robe, arose and threw around his neck her own fresh, radiant wreath of flowers, saying, "So I choose for my lord and husband Nishádah's noble king." At this speech a sound of wild sorrow burst from the rejected suitors, but the gods shouted, "Well done! well done!" Then the happy Nala, turning to the blushing Damayanti, said, "Since, O maiden, you have chosen me for your husband in the presence of the gods, know this, that I will ever be your faithful lover, delight in your words, your looks, your thoughts, and so long as this soul inhabits this body, so long as the moon turns to the sun till the sun grows cold and ceases to shine, so long shall I be thine, and thine only."
One more loud shout from the herald, the curtain dropped, the play and the day were over, for it was just twelve o'clock.
The Oriental and European guests took their leave of their amiable host with much salââming and many expressions of delight, for the play had been arranged by Ram Chunder himself.
After a few minutes our host kindly conducted me to an inner apartment of his dwelling to introduce me, as he had promised, to his wife, who had already quitted her place behind the curtains, whence she and her maids had witnessed the performance, and had retired to her own rooms, which were (as in the case of all rich Hindoos or even Mohammedans) separate from those occupied by her husband. Traversing a long and narrow passage, we came to an arched doorway, with a dark silk curtain hanging before it, guarded by two women seated on either side. They rose and salââmed to us, and Ram Chunder, instead of walking in as any ordinary European husband would have done, inquired of them if the lady Kesinèh had retired.
"No, your lordship," replied the ceremonious Hindoo maid-servant; "she waits yours and the English lady's presence."