A Digit of the Moon: A Hindoo Love Story

by F. W. Bain

So now, Princess, tell me, what was there in the snake's hood-jewel to make that merchant's daughter so desirous of it? And Rasakósha ceased. Then the Princess said: The attraction lay not in the jewel itself, nor its magic properties. But in this that she had not got it. For this is the nature of women, that they make light of what they have, and sigh for what they have not got.

And when the Princess had spoken, she rose up and went out, looking at the King with a deep sigh, and the King's heart went with her. But the King and Rasakósha returned to their own apartments.

[[1]] The king of the snakes.

[[2]] i.e. 'the mine, or receptacle of jewels,' a common appellation of the sea.

[[3]] The dénouement of this story has a most singular resemblance to that of Prosper Merimée's Lokis. But apparently he drew that admirable story (as he did his Carmen and his Venus) from older sources, of Lithuanian, Gipsy, possibly even Hindoo origin.

DAY 17.

Then the King said to Rasakósha: My friend, all doubt is over: my doom is sealed: for the intellect of the Princess is invincible. And yet unless my desire blinds me, she intended that sigh to point at me the significance of her words. Oh! the fear of losing her almost deprives me of my reason, and breaking loose like a must elephant from every restraint I shall destroy you, as he does his friend the mahout, by the most terrible of deaths. And yet my own lot will be worse than any death: for I shall die by inches, starving in the sight of food. Out upon the portrait that has brought me to ruin, and on the painter that painted it! For now I see clearly that it is not in the least like her; for she is kind, and only compelled by destiny in the form of her own intellect to ruin hopes that she would perhaps otherwise encourage. So the King passed the night in a state of exhaustion, averting his gaze forcibly from the portrait. And when the sun rose, he rose also, and passed the day with difficulty in the garden, aided by Rasakósha. Then when the sun set, they went again to the hall of audience. And there they saw the Princess, clad in a robe of russet[[1]] and a bodice studded with amber[[2]], and her crown and other ornaments, sitting on her throne. And she looked at the King with eyes whose lids were red with want of sleep, and he sank upon a couch, speechless and fascinated, under the spell of her beauty. Then Rasakósha came forward and stood before her, and began again:

Lady[[3]], there was once a king, who laughed at his kingly duties, and passed his time in evil courses, lying in bed, neglecting Brahmans, drinking wine, hunting, and idling in the society of fair women. And whosoever ventured to remonstrate with him, him he straightway banished from his kingdom. And as time went on, he grew worse and worse, for dissatisfaction and satiety came over him, and the only refuge open to him from their torture lay in drowning reflection by still more abominable orgies.

Then it happened that one day he went a-hunting. And the ardour of the chase drew him far out of his way, so that when the sun fell, he was deep in the forest, far from his palace. And while he was considering where he should pass the night, he came upon the hut of an aged hermit. So leaving his followers in the forest, he remained in the hut of that hospitable hermit for the night. And after making his supper on roots and fruits, he lay down to sleep on a bed of leaves and Kusha grass.