The Ashes of a God

by F. W. Bain

And the elephant said: Pippala, as I gazed at her, struck by the thunderbolt of astonishment and dismay, my heart smote me: for all unintentionally, I found myself playing the traitor to my minister, and becoming, as indeed I was already, the worshipper of his wife. And well I knew, that love would prove stronger than gratitude, and more powerful than friendship, and that he was already doomed. And I said to myself: Ha! now destiny and the deity of Love have combined, to throw me, as it were against my will, into the company of one whom I had determined to avoid, and are driving me to injure, one, whom I would rather wish to honour and regard. But now it is too late, and well I see, that will happen which must happen, and she and I and her husband are but puppets, dancing to the bidding of powers that are greater than our own. And once again I murmured: Watsatarí; Trishodadhi; it cannot be. Then she said: Who art thou, to be so well acquainted, as it seems thou art, both with my husband and myself, and what is there in the circumstances that arouses in thee such surprise?

And as I looked at her, I trembled, saying to myself: Now perhaps it is as well, she cannot see. And now I dare not tell her who I am, for that would be utter ruin, since doubtless rumour has told her all about me. And I thought for a moment, and then all at once I laughed aloud. And I exclaimed: O wife of Trishodadhi, if one should have commissioned thee, saying, Go at dead of night to the very middle of the sea, and there catch in its immensity a single little mina[[11]] that has swallowed such-and-such a ring; and thou going accordingly and grasping blindly in its water shouldst find that very fish enclosed in thy hand, say, would it not surprise thee also, to find chance putting into thy clutch a thing no ingenuity could ever have discovered? And she said with a smile: Who then is the fish; is it I, or is it he? And I said: It is thy own pretty neck which is the fish; for yonder necklace was commissioned to encircle it. And now let me tell thee, since I see thou art suspicious of myself, fearing no doubt the anger of thy husband, should he discover thee in my society, that he would hardly have excused thee for sending me away, as presently he himself will tell thee, as soon as he returns. For know that I am a Rajpoot, and the confidential agent of a neighbouring king, to whom thy husband lately rendered by his policy an inestimable service. And since he absolutely refused reward, the king my master said to me: Gratitude, like a river, dammed in one direction, will find an outlet in another; and since I may do nothing for Trishodadhi, I will at least do something for his wife. For I have heard, that she is of incomparable beauty. Take, then, this necklace, and answer for its safety with thy head. And ride night and day, going towards the capital of Ruru, and seek out his minister, and ask for Watsatarí his wife. And when she is actually before thee, put with thy own hands the necklace on her neck, and say: King Chandradatta bids thee know, by this emblem, that the chain of obligation to thee and to thy husband is on his neck, and when there is a difficulty, send him this; and he will overcome it. And now, right glad I am to find thee; for I have not slept since I started, for fear of losing the necklace, and forfeiting my head. And surely the bird which filched it from me to carry it to thee was some deity in disguise; for how could a mere bird know, for whom it was designed? So take thou the necklace, and when thy husband sees it, summon me: and I will tell him also, and depart.

And she listened attentively, looking as it were straight at me as I lied, till I trembled, rejoicing, and yet hardly crediting, that she could not see me; and when I ended, she stood meditating, while I watched her, in ecstasy at having hit upon a clever lie, by means of which I hoped to prolong our conversation, and look at her with impunity, careless of what might come of it at last. And presently she said: Where then is the necklace? And I placed it in the lotus of the hand she held toward me, stealing guilty undetected glances at her creeper of an arm; and she took it, and felt it all over, telling every pearl, exactly as yonder old ascetic told his beads as I passed him; while I stood gazing at her, hardly able to draw breath. And after a while she said: Surely these pearls are very large? And I said: There are no others equal to them, even in the sea. And she sighed a very little, and she said with regret: Their beauty is for other eyes than mine. And I watched her eagerly, saying to myself: Ha! can it be that this delicious beauty resembles all her far inferior sisters, and is tempted by the pearls she cannot see? O pippala, I tell thee, that though it made for my advantage, it was a grief to me to find her, as I thought, like other women. Ha! but I did her wrong, and did not know her, for she had something in her soul that I did not understand.

And all at once, half, as I conjectured, in derision, and half, it may be, tempted by the shadow of a wish to try them on her neck, she took the necklace by both ends in her hands, and hung it up around her throat, letting those lucky pearls rest for a single instant on the margin of her swelling breast. And utterly bewildered, instantly I forgot my self-control. And I stepped forward, saying hastily: Nay, thou dost not know the secret of its clasp. And before she could prevent me, for blind as she was, she knew not what I meditated, I put my two arms, that trembled with intoxication and timidity, and wonder at their own audacity, suddenly around her neck, and took the two ends of the necklace in my hands, and placing them together, was just about to clasp them. And at that very moment, I looked, and lo! there, at a distance in the garden, stood Trishodadhi her husband, looking at me with eyes that resembled caverns, filled with black and shining water in the form of unutterable despair.

And Trishodadhi, as he listened, groaned within himself, writhing as he sat at the reminiscence of that moment, which shot into his heart like a flame. And utterly oblivious of his muttering, he listened eagerly for the remainder of the tale.

VIII

And the elephant said: Pippala, when my eyes met his, I stood absolutely still, like a bird fascinated by the glare of a snake, altogether forgetting what it was that I was doing, and what it was that I was holding in my arms. And all at once he turned and went away, without ever looking round. And at that very instant Watsatarí, all ignorant of his presence and the cause of my behaviour, pushed me suddenly away, with such force as all but to overthrow me. And as I gazed at her like one dreaming, intent on nothing but her husband's interruption, I saw an angry flush rise like dawn upon her face, and standing like a queen, she knitted her bow-like brows in wrath, and exclaimed, in a voice that shook with indignation: Dastard, dost thou dare to take such cowardly advantage of my incapacity? Get thee gone, and approach me, if at all, at the bidding of my husband. And she took the necklace, and tearing it from her neck, still unfastened as it was, she threw it violently away, not caring where it fell. And I in my agitation, cowed by her vehemence and the apparition of her husband, instantly obeyed her. And I exclaimed: O wife of Trishodadhi, thou art mistaken and unjust, but I obey thee. And I climbed the wall, not so much as even remembering the necklace, and hastened home, saying to myself: Now, very likely, he will kill her. And if so, I myself shall miserably perish, unable to endure my life without her; and what is to be done? And I sent hastily, as soon as I arrived, for Trishodadhi, not knowing what to say to him when he should arrive. But very soon my messengers returned, saying: Maharáj, Trishodadhi is nowhere to be found. And I sent them back, with orders to bring him as soon as he could come. And all that night I waited in anxiety, sleepless, haunted by the picture of Watsatarí, and fearing for her life. Then in the morning, those messengers returned again, saying: Maharáj, Trishodadhi has disappeared; and no one can tell us anything about him, or whither he has gone.

So when I heard it, I said within myself: Now, beyond a doubt, he has hidden himself somewhere, fearing for his life. And I sent everywhere to search for him; and in the meanwhile, I went back secretly once more to that garden, and climbed upon the wall, only to find it empty, for Watsatarí was gone. And after a while I came away, sick with disappointment, only to discover that still Trishodadhi was nowhere to be found. And so for many days it continued; and every day I went in vain to look for Watsatarí in the garden, and it seemed as though Trishodadhi and she had plotted to disappear together, without leaving any trace. But after a while, finding by inquiry that the wife of Trishodadhi was looking for him, exactly like myself, I sent her a message from the King, saying: Thy husband has vanished, and much I fear, that some enemy has made away with him, leaving the affairs of my kingdom in confusion, for want of his sagacity. But know, that I am moving heaven and earth to find him, and do not be alarmed. For it may be that he is absent in pursuit of some object of his policy, of his own accord.

And then at last, parched with intolerable thirst, and unable any longer to endure separation from its cause, I went one day as usual to the garden, and mounted on the wall, and looked. And lo! there she was again, looking up towards me on the wall, and listening, exactly as she did before. And at the sight of her, my heart almost leaped out of my body with delight. And instantly, without waiting for permission, I sprang from the wall, and went towards her; and as I did so, something moved under my foot. And I looked, and it was the necklace, that had lain there where she threw it, ever since. And I left it lying, and exclaimed: O wife of Trishodadhi, as it appears, I have discovered thee at last. Listen now, without losing any time; and even as it is, I fear, lest we should be overheard by spies. And she said quietly: What is the matter? Then I said: Thou knowest that thy husband has been missing, ever since I saw thee first. And she said: I know. Then I said: Dost thou know where he is gone? And she said: No. And I said: I am here to tell thee. For no sooner had I left thee than I went to him; and I found him on the very point of setting out upon a journey. And I told him of our meeting in the garden; and he listened, and when I ended, he said quickly: This is no time for necklaces of pearls. For know, that I have just discovered, by certain information, that King Ruru, having somehow or other cast eyes upon my wife, has fallen so violently in love with her, that he cannot even sleep. And well I know what he will do, since only too often has he exhibited specimens of his behaviour, in the case of other wives than mine. And therefore, while yet time suffers, I am escaping, since if he catches me, well he knows, and I know, that he will catch Watsatarí as well. For where I am, she will be also, seeing that a good wife such as she is cannot desert her husband, even in a dream. But if, as I am now about to do, I can only place myself beyond his reach, she also will be safe. For he will not dare openly to carry her away, at least for a little while, and in the interval, I will remove her secretly myself. And now the deity has sent thee to me, in the very nick of time; and I place her in thy hands, more valuable than any necklace. Go to her quickly, for no one will suspect thee, and bring her, telling absolutely no one, for I cannot trust any of my household, who fear the king, and are, it may be, in his pay. But thou shalt help me to cheat him of his prey. And then he told me of his hiding-place, and went away; and ever since, I have sought thee in this garden, day by day, striving to discover thee, without letting any even of his household know. And now at last I find thee, and nothing more remains, but to make arrangements, how and when I shall come to thee, to carry thee away. And now, delay not, for the king's eye is on thee; and every future hour may be too late. And the very necklace may be to thee a pledge of my fidelity. For yonder it lies, exactly where it fell from thy hand, though I had only to lift it, to carry it away and make it mine.

And Trishodadhi, as he listened, ground his teeth together, and exclaimed within himself: Ah! perjured king and royal liar, well didst thou deserve to fall, not only into that body of an elephant, but something lower still.