The Substance of a Dream

by F. W. Bain

And I uttered a shout of laughter, and threw my hands into the air, and fell at her feet in a swoon.

XVII

And when I had recovered, in a day or two, I came, so to say, to terms with my loss and my condition: saying to myself: After all, my father had to die, whether I came to him in time, or not: and I could not have saved his life, by my coming, no matter when I came. And so, the only thing I lost, by coming late, is my ráj. But what do I care for any ráj, which, in comparison with Táráwalí, resembles a mere pinch of dust, thrown into the other scale? Away with the miserable ráj! as if another sunset with the Queen would not be cheaply purchased at the price of all the kingdoms in the world! And I passed my days of absence in doing absolutely nothing but thinking of Táráwalí, and waiting, with a soul almost unable to endure, till the moment of return. And I sent a secret messenger to Kamalapura, saying to him: Go to the palace gate, and ask the pratihárí for a chetí called Chaturiká. And when she comes, tell her by word of mouth, so that nobody may hear thee but herself: Greetings to the Queen from Shatrunjaya, who has lost his throne on her account, and does not care. And when the obsequies are over, he will return to Kamalapura, on the night before the moon is full.

And having sent him off, I waited, while the obsequies went slowly on, with a soul that almost parted from its body with impatience for an answer to my message that might help me to keep alive, saying to myself: She cannot send Chaturiká, as she did before, since it is too far off for anything but a letter or a message, which will have to do instead. But neither a letter nor a message ever came: though in the meanwhile, my messenger returned with empty hands. And I tortured him with questions, but all he had to say was that Chaturiká had listened, and bidden him to go away. And notwithstanding my bitter disappointment, I racked my brain to find excuses for them both, saying: I am a fool. How could I expect any reply, since after all I never put a question, and silence was the only answer to be given: and beyond all doubt, she is waiting till I come? And is it likely that she would trust a message to a man she did not know? She is keeping her answer to be sent in the form of a summons on the eve of the full moon, which was the only answer I was asking for. And yet, in spite of all that I could think of to cool the fever that burned in my heart, I chafed and pined, sick with anxiety and disappointment, and longing in vain for the thing that never came. And I said sadly to myself: Well, only too well, she knew, that the very shadow of a sign of any kind, from her, would have set my heart dancing like a peacock at the first symptom of the coming of the rain. Or can it be, after all, that she really did send an answer, which has somehow or other lost its way? Aye! no doubt, it must be so, for she is kind, and could not bear to think of the misery she knew I must be suffering every moment that I am not by her side.

And so, perforce, I waited, gnawing at my own heart, until at last the funeral ceremonies were over. And instantly, I took leave of my mother, and turned my back on my relations, and set off at a gallop for Kamalapura, with my heart singing for delight, like an arrow from a bow.

XVIII

And I reached it, exactly as I said, on the eve of the full moon. And I said to myself, with exultation: Ha! to-morrow night, it will be full, and red, and round, exactly as it was a month ago, and shining as it did before, upon the boat, and Táráwalí, and me. And at the thought, I laughed aloud, for sheer joy, and came to my own door, and went in. And lo! the very first thing that I saw, when I entered, was my lute, lying on the floor with a broken string, and looking at me, as it were, with reproach. For a ray of moonlight fell exactly on it as it lay, as though to say: See! the moonlight falls not alone on happy lovers, but on those that are deserted! And my heart smote me, as I looked at it, and I exclaimed: Alas! my old love, thou art indeed discarded for another; for I have not given thee a single thought, ever since I saw her first. Bitter indeed must be the sorrow of one that is cast, like thyself, aside! And then, I threw myself upon my bed, forgetting instantly my lute and every other thing in the delight of the anticipation of the coming day. And I slept all night, floating as it were on a dark wave of the ocean of sweet expectation, and smiling so to say in my sleep.

And when morning came, I arose, and went to and fro, singing aloud for joy, and saying to myself: Now the moment of reunion approaches, and the miserable fever of separation is nearing its end, for the sun has arisen and is rushing to his home in the western mountain, and his race, and my desolation, will finish exactly together. And now, Chaturiká is on her way, and will soon be here, looking like the dawn of my delight in a delicious feminine form. And she will look at me with her laughing eyes, and murmur, Sunset, exactly as before: and exactly as before, I shall kiss her, and send her back to the Queen. And so I waited eagerly, on the very tiptoe of expectation, with my eyes fixed upon the door. But day slowly travelled on, and yet she never came. And little by little, my delight slowly turned into perplexity, and anxiety, till at last, as hour succeeded hour, each longer than a yuga, my heart began to sink, lower and lower still, and I became actually sick with the agony of my disappointment. For the sun was indeed rushing down into the night, and yet she never came. And time after time, I went to the door, and opened it, and looked out, but no Chaturiká was there, and nothing was to be seen but the people in the street.

And when at last night actually fell, and found me still waiting, I could endure no longer, but I threw myself upon my bed, and lay in a stupor in the dark, abandoning all hope, and on the very verge of crying like a child. And I said to myself: Is she ill, or is she dead, or has she gone away, or what on earth can be the matter? Or can it be, after all, that my messenger played me false, and never went? For if she really got my message, long ago she would surely have sent Chaturiká to summon me, knowing that it was impossible for me to come of my own accord, and that I should be sitting waiting with my heart on fire for her summons to arrive. And so I lay, tossing all night long sleepless on my bed, and cursing the moon, which poured as if to mock me a silver flood of light upon the floor, seeming to say: Think what a night it must be in the garden! until in an agony of reminiscence and humiliation, I turned my back to it, and lay with my face to the wall. And when at last day returned, I arose and sat, in deep dejection, worn out, and at my wits' very end, never even daring to look towards the door, which remained obstinately shut. And all day long I sat still in a kind of dream, neither eating nor drinking, and hopelessly waiting still. And at last once more the sun went down, after a day that was longer than a year, leaving me lying in the dark.

And I know not how I got through the night, which I shudder even to remember; but when morning came, I was within a very little of being mad. And burning with fever, hot and cold by turns, for sheer impotence I got up and went out, and wandered up and down the streets, till at last for weariness I was obliged to return, though the thought of my deserted house was almost more horrible than death. And all at once, I looked up, and lo! there was Chaturiká herself, coming towards me in the street.