The ravishing scent of the Mallika[3] flower.
In this love-tide of spring, when the spirit is glad,
And the parted—and none but the parted—are sad,
Thine own, thy dear Krishna, is dancing in glee;
He loves his fair partners, and thinks not of thee.”[4]
“The poetry and the meaning,” said Salim, as the singer paused, “leave nothing to be desired; but what, noble Siddha, do you think of the translation?”
“Not bad,” he answered; “the imagery and spirit are well and freely given, even if here and there the word are not exactly followed; but that, I believe, in the poetry of the present day, would be difficult if not impossible. Is not the name of the translator known?”
“It is Faizi, with whom I saw you talking this morning,” said the Prince, smiling at the confusion painted on Siddha’s cheeks at hearing these words and thinking of the rather magisterial opinion he had just expressed. “Do not be disturbed,” continued he; “Faizi will not take it ill that you do not consider his work faultless; but, on the contrary, will be grateful for any corrections. Now, Rembha, let us hear one piece more, and then for this evening we will not trouble you again.”
“This,” said the singer, “is the complaint of the forsaken Radha to her friend: