In the meantime the prince had become acquainted with many of the inhabitants, who generally undertook to escort him through the city. In one of his walks he came upon a party of naked creatures, on whom every mark of poverty was visible. He observed that these men, although in the garb of beggars, had still some tokens of nobility in their features, and inquired: “What may be the cause of this?” His friends answered that some of those individuals were actually princes, and some the sons of nobles, but they were all the victims of love.[197] “The Rájá Chitrasan has a daughter named Chitrawat,[198] who is as bright as the moon—nay, more, she is a star in the heaven of loveliness. Amongst women she is perfectly unrivalled. Grace is visible in her steps and magic in her eyes.[199] Thousands die before her arching eyebrows, and hundreds of thousands are entrapped in her raven tresses: those tresses that are darker than night—nay, darker than the fate of her lovers. Her eyes teem with nectar and poison. In one moment they can kill, in another, restore to life. In her love there is nothing but suffering, sorrow, and loss of reputation.[200] In brief, she is really a fairy, whose charms enslave both infidels and Muslims. But what is worse, she has two companions whose beauty has also wrecked the peace of many. One is the daughter of a betel-seller[201] and is called Nirmalá;[202] the other is the child of a gardener and is called Chapalá.[203] All three are sincerely attached to each other. Sitting or rising, in all concerns of life, they are inseparable companions. Moreover, each is at liberty to choose her own husband. But hitherto none has proved so fortunate as to be honoured with the favour of either of those beauties.”
Some time after this the prince found himself under the balcony of the Princess Chitrawat, and beheld thousands gazing longingly on her bright features, even as the bulbul regards the blushing beauties of the rose. Like maniacs, they were blubbering amongst themselves, while she, the proud beauty, sat on her balcony exulting at the view of their sufferings. It was at this moment that Táj ul-Mulúk appeared. Their eyes met. The shaft of love passed at once through her heart. She was wounded. Her patience was lost, and sense forsook her for the time. Down she fell, and her attendants ran and lifted her up. They sprinkled rose-water on her face, put a scent-bottle to her nostrils, and she presently revived. She was, however, still motionless and speechless, and although several inquired the cause of her indisposition, she returned not a word in answer, but continued gazing steadfastly in the same direction. Then it was that Nirmalá looked down from the window and discovered the prince; and after hearing all the circumstances of the case from Chitrawat, comforted her friend thus: “O princess, your sufferings distract me, and make me lose my equanimity. Why are you anxious? Your father has already made you mistress of your own hand, and it depends upon your choice to marry any one you may love. Be comforted: the youth on the black charger shall be thine, though he should be even an angel. Depend on me; I will entrap him in such a way that escape will be altogether impossible.” She then deputed a female go-between to undertake the work.
Boldly did this woman come forward, and seizing the reins of the prince’s horse, “Knowest thou,” she asked him, “that the poor are sacrificed and lovers impaled here? The fair lady of this palace can bind the hearts of all in her glossy tresses, and at one glance cast them dead upon the earth. Whence is thy boldness, that thou castest thy glance on the mansions of kings? Art thou a spark able to melt the hearts of the fair ones, and to dissolve their stony nature? Whence art thou? What country dost thou inhabit? Where is thy native land? And what is thy family?” Táj ul-Mulúk at once divined that she was sent by some one, and answered: “Silence! Do not re-open my wounds. My native land is brighter than the sun, and the name of it is known to emperors. Tell the person who has deputed you, not to cast a glance on such a distressed traveller as myself, nor harbour any thoughts in her heart that may have the slightest reference to love:
Go to him who will approve thee;
Love him only who can love thee.”
The artful go-between then ascertained that he was a prince of the East, that his name was Táj ul-Mulúk, and that his connections were high. These particulars she communicated to Chitrawat.
After this the prince frequently passed along the same road, so that he might have an opportunity of looking up at the balcony. Even as the moon wanes from her fourteenth night, so did the health and spirits of the princess, who pined inwardly for him. She tried long to keep the secret to herself, but her attempt was in vain. In a few days even her parents came to know of her sufferings. Her father, the king, employed an accomplished dame to repair to Táj ul-Mulúk, and try all her arts to bring about a marriage between him and his daughter; at all events, to endeavour by every means to gain his heart. The woman faithfully performed her mission and dwelt long on commendations of the charms of the princess. Táj ul-Mulúk returned his respects to the king, and said that he was a wanderer from his country, that he had exchanged the robes of royalty for the troubles of travelling, and that he had alienated himself from relations and friends; therefore, to propose an alliance with him was like tracing figures on water and tying the wind in a napkin.
When this message was delivered to the rájá it made him sadly thoughtful, and drove him to ask counsel of his minister, who assured him that it was not a difficult matter for the king to bring a houseless stranger into subjection. He even offered to undertake such measures as should ultimately entrap him; and his plan was to bring a charge of theft against the prince. Now it so happened that the pecuniary resources of Táj ul-Mulúk were altogether exhausted, and, as he was purposing applying to Bakáwalí, he recollected the jewel which he had taken from the serpent and concealed in his thigh.[204] He sent for a surgeon and had the jewel taken out, afterwards curing the wound by means of his wonderful ointment. When he had fully recovered, he took the gem to the bazár; but every jeweller was struck with surprise, and declared himself unable to pay the price. They informed the vazír that a stranger had come into the city, wishing to dispose of a jewel which none but the king could purchase. The minister on hearing this caused the stranger to be arrested and brought before him, and knowing him to be the prince with whom Chitrawat was in love, he lost no time in bringing a charge of robbery against him and committing him to prison. He then told the king that the bird that had flown away from the cage was ensnared again, and would doubtless comply with the wishes of the sovereign.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE PRINCE IS MARRIED TO CHITRAWAT, BUT, VISITING BAKÁWALÍ EVERY NIGHT, HIS NEW BRIDE COMPLAINS TO HER FATHER OF HIS INDIFFERENCE, AND THE RÁJÁ SENDS SPIES TO DOG HIS STEPS—THE TEMPLE IS DISCOVERED AND RAZED TO THE GROUND, AND THE PRINCE IS IN DESPAIR.