The Memoirs of a White Elephant

CHAPTER XVIII

RETRIBUTION

The sun had set; Parvati was returning slowly to the shore and preparing to resume her silken robe, when she uttered a piercing shriek, and covered her face with her hands – trembling in every limb. I followed the direction of her glance, and a shudder seized me also, when I perceived, coiled in the tall grass, a serpent of the most venomous species, which had fixed its gaze on Parvati, prepared to spring as soon as she should place foot upon the bank.

Oh! how was I now punished for my wrong-doing! The pain which pierced my heart at seeing Parvati in danger led me to realize how Saphire-of-Heaven and Alemguir must have suffered at not seeing their beloved daughter return at the accustomed hour.

Had I then sunk to the level of a selfish brute – a being without reflection – a mere elephant? having had the shameful idea of stealing the Princess away from her family and her Court… Now she was perhaps lost forever – and I with her; for I was resolved not to survive her if she perished from the venom of this frightful reptile.

These distracting thoughts rushed with terrible rapidity through my head, and almost deprived me of my presence of mind. Fortunately, it returned to me. I uttered a sudden roar, and at the same time leaped towards the serpent, who, surprised and alarmed, quickly unwound its coils, and hid itself in the leaves.

It now turned towards me – spitting and hissing – and this was what I desired, to distract its attention from the Princess. She now left the water, and climbed once more onto the bank; she was safe. But, clasping her hands, she called to me, imploring me to be careful of the bite of the fearful creature, and urging me to escape with her rather than to risk a battle.

I could not answer and tell her that my thick leathery skin had nothing to fear from the bite of the serpent, except around the eyes or lips, and I was far too angry at the fright it had caused me to refrain from taking summary vengeance.

The enemy did not move; it fixed the shining gaze of its lidless eyes upon me, and darted its forked tongue in and out, like a black flame; then it coiled again, in readiness to spring.

The upper portion of its body was now half hidden under the leaves, the middle was wound around a tree, but the creature was so long that a part still trailed on the ground. I put my foot on that portion, and bore down upon it with all my weight.

Then the snake quickly stretched itself to its full length, whipping the leaves and the branches of the tree with furious hissings. It was struggling to escape, and not succeeding, it came at me again with such a lightning-like spring that I was unable to avoid it. It twined itself around my legs, and around my neck, biting furiously with wide-opened jaws, but only breaking its fangs on my tough hide. The danger for me was of an altogether different kind. With gigantic strength it tightened more and more its clasp about my limbs, and what was more serious, twisted itself around my throat in a way that threatened to stop my breath.

It was impossible to reach it with my tusks – it was too close – and I was in a truly pitiable situation.

What, alas! would become of Parvati, left alone in the wood, if I should be strangled by this monster?

And closer, and still closer, the living rope tightened about me… I could no longer move in spite of my efforts, and the blood roared in my ears under the increasing and suffocating pressure… I threw myself desperately on the ground, rolling madly over and over, seeking to crush my enemy beneath my weight. I rubbed and ground it on the rough earth and the thorny bushes. The battle was long. But at last I felt the cold slimy coils soften, relax, and finally let go their grasp.

I rose, panting.

The serpent lay full length on the ground, still squirming a little, and looking like a river of blood and ink.

I fell to work, and stamped on it, and tore it to ribbons with my tusks – till it was completely destroyed.

When my rage was thoroughly appeased I turned, proud and pleased, to seek Parvati. Ah! how bitterly did I now repent of the crime I had committed in carrying her off!..

My Princess lay on the ground, pale and motionless – and to all appearance dead.

CHAPTER XIX

THE HERMIT

The night had fallen rapidly; it was very dark under the thick branches of the trees, which even at midday cast a dense shadow.

What was to be done? How was I to obtain succour for the Princess, whom I could now barely see, as she lay motionless on the ground?

I raised the upper part of her body very gently with my trunk, and swayed her softly back and forth, and fanned her with my ears – but she did not stir. The thought that she might be dead so horrified me that, without waiting to take breath, I poured forth groans and screams so piercing that they were mistaken for those of a human being – and it was this that finally extricated us from our misfortunes.

All at once I saw, far off under the leaves, a little red light that seemed to be advancing. It surely was a lantern, and that meant that here, in the wilderness, there was a human being. I redoubled my cries of distress, and the light approached more rapidly. It was turned in our direction, and I could not see the person who was carrying it.

At some distance it stopped, and a feeble, and somewhat tremulous voice called:

"Who is it that is moaning? Who is it that disturbs the quiet of the forest by these cries? Can it be this elephant? How happens it that his cries are like those of a man?"

I lifted the Princess on my tusks and laid her in the rays of the lantern.

"Oh, the poor child!" exclaimed the Voice, and an old man came forward and placed his brown and withered hand over the heart of Parvati.

"She has swooned," said he. "Come, follow me. We must lose no time; do you not see that a storm is impending? We must not remain an instant longer under the trees."

He began to walk rapidly on, holding the lantern in a way to light the path, on which I followed, carefully carrying the unconscious Princess.

We soon reached a great clearing, in the centre of which, leaning against a rock, was a little hut built of wooden planks.

"Here we are, this is my dwelling," said the man; "I am only a poor hermit, who has retired in disgust from the world, in order to live and meditate in solitude. I am denuded of all; I possess nothing. But the forest provides me with plants which nourish me. Some of them have wonderful virtues, which I trust will enable me to restore to life this lovely young girl."

The hut was so small that I could only thrust my head inside. I placed Parvati on the Hermit's bed of leaves, and he hung up the lantern. He then crushed between his hands an herb that had a pungent odour, which he caused the Princess to inhale, while he rubbed her temples and her wrists. To my great joy Parvati revived; she passed her hands across her eyes, and then, seeing me, she smiled.

"Oh! my dear Iravata," exclaimed she: "the terrible serpent did not strangle you! I was so terrified I thought I was dying!"

She then related to the Hermit all that had befallen us, and what a friend I had always been to her. He in his turn told how he had heard my cries and hastened to our assistance.

He was able to offer the Princess some delicate fruits, which she accepted gladly, as she had eaten nothing all day.

"Oh, Holy Man," said she, "is it possible that you live all alone in the depths of this forest? How sad and lonely you must find it!"

"No, child," replied he: "those who live in company with their own thoughts are never lonely. Instead of looking only at the life that is now passing, or has passed away – as you do – I look forward to the mystery of the hereafter, to what is to be after death. And I find this enough to occupy every minute of the day and the night!"

"Oh, Holy Man," said she: "why do you despise life? To me it seems sweet and full of joy, and my heart sinks at the thought that it cannot last forever!"…

A vivid flash of lightning startled the Princess, who shrieked, and hid her face in her hands.

I pushed my head further into the door of the hut so as to close the opening and shut out the glare.

"Poor little thing!" said the Hermit. "Here I am talking about death and oblivion to this lovely flower that blooms and delights all around her!"

He gently removed the hands which she still held clenched before her eyes:

"Fear nothing," said he. "We are safe and sheltered here from the violence of the storm." Then, in order to reassure her, and to distract her attention, he added:

"If you like, I will tell you a Story, and it will show you why I no longer care for a world where good fortune often attends a thief or a liar, and brings them to honour."

"Oh, yes!" said Parvati. "By all means tell me this Story!"

"Listen, then," said the Hermit.

"Once upon a time there was a humble Brahman named Harisarman. He was very poor and ignorant, and possessed a numerous family. After being compelled for a long time to make his living by begging, he and his family were received into the household of a rich man named Sthuladatta. The children of Harisarman were employed to drive the cows, herd the sheep, and tend the poultry; his wife worked in the house, and he, himself, was attached to the service of the Master.

"One day Sthuladatta gave an entertainment to celebrate the marriage of his daughter, but he omitted to invite Harisarman to the festival.

"'Behold!' said Harisarman to his wife: 'I am despised because of my poverty and ignorance. But I shall pretend to be a learned man, in order that Sthuladatta will have respect for me hereafter; and when an opportunity occurs you must say that I am an accomplished Soothsayer.'

"Then he took the Bridegroom's horse out of the stable, and went to a distant part of the forest, and hid it.

"When the feast was over, and the Bridegroom prepared to return home with his young Bride, his horse was nowhere to be found. The forest was searched, the thickets ransacked; the guests all dispersed in different directions to assist in finding the animal – but no trace of him could be discovered.

"Then the wife of Harisarman came forward, and said:

"'My husband could have found the horse very easily; he is a learned Soothsayer, and understands the language of the stars. Why do you not inquire of him?'

Sthuladatta sent for Harisarman, and said:

"'Canst thou tell me where to look for the lost horse?'

"Harisarman replied:

"'Master, thou hast bidden a host of guests to be present at the marriage of thy daughter; but thou didst not deign to invite me because I am poor. Behold I among all those whom thou hast honoured not one can tell thee where to look for thy son-in-law's horse, and thou art obliged to have recourse to me, whom thou hast treated with contempt! Nevertheless, I am not revengeful; and thanks to my learning, I will be able to inform thee where thou wilt find the horse whom thou seekest.'

"He then drew cabalistic signs, and magic circles, and ended by telling the place where he had hidden the horse.

"From this moment he was held in great esteem in the household of Sthuladatta.

"Not long afterwards a robbery was committed in the Palace of the King; jewels and gems were stolen, and gold carried away.

"The King, having heard of Harisarman, ordered him brought to the Palace, and said to him:

"'I have heard of thy powers of divination; canst thou reveal to me the names of the wretches who have dared to enter my palace, and steal my treasures?'

"Harisarman was very much confused. He bowed low before the King and replied thus:

"'Great King, All-powerful Master, thou hast taken me somewhat unawares. But thanks to my great learning, no secret is hidden from my discerning eyes; I discover that which is invisible, and bring to light what others would desire concealed forever. Give me only till to-morrow, in order that I may place myself under the influence of the Stars."

"The King had him conducted to a chamber in the Palace, with orders that he was to be permitted to pass the night alone.

"Now, the theft had been committed by a Maidservant of the Palace named Dschiva (the Tongue) and by her brother.

"Full of uneasiness, and fearing that the supposed Soothsayer would denounce her to the King, Dschiva crept on tiptoe to the chamber occupied by Harisarman, in the hope of overhearing something he might say. The false Soothsayer was as much frightened as she, and uttered loud imprecations on his tongue (dschiva) which had brought such trouble upon him.

"He cried out:

"Oh, dschiva! (tongue) what have you done through your stupid covetousness!"

"Dschiva imagined that these words were addressed to her; she entered the chamber and threw herself at the feet of Harisarman, confessed to him that she had stolen the jewels, implored him not to betray her, promising if he would be silent to bestow on him all the gold which had been taken, and to inform him where she had hidden the jewels.

"The next day Harisarman led the King to where the jewels were concealed, but the gold he kept for himself, and said to the King:

"'Sire, the thieves in escaping carried with them the gold.'

"The King, well-pleased to have recovered his jewels, would have recompensed Harisarman, but was withheld by one of his Councillors, who said:

"'All this does not look natural to me, oh, King. How can such learning be possessed by one who has never studied the holy texts? This affair has doubtless been arranged by Harisarman and the robbers. In order to convince me this pretended Soothsayer would have to be put to the test!'

"The King consulted for a few minutes with his Councillor, who then went out, and soon returned with a new earthen pot, which was covered by a lid, under which he had placed a live frog.

"The King, addressing Harisarman, said:

"'If thou canst tell me what this vessel contains all honours shall be paid to thee, if not, thou shalt be put to death for having dared to deceive me!'

"Harisarman now gave himself up for lost. Memories, as vivid as lightning-flashes, passed through his mind. He remembered his happy childhood, and his kind father, and how the latter had a pet-name for him, and often would call him "little Frog!" and, not thinking of what he was saying, but speaking to himself (with sufficient distinctness, however, to be heard), he exclaimed:

"'Alas! alas!.. this pot has caught thee, little Frog! Once thou wert free and happy, but now, how wilt thou escape?'

"All those who stood by and heard him supposed that his words were addressed to the frog in the basin.

"The test seemed conclusive.

"From that day the King honoured Harisarman, loaded him with benefits, and made him a Prince…

"This," said the Hermit, "is a story that shows how there is no justice in the world, and that we should be glad to leave it and seek a better one – even at the price of one's existence!"

"Oh, Holy Man," said Parvati, "the history of Harisarman is not finished; and who knows what may have happened to him afterwards? Perhaps he may have experienced a punishment all the more severe from having been delayed. And then he must have suffered from knowing himself to be other than he seemed! from knowing himself to be a liar and a thief, while he was saluted as a scholar and an honest man… It seems to me that in this world we are always punished for our faults. Behold, what has happened to us to-day! Iravata, the wisest of elephants, for the first time acted without his usual prudence; he went too far into the forest, and I, instead of restraining him, was delighted with the adventure, and encouraged Him to go still further. We have both come near to losing our lives; then the storm overwhelmed us, and here we are, at the dead hour of the night, in the midst of this forest, fearfully far from the palace of Golconda – where, no doubt, my dear parents, distracted with anxiety, are lamenting the absence of their disobedient daughter!"

In saying this Parvati's beautiful eyes were full of tears, and as I listened I bent my head in shame, and wept, too.

"Do not despair," said the Hermit, who was looking closely at me; "the dangers you have encountered may perhaps have saved you from still greater perils. This Elephant, who has acquired the moral intelligence of humanity, knows very well to what I allude, and he alone is to blame".

I trembled in all my members under the searching look he cast upon me, and understanding full well the meaning of his accusing words, my head sank lower and lower.

"Let this Elephant take warning," said he: "in approaching mankind through his sentiments and intelligence, he may also become liable to the errors of mankind. I foresee his future. I foresee that he will be unhappy, and that he will be the maker of his own misfortunes, through a sentiment far too human!"…

A long silence followed these prophetic words. Parvati was deeply moved, and as for me, I dared not raise my head.

I withdrew from the doorway which I had obstructed. And now a lovely moonlight, soft and bright, the colour of emeralds and turquoises, shone into the hut. The storm was over. The full moon had risen and beamed in the sky, where a few clouds still floated. The trees and the flowers, refreshed by the rain, filled the air with fragrance.

"Go now, my friends," said the Hermit; "the storm has been of service to you. Those who are waiting for you are not as anxious as they would otherwise have been; believing in the wisdom of the Elephant, in whom they have entire confidence, they will suppose that he sought shelter from the storm, and that it alone has caused your delay. Go, then, the moon shines as bright as day. May the King and Queen of Golconda never learn the truth!"…

CHAPTER XX

DESPAIR

Thanks to the English who had interposed and had stopped the War, a Treaty of Peace had been signed between the Maharajah of Mysore and my master, the King of Golconda.

But, under an appearance of friendship, there still brooded a bitter enmity; and as a renewal of hostilities would have been the ruin of my master, who was less powerful than his enemy, a method was sought to confirm and strengthen the Treaty.

The plan decided upon was terrible – terrible for me– and brought about the catastrophe which the Hermit had foretold; and as he had predicted, I was the maker of my own misfortunes…

Parvati all at once began to act strangely. A preoccupation which she did not impart to me absorbed her constantly, and I was unable to decide whether she was happy, or sad. For hours at a time she would sit motionless, leaning back, gazing straight before her, her little hands clenched on the arms of her rattan chair.

I thought I could perceive that she was restless and impatient – as if expecting something; but she, who usually confided to me every thought, now was silent and reserved.

One day I saw her in the great Avenue of Tamarind Trees looking attentively at something which she held in the palm of her hand; she would lift it and bring it near – then hold it off at a distance, looking at it with half-closed eyes. She ended by letting her arms fall at her side, and bowing her head.

I drew near and saw that her eyes were full of tears. At this I uttered a little plaintive cry, and knelt before her, trying to make her understand how it pained me to be ignorant of that which was grieving her.

She understood me, and patting me gently with her hand, she made me rise.

"I am going to tell thee everything to-day, Iravata," said she. "If I have been silent till now it was because I dreaded to announce things that might never come to pass; to speak of them seemed only to make them more real, and to bring them nearer. I had hoped that all would fade away, like the clouds which sometimes gather in the sky, and seem to threaten a tempest, but which yet disappear without bringing a storm. But now all is settled."

I trembled with anxiety on hearing her speak so sadly; she had seated herself on a bench of carved wood lacquered in red and gold, and she now continued, looking at the thing she held hidden in her hand:

"I am a Princess," said she. "Till lately I had supposed that this meant only that I was more powerful, more free, as well as richer than other mortals. I have learned that this is not all. There are duties which we owe to the people of whom we are the rulers, and our duty sometimes is to sacrifice our happiness to their welfare."

(The "happiness of the people!" – "sacrifice herself!" what was I about to hear?)

All at once she opened her hand and showed me a little picture set round with gold and diamonds:

"See this," said she, "it is a Prince – look well at it… See this large, heavy face, this dark complexion, almost black under the white turban; see that thick mouth, and that bristling moustache, those long half-shut eyes, with such a sneering expression! It is not what one would imagine the face of a young Prince to be – and yet," added she, "it is no doubt flattered!"

She raised the picture to the level of my right eye, and I shut the other in order to see better.

So far as an elephant can judge of a likeness, and above all after the description she had given, it seemed to me the face of a terrible being – an enemy; and I hardly glanced at the picture when I was seized with a hatred of the person it represented, although I did not yet know how much reason I had to detest him.

"This Prince is named Baladji-Rao," said Parvati. "He is the Son of the Maharajah of Mysore, who at the time of my birth was making an unjust war upon my father, and who would have put him to a shameful death, had you not rescued him, my Iravata. Well! behold how strange is the fate of princes! This Baladji, whose father strove to make me an orphan – is to be my husband – they are about to marry me to him, in order to cement more strongly the Treaty which has been signed, and preserve the peace of the two Kingdoms."

Marry her!

"The Prince has never seen me, and I am not acquainted with him; how can there be anything like friendship between us? But it is not, alas! a question of friendship – but of politics. I must sacrifice myself to the good of the State. To lament would be unworthy of my noble birth, and to appear sad would only distress my parents, who are delighted with the alliance."

I was thunderstruck. For a few moments I remained mute; but I could not control myself and very soon began to stamp and utter screams of distress.

"No… No! Iravata," cried she: "do not do so; thy cries seem only to echo my own despair – and I am not willing to give it expression! I smother my grief in my heart, and force back my tears. I am resolved to be a truly Royal maiden, worthy of the long line of ancestors which form in history a brilliant chain, of which I am the last link. But they shall not separate thee from me… That I will never allow!"

Not separate her from me when she was already so little with me! Ah! why could she not have remained a child, over whom I was permitted to watch?.. To be together then was a pleasure for her, as much as for me! While now she was full of thoughts in which I had no part – taken up with amusements in which I counted for nothing. When she was married she would have a Court of her own, and a whole Palace to organize and direct – and what would become of me?

I was ashamed at thinking only of myself, and forgetting her sorrows; but a new feeling which I could not control had been aroused and was raging in me – a fury, and a savage hatred for the stranger who was going to take my Princess away from me.

She forbade me to express my anguish, and it choked me. I had not, myself, any "royal" soul; I owed nothing to my "ancestors." I was only a beast of the forest, taught by my association with men to think, and to suffer; when I suffered I had to cry out; and since my Princess would not permit me to do so in her presence – I rushed away, and went, like a wounded animal, to lie and grieve on my bed in the stable!

CHAPTER XXI

JEALOUSY

He appeared one day at the Palace of Golconda – the enemy – the fiancé – whom I had already learned to detest.