Chapter Seven

In that quarter of the fort where the river Amodar, washing the foot of the ramparts, flows on with a murmuring sound, Tilottama sat at the casement of a chamber gazing upon the eddying water below. The hour of evening was come; the pale rays of the sun, now sinking towards the western hills, gilded certain clouds that floated in the sky, while the reflection of the blue vault trembled and wavered in the current of the stream; the tall buildings and stately trees upon the farther bank stood like a picture against the clear canvas of the heavens; within the fort, peacocks and cranes and other melodious birds called out in cheerful voices; elsewhere, birds that sought their nests at nightfall glided silently beneath the blue sky; a cool summer wind, chilled by the touch of the Amodar, stirred by the mango-groves, fluttered the loose curls upon Tilottama's brow and the graceful raiment upon her shoulders.

Tilottama is beautiful. Reader! Hast thou ever, in the years of youth, looked with the eyes of love upon some gentle, composed, tender-natured girl in the first bloom of her dawning loveliness? One whom thou didst behold but once, yet whose sweetness thou couldst not forget through all the length of thy days — whose enchanting form has visited the pathways of memory again and again, like a dream, in youth, in manhood, in riper age, in toil and in repose, in waking and in sleep, yet concerning whom no taint of base desire has ever stirred within thy breast? If thou hast beheld such a one, then only canst thou truly feel in thy own heart what Tilottama's face was like. Such is the form that fills the mind with brightness by the abundance of its beauty; such is the form that satisfies the heart by its tenderness and sweetness; such is the form that lingers in memory like a vine of spring, trembling in the evening breeze.

Tilottama was sixteen years of age, and therefore her figure had not yet attained the full development of a woman in later youth. In form and feature there lingered still a trace of the child. Her brow was well-shaped and softly rounded — not narrow, yet not over-broad — with an expression of serene calm, as a moonlit river at midnight. On either side of it, locks of deep dark curling hair fell upon brow and cheek and temple and shoulder and breast; the mass of dark tresses at the back of her head was bound up in a well-ordered string of pearls. Beneath the brow the two arches were finely curved, of deep colour, as if drawn by a painter's hand, yet a little too slender in their line — they lacked but the breadth of a thread to be without a flaw. Dost thou love, reader, a restless and roving eye? Then Tilottama will not content thee. Tilottama's eyes were very calm; from them no flashing sidelong glance was cast like the leaping of lightning. The eyes were very wide and well-formed, of a quiet radiance. And their colour — such as the tender blue of the sky a little before sunrise at the setting of the moon — in that wide clear gaze, when Tilottama looked full upon a thing, there was not the least shadow of guile; she knew not how to look from the corner of the eye, to cast a half-glance slantwise; in her gaze was only openness and directness — the directness of the look and the directness of the heart alike. Yet if any one gazed at her, those two soft lids would at once fall; and Tilottama would then look nowhere but upon the ground. Her lips were like a rose, trembling with moisture; small and gently curved, a little full, a little smiling; whosoever might once behold a smile upon those lips — be he a devotee, a sage, a youth, or an old man — he could never thereafter forget it. Yet in that smile there was nothing save simplicity and the ways of a child.

Tilottama's form, though well-shaped, was not yet fully grown; whether by reason of her youth or of the natural constitution of her body, this lovely frame possessed delicacy but not fulness. Yet throughout the slender figure every line was rounded and graceful. Upon the rounded wrist, a jewelled bracelet; upon the rounded arm, a diamond-set armlet; upon the rounded fingers, rings; upon the rounded hip, a girdle; upon the well-formed shoulder, a golden chain; upon the well-formed throat, a jewelled necklace — everywhere the shape was beautiful.

What was Tilottama doing, sitting alone at the casement? Gazing upon the beauty of the evening sky? Then why were her eyes bent upon the ground? Enjoying the breeze that blew flower-laden from the river-bank? Then why did little drops of sweat form upon her brow, and the wind not reach one side of her face? Watching the cattle come home? That too was not it, for the kine had one by one come homeward already. Listening to the call of the cuckoo? Then why was her face so sad? Tilottama was seeing nothing, hearing nothing — she was thinking.

A maidservant brought in a lighted lamp. Tilottama set aside her thoughts and, taking up a book, sat down near the lamp. Tilottama could read; she had learnt Sanskrit from Abhiram Swami. The book was the Kadambari. She read for a little while, then set aside the Kadambari with an air of dissatisfaction. She fetched another book — the Vasavadatta of Subandhu; she read for a moment, then fell to musing; she read once more, then wandered again in thought; the Vasavadatta too gave her no pleasure. She laid it by and took up the Gitagovinda; for a little while the Gitagovinda pleased her; reading on, she laughed a faint and bashful laugh and flung the book down. Then she sat idle upon the bed. Near her lay a pen and an inkpot; absently she took them up and began to write upon the wood of the bedstead — here a "ka", there a "sa", there an "ma", a room, a door, a tree, a person, and so on; little by little one side of the bed was covered over with ink-marks; when there was no space remaining, she came to herself. She glanced at her own handiwork with a faint smile; then, still smiling, she began to read over what she had written. What had she written? "Vasavadatta," "Mahashweta," "ka," "i," "i," "pa," a tree, a shrine of Shiva, "Gitagovinda," "Bimala," a creeper, a leaf, a tangle of lines, and — O heavens, what else had she written?

"Prince Jagatsingh."

Shame flooded Tilottama's face with red. Foolish girl! Who is there in the room that thou shouldst blush?

"Prince Jagatsingh." Tilottama read it twice, thrice, again and again; she would glance at the door and read; glance once more and read, like a thief at her theft.

She dared not read it much longer — someone might come and see. In great haste she fetched water and washed away the writing; having washed it, she was not satisfied; she rubbed it well with the cloth; she read it over again — not the least trace of ink remained; yet it seemed to her as though it could still be read; she fetched water again and washed, and rubbed once more with the cloth, yet still it seemed as though the writing were there —

("Prince Jagatsingh.")