Chapter Eleven

At the Wayfarer's Inn

Were this woman of flawless beauty, I should have said, "Reader, sir! She is as fair as your good wife. And fair reader! She is as comely as your own reflection in the looking-glass." Therewith the description of her beauty would have been brought to its perfection. Unhappily, she is not beautiful in every limb. So I must desist.

The reason for declaring that she is not flawlessly beautiful is this: firstly, her stature is somewhat taller than the middling; secondly, her lips are a trifle compressed; thirdly, in truth she is not fair of complexion.

The body is indeed a little tall, but her hands, feet, bosom, and every limb are well rounded and full. As in the rainy season a flowering creeper sways under the abundance of its own foliage, so did her form sway with its own fulness; thus her slightly tall stature, by reason of that fulness, became the cause of yet greater grace. Among those whom we truly call fair-skinned, some are of a complexion like the moonlight of the full moon, and others like the faintly reddened dawn. Her complexion partakes of neither; therefore I did not call her truly fair, yet in the power to enchant her colour is in no way less. She is dark of hue. It is not the darkness of which the Mother Shyama or Shyamasundar are the type. It is the dark lustre of heated gold. If the streaks of the full moon, or the dawn crowned with golden clouds, be the image of the fair, then the splendour of the new mango-leaves born of spring may be likened to this dark beauty's hue. Many a reader may set up the fair complexion above all others; but if any be enchanted by the spell of such a dusky one, I cannot call him void of all judgement of colour. Should this offend any, let him but call to mind those bright dusky locks that hang upon her forehead, like a swarm of bees clinging to the new mango-leaves; let him think of the pair of brows brushing those tresses beneath a brow shaped like the crescent moon of the seventh day; let him think of those cheeks bright as the ripened mango; and the small, deeply crimson lips between them: he will then perceive this unknown woman to be foremost among the fair. Her two eyes were not over-large, but were edged with finely curved lashes, and were exceedingly bright. Their glance was steady, yet piercing to the very soul. When her gaze fell upon thee, thou wouldst at once feel that this woman saw even into thy mind. As one watched, the expression of that soul-piercing gaze would shift; the eyes would melt in a soft, tender flood of feeling. Again, at times there was in them only the languor of pleasant ease, as though those eyes were the dream-couch of the god of love. At other times they were dilated with desire, swimming in the wine of passion. And at yet other moments, in the rolling corner of the eye, there flashed a cruel side-glance, like the lightning amid clouds. In the splendour of her countenance there were two qualities beyond all telling: first, the all-pervading power of her wit; second, her self-possessed pride. By reason of these, when she stood with her swan-like neck slightly bent, one knew at once that she was a queen among women.

The fair one's age was some seven-and-twenty years — a river brimming full in the month of Bhadra. Like the waters of a river in Bhadra, her beauty trembled and overflowed its banks. More than her colour, more than her eyes, more than all, that brimming-over of beauty was what enchanted. In the fulness of her youth her whole body was forever ever-so-faintly astir, as a river of autumn stirs without any wind; and that restlessness was the cause of new and ever new splendours unfolding moment by moment. Nabakumar gazed upon those ever-new beauties without so much as a blink.

Seeing Nabakumar's eyes thus unblinking, the fair one said, "What are you gazing upon, sir — my beauty?"

Nabakumar was a gentleman; abashed, he cast down his eyes. Seeing Nabakumar make no answer, the stranger again laughed and said,

"Have you never seen a woman before, or do you reckon me to be very beautiful?"

Said simply, the words would have seemed a rebuke; but spoken as the lady did, with laughter, they appeared nothing other than raillery. Nabakumar saw that she was a most forward-tongued woman, and why should he not answer a forward-tongued woman? He replied,

"I have seen women; but never one so beautiful."

The lady asked proudly, "Not even one?"

In Nabakumar's heart the image of Kapalkundala was rising; he too answered with pride, "I cannot say not even one."

The other rejoined, "That is well at least. Is it your good wife?"

Nabakumar: Wherefore? Why dost thou suppose her my wife?

Lady: Bengalis hold their own wives to be the fairest of all.

Nabakumar: I am a Bengali; yet thou too speakest after the manner of the Bengalis. Of what country art thou, then?

The young woman, casting her eyes upon her own dress, said, "This unhappy creature is no Bengali; she is a Mussulmani of the western country." Nabakumar, looking carefully, saw that her dress was indeed that of a western Mussulmani. Yet her Bengali was spoken truly as a Bengali speaks it. A moment after, the maiden continued,

"You, sir, have made enquiry of me by the cunning of your speech; do me the favour now to give an account of yourself. Where lies that house in which is that incomparably beautiful housewife?"

Nabakumar said, "My dwelling is in Saptagram."

The foreigner made no answer. Of a sudden she bent down her face and busied herself with trimming the lamp. After a little, without raising her face, she said, "Thy servant's name is Moti. May I not hear the gentleman's name?"

Nabakumar said, "Nabakumar Sharma."

The lamp went out.