“Gladly, my friend,” replied Vasitthi.
They let themselves down on their lotus flowers, and Vasitthi went on with the story of her life.
XXXI
The Apparition on the Terrace
When Satagira had reached the goal he had set himself, of possessing me as his wife, his love rapidly cooled, and the more quickly, that it met with no response on my side. I had promised to be a true wife to him, and he knew well that I would keep my word. But more did not lie in my power, even if I had wished it.
As I bore him only a daughter who died in her second year, no one wondered—and I, certainly, least of all—that he took a second wife. She bore him the wished-for son. As a consequence, she received the first place in the house; and was able, in clever fashion, to attach to herself the love that I had so willingly resigned. Over and above this, matters of business more and more claimed the attention of my husband, for, after the death of his father, he had succeeded the latter as Minister.
In this way, several years slipped quietly by, and I was left, for the most part, to myself, which was just what I desired. I gave myself up to my grief, communed only with memories, and lived in the hope of a happy meeting here above—a hope in which I have not been disappointed.
Satagira’s palace lay close to the same ravine from which thou hast so often climbed up to the Terrace of the Sorrowless, but at a much steeper place, and had a terrace similar to the one at my father’s house. Here I was accustomed to spend all the fine evenings, in the hot season—often passing even the whole night there, reposing on a couch. For the rocky front of the ravine, which was, besides, surmounted by a high wall, was so steep and slippery that I felt certain no human being could scale it.
Once, on a mild and glorious moonlit night, I lay on my bed unable to sleep. I was thinking of thee, and particularly of that first evening together; the moment when I sat with Medini on the marble bench, on the Terrace, awaiting thy arrival, stood vividly before my mind’s eye; and I thought of how, even before we hoped for it, thy form suddenly appeared over the top of the wall—for, in thy passionate ardour, thou hadst outdistanced Somadatta.
Lost in these sweet dreams, I had unconsciously let my gaze rest on the parapet, when suddenly a figure rose above it.
I was so convinced that no human being could ever scale this part of the wall, that I did not doubt in the least but that thy spirit, conjured up by my longing, had come to comfort me, and to bring news of the blessed place where thou didst now await me.
For which reason I was in no way frightened, but got up and extended my arms to embrace my visitor.
When, however, he stood on the Terrace and approached me with rapid steps, I saw that his figure was much taller than thine—indeed, even gigantic—and I perceived that I had the spirit of Angulimala before me. But at that I became so greatly terrified, that I was obliged to cling to the head of my couch in order not to fall down.
“Whom didst thou expect?” asked the fearful apparition, coming close to me.
“A spirit, but not thine,” I answered.
“Kamanita’s spirit?”
I nodded.
“When thou madest thy movement of welcome,” he went on, “I feared that thou hadst a lover who visited thee here at nights. If that were so, thou wouldst in no wise help me. And I need thy help as much as thou dost at present need mine.”
At these strange words I ventured to look up, and now it seemed to me that I had no spirit before me, but a being of flesh and blood. The moon, however, was behind him, and, dazzled by its beams, as well as confused by my terror, I could only see the outlines of a figure which might well belong to a demon.
“I am not the spirit of Angulimala,” he said, guessing my thoughts, “I am Angulimala himself, a living human being as thou art.”
I began to tremble violently, not from fear, but because I was standing face to face with the man who had cruelly murdered my beloved.
“Do not be afraid, gracious lady,” he went on, “thou hast nought to fear from me; on the contrary, thou art the only person I myself have ever been afraid of, and whom I dared not look in the eyes, as thou didst so truly say, because I was deceiving thee.”
“Thou didst deceive me?” I exclaimed, and I scarcely know even now whether joy rose up in my soul, awakened by the hope that my loved one was yet alive, or whether yet greater despair did not seize upon me as I thought that I had allowed myself to be deluded into separating myself from the living.
“I did,” he said,
