The Hungry Stones | Page 4

trip
when we met the man in a train. From his dress and bearing we took
him at first for an up-country Mahomedan, but we were puzzled as we
heard him talk. He discoursed upon all subjects so confidently that you
might think the Disposer of All Things consulted him at all times in all
that He did. Hitherto we had been perfectly happy, as we did not know
that secret and unheard-of forces were at work, that the Russians had
advanced close to us, that the English had deep and secret policies, that
confusion among the native chiefs had come to a head. But our
newly-acquired friend said with a sly smile: "There happen more things
in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are reported in your newspapers." As
we had never stirred out of our homes before, the demeanour of the
man struck us dumb with wonder. Be the topic ever so trivial, he would
quote science, or comment on the Vedas, or repeat quatrains from some
Persian poet; and as we had no pretence to a knowledge of science or
the Vedas or Persian, our admiration for him went on increasing, and
my kinsman, a theosophist, was firmly convinced that our

fellow-passenger must have been supernaturally inspired by some
strange magnetism" or "occult power," by an "astral body" or
something of that kind. He listened to the tritest saying that fell from
the lips of our extraordinary companion with devotional rapture, and
secretly took down notes of his conversation. I fancy that the
extraordinary man saw this, and was a little pleased with it.
When the train reached the junction, we assembled in the waiting room
for the connection. It was then 10 P.M., and as the train, we heard, was
likely to be very late, owing to something wrong in the lines, I spread
my bed on the table and was about to lie down for a comfortable doze,
when the extraordinary person deliberately set about spinning the
following yarn. Of course, I could get no sleep that night.
When, owing to a disagreement about some questions of administrative
policy, I threw up my post at Junagarh, and entered the service of the
Nizam of Hydria, they appointed me at once, as a strong young man,
collector of cotton duties at Barich.
Barich is a lovely place. The Susta "chatters over stony ways and
babbles on the pebbles," tripping, like a skilful dancing girl, in through
the woods below the lonely hills. A flight of 150 steps rises from the
river, and above that flight, on the river's brim and at the foot of the
hills, there stands a solitary marble palace. Around it there is no
habitation of man--the village and the cotton mart of Barich being far
off.
About 250 years ago the Emperor Mahmud Shah II. had built this
lonely palace for his pleasure and luxury. In his days jets of rose-water
spurted from its fountains, and on the cold marble floors of its spray-
cooled rooms young Persian damsels would sit, their hair dishevelled
before bathing, and, splashing their soft naked feet in the clear water of
the reservoirs, would sing, to the tune of the guitar, the ghazals of their
vineyards.
The fountains play no longer; the songs have ceased; no longer do
snow-white feet step gracefully on the snowy marble. It is but the vast
and solitary quarters of cess-collectors like us, men oppressed with
solitude and deprived of the society of women. Now, Karim Khan, the
old clerk of my office, warned me repeatedly not to take up my abode
there. "Pass the day there, if you like," said he, "but never stay the
night." I passed it off with a light laugh. The servants said that they

would work till dark and go away at night. I gave my ready assent. The
house had such a bad name that even thieves would not venture near it
after dark.
At first the solitude of the deserted palace weighed upon me like a
nightmare. I would stay out, and work hard as long as possible, then
return home at night jaded and tired, go to bed and fall asleep.
Before a week had passed, the place began to exert a weird fascination
upon me. It is difficult to describe or to induce people to believe; but I
felt as if the whole house was like a living organism slowly and
imperceptibly digesting me by the action of some stupefying gastric
juice.
Perhaps the process had begun as soon as I set my foot in the house, but
I distinctly remember the day on which I first was conscious of it.
It was the beginning of summer, and the market being dull I had no
work to do. A little before sunset I was