A

THE ROCK OF TRICHINOPLI

PIERRE LOTI

BOVE the immense plains of this country of Tanjore,

and above the bushy kingdom of palms, which stretches out like the sea, a huge detached rock rears its head; standing sentinel, as it has done since the beginning of time, over a region from which it has seen the forests spring and the towns and temples grow. It is a geological oddity, a whim of some primæval cataclysm, and looks like a helmet, or the prow of some Titan's ship, half-submerged in an ocean of greenery. It is two hundred metres high, and springs without warning from the neighbouring plain; and its sides are so smooth that, even in this country, where vegetation conquers everything, no single plant has been able to find foothold.

The early Indians, the great mystics of the olden days, naturally chose this as a place of worship, and for centuries have carefully hollowed out the rock so as to form galleries, stairways and gloomy temples. Cupolas covered with beaten gold shine from the summit, and every night a sacred fire burns on the very top of the rock, and this fire, which has been kindled for centuries, can be seen shining like a lighthouse from the remotest parts of Tanjore.

As the sun rises on the native village built at the foot of

the rock, there is a greater stir than usual, for a solemn Brahmin festival in honour of Vishnu takes place tomorrow, and since yesterday the natives have been occupied in weaving innumerable garlands of yellow flowers. The women and young girls, who are grouped round the fountain filling their copper urns, have already donned their festival attire, their finest bracelets, nose- and earrings. The zebus attached to the carts have had their horns painted and gilt, and are decked with necklets, bells, and tassels of glass. Garland-sellers almost block our passage with their displays of floral wreaths; Indian pinks, Bengal roses, and marigolds threaded are made into many-rowed boa-like necklets, from which hang flowers and ornaments of gold thread. To-morrow all the folk who go to their devotions, and all the gods stationed in the temples will wear on their flesh, stone or metal chests such ornaments of rose or yellow flowers.

A swarming as of an ant heap and the constant set of people in one direction suffices to guide me, even on the evening before the festival, towards the rock temple that dominates the town. It is made of three or four monstrous blocks that are without a crack and almost without a wrinkle; these stones have merely been thrown on the other, and the sides, rounded like the flanks of animals and polished by running rain water, hang over in a fearful manner. A veritable crowd of cawing crows whirls incessantly round the summit. A monumental stairway plunges into the dim recesses of the rock, between high

granite columns of laboured design, and past thousands of steeples and idols which have been rendered almost shapeless by age. Seven young elephants, that are sacred and descended from sacred parents, are standing by, nearly blocking up the entry; they are covered with little bells threaded in the same way as the garlands, and, as I pass, these elephants caress me with their trunks in babyish glee.

I commence to ascend the stairs, which almost suddenly plunge into darkness; now religious music, whose volume is increased by the sonority of the grotto, fills the air, seeming to issue from the bowels of the earth.

I need not say that the rock is filled with a number of superposed temples, galleries, passages and stairways; some penetrating into mysterious darkness are interdicted to all but the priests. There are statues in every angle and corner; some are colossal, whilst others are as tiny as gnomes, but all have crumbled with age and have only stumps instead of arms, and their faces are no longer recognizable. As I am not one of the faithful, I must keep to the great central gallery that is open to everybody and which ascends between splendid columns hewn out of solid blocks. These columns are covered by figures and designs, but the bases, as far up as the height of a man, have lost all shape under the constant polishing which has continued for countless centuries by the nude figures which have pressed against them in these narrow passages. Formerly the walls and even the pavements and steps were covered with signs and inscriptions, but age and the rubbing of