Читать книгу The Garden of Vision - Elizabeth Louisa Moresby - Страница 10

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Left alone, Ito brushed Yasoma aside. His own concern was urgent, and hers troubled him little—a disagreeable fancy better forgotten. Eleanor too saw plainly that the moment was not yet and welcomed a diversion. He drew his chair a shade nearer as if in the urgency of confidence.

“Arima has cabled to me to come as soon as possible. Men are pouring in, and he sees great possibilities. Disciplined training without any monastic life to follow attracts them.”

“I understand that. The idea of the young knight watching his armor in the chapel before the fight. We had that once,” she said.

“That was beautiful. Arima means that. Nothing could be more practical, but what is so practical as beauty?”

“Then you should be very practical in Japan; look at the unspeakable loveliness with which you surround religion, for one thing—whereas here it has been mixed up with all the ugliness possible. And when you add the teaching to that! Think of the appalling Anglican catechism, and contrast it with the Five Vows for children in Japan!”

He repeated the words as though they gave him deep pleasure.

“We will be diligent in our duties.

“We will worship the Buddha and the Kami.

“We will be loyal to the Emperor and our parents.

“We will have merciful hearts.

“We will do everything honestly.”

“Enough for any child and most men,” she said, “though I am not certain of the second. But if ‘worship’ means ‘adore,’ and that means ‘love with delight,’ then every child should worship.”

“They should do nothing else, for they should live in paradise, and to love everything with delight is paradise. If that could be prolonged through life—and we teach that it can, we can create the great race that is to guide and lead mankind.”

“The superman? The very name is tainted. Unhappy voices hang about it.”

“True. But listen. In Zen lies the possibility of creating the race of supermen which Europe dreamed of, but along lines of such folly that the great blond beast of Prussia seemed to be its possible realization. In Japan we have thought of a race in whom the higher consciousness and therefore all psychic power is developed. They will rule the world, not as tyrants but as guides, for we know that in the lowest and most abject of men is the germ of perfect enlightenment.”

“And if it could be done would the masses submit to be ruled by those who know?”

“How can they refuse? Power is power. And remember it will be the rule of utterly accomplished guidance. It is education which should develop the strength hidden in a child and teach him to manifest it in his actions on the world. I shall never use the word ‘rule’ again.”

“And education—how?”

“In many ways. If we demonstrate our fitness we shall control the schools. We shall disuse the present 65 cramming system and teach a child to know himself and his powers and the Buddhahood or wisdom in him rather than objective facts. There will be the unspoken influence of mighty personality—used as consciously as it is used unconsciously now. But let me be practical first. Let me tell you what is proposed.”

He stopped a moment to choose his words. She waited with breathless interest when he began again, his clear dark eyes holding hers.

“May I explain? We have great Zen monasteries in Japan. Zen stands for science, art, and social service of the highest type. Now science—Zen has taught since 500 A.D. and earlier, that the universe is not matter and mechanical processes but Thought, and that absolute knowledge obliterates the idea of matter. Exactly the result that has come of Rutherford’s and Einstein’s investigations. They tell us—‘The stuff of the world is mind-stuff. Substance has disappeared. We are convinced of the symbolic character of the entities of physics. There is nothing else to liken them to but consciousness.’—And five hundred years ago a Zen play taught that very thing in these words:

“‘It is proclaimed that Thought alone

Was, Is, and Shall Be.

As a cloud that veils the moon so matter veils

The face of Thought.’

Yes, we have knowledge the scientists are only beginning to realize. And art—Zen made the art of China and Japan. And discipline—we made the samurai spirit and the chivalry of Bushido—the code of our knights. And we can make the supermen who are fit to guide the destinies of the world. Zen will make them in every nation that accepts it. We have done it again and again. We will educate the consciousness to go forward when reason is baffled. Your scientists say 66 now, ‘Something unknown is doing we don’t know what,’ and cry for help from philosophy. We can give it. Our Leader the Buddha knew, and we too are the Instructed. For the meaning of Zen is that a man can behold his own fundamental nature and find the Universe in it. The two consciousnesses are one. And when it is used that is Power.”

His eyes glowed on her and struck answering fire. He went on eagerly:

“Look at the unequal development of man—the dreadful powers of science which should be guarded, not put into the hands of the masses. And believe me—for you know—there are powers as much greater than the late discoveries of science as these are greater than the knowledge of the cave-man—whose consciousness, by the way, still persists and makes use of these weapons daily. That is the danger of the modern world—power exceeds the consciousness which only is fit to guide it.”

“And that way ruin lies,” said Eleanor. “That is true. But what then?”

“The time and the men are here. One of your ablest scientists has just written: ‘In leading us away from the concrete, science is reminding us that our contact with the Real is more varied than was apparent to the ape-mind, to whom the bough that supported him was the beginning and end of reality.’ Well, Asia knew that Reality three millenniums ago and more, though there as well as in the West the ape-mind rules. The streams of science and philosophy are converging, and we are ready. You will see that the Buddha will one day be acknowledged as the greatest scientific mind of all time and the perfected type of superman in whom science, philosophy, and the highest consciousness are one.”

“And your first practical step is to train men who have the monkish ideal but who can live in the world?”

“Exactly. In Europe your men of science are your true monks. If the West has any religion it is science. But we shall provide men who have trained in science and also in the methods that attained reality on the other line. They will escape the personal and be in touch with the universal. Such men should be able to attract the best Western minds. We have men of different peoples, but all speak and write English, and several like myself speak French and German. We have voices with which to meet Europe.”

“With every word you have said I agree. And I know it must come. But why in Japan?”

“Good reasons. . . . You know that Zen has formed in Japan a band of men who have submitted to a severe discipline much of which appears mere folly and paradox to those who think in the ordinary way.

“There are plenty of the same mind in India and of course in the Buddhist lands. There has been little or no union among these men, and in India, where English influence though it protects all religions is chillingly indifferent, the headway made is very small. In Japan the case is different. It is a Buddhist country, and even where Zen is not understood—and none can understand it who don’t practice it—it is respected. There is good reason why it should be. It founded unconsciously the iron spirit of our samurai to which indeed we owe the whole code of Japanese chivalry. So you see—”

He stopped and looked at Eleanor.

“The last two are certainly not dead,” he added with pride when she was silent. “It is perfectly possible to strengthen the other among men who have done a part of the discipline and will do more. Such men can’t help leading.”

“I have no doubt whatever that you can strengthen 68 it,” she said, “And who knows how far it may reach? Then Arima sama is making headway?”

“Splendid. Yet—please do not speak of any of this nor mention names. We are not ready. I myself have trained for many years. I began when I was eighteen. I need not tell you what I did, for you yourself have done it. You have not told me, but I know.”

Eleanor had used that training. She had known from girlhood what it was to live according to a discipline, to practice certain rules of mental training which set aside many indulgences generally thought indispensable. Until a certain point is reached the learner is not permitted to speak of the effort, and though she had reached the point where one is enjoined to make no secret of what can help others to the same development she never alluded to it except when necessity thrust her along. One does not angle for souls or invest in easy propaganda along the line of the disciplines of Asia; and strangely enough, though she had felt the depths of Ito, his more than Japanese reserve had so darkened the surface of what he wished to hide that even she had not guessed he was an advanced student of these great problems. Her face brightened as she listened, fully understanding all the implications of his words.

“I have worked alone. I wish I could have worked with you,” she said simply. “I should like to meet Arima sama.”

“You have often heard of him?”

“Often, and I long to know him. Will it be allowed when I come out?”

“Certainly. You shall walk in the garden which we call the Garden of Vision.”

She made a gesture of thanks and spoke frankly:

“Perhaps I could even help you by interesting some of the people I meet.”

“That is the very thing I hope,” Ito put in eagerly. “All over the world there are groups. It is in each one we shall find the nucleus of the family of people who will help the evolution of consciousness which is all in all to the race. Pray come out as soon as you can.”

She promised, adding: “And you will write to me. When do you go?”

“As soon as I can. Arima has summoned me. His school is the simplest place—in the pine-woods of Naniwa, near his garden. It will be a stern monastic training—but we are men of the world, not monks, and very militant. Have you noticed in history what immense power the military monks, such as the Knights Templar, had? Well, trained to very different ends—but you can imagine! Arima writes that many are coming—young men, strong, brilliant, and eager, as they flocked to the Buddha long ago. Not that he put it in that way. You will not misunderstand my allusion.”

She smiled. No need to answer that in words.

“But I know he is a poor man. How has he afforded the necessary shelter?”

“He has built a big wooden building with his own hands and those of his men on a piece of woodland which belonged to his ancestors. The wood came from the forest. I have the picture. Look!”

He opened his pocketbook and showed a photograph of a large and beautiful wooden building, following, though roughly, the usual curved lines of the roofs of the Buddhist temples of Japan. Only the necessary space had been cleared for it among the great cryptomeria trees, and those cut down had been used in the building, after seasoning in sun and rain. Their faithful columns supported it, and around their stern dedication waved and whispered their living brethren, holding their part in the work after a noble fashion. About 70 the place and the building they brought the awe of age and tradition and great deeds seen and remembered, and the silence and dimness which befit deep meditation and aid the spiritual calm which is the harvest of the spiritual struggle. A mountain stream ran past the little entry. A ray of sunlight had caught it and made it brilliant—a living crystal—and Eleanor laying her finger upon it said:

“Does that stream run through the garden of Arima sama?” and Ito answered, “Yes.”

The picture moved her deeply. All the passion for beauty which burns, a still white flame imperishable as jade, in the coldest Japanese heart had inspired the choice of the place for the building and its own austere loveliness. She who knew Japan knew how the sun would shoot his golden arrows at dawn and sunset through the pillared pines. At his zenith there would be shadow—a mystic dusk. Even his strength could not directly pierce the deep green shade and long aisles. Moon and stars would drift above it—sailing the blue seas of midnight—and the Eternal Voice of the water rehearse the transience of life. Always there would be calm—calm reechoed in quiet voices or the silence within. Japan had built her soul as well as her loveliness into the faithful lines of that building, and as it had spoken in the past, so it would renew its strength and speak again.

“Of course there are no fees,” Ito said presently, “and each man provides his own food by his work, whatever that may be. The monastery of Naniwa is only a few miles distant. Some of the men will be students there also. Men stay as long or as short a time as they choose.”

“Are any of them well-known men?”

“Several. Among the students are Shimidzu, the great artist, and Watanabe, the well-known bacteriologist, 71 and many more. We shall not lack for good talk in the evenings, when the pines are waking in the starlight.”

Happiness glowed in his face like the uprush of dawn. She felt that she had never known the man before—had never gaged his control and magnificent self-possession. When Japan undertakes a thing she does it. She has the dynamic power of the West and the introspection of the East—and more. To Eleanor the very picture was the fulfilment of a hope. She caught his gladness like inspiration, and each fanned the other’s fire of understanding.

They had talked for an hour more before she remembered Yasoma, and with the thought came a chill. She had hoped for Arima’s help for a very stumbling and misdirected strength—yet one in which she herself most purely and truly believed. But she had pictured him in meditative leisure in his Garden of Vision, ready to guide and pity. What hope for Yasoma now in this calm energy of scientific men banding themselves in a common purpose, and above all against the prejudice she had inspired in Ito? Love alone could understand the girl and realize the hardships of her life, and though Eleanor loved and understood, how was a man, foreign by training to all that could plead for her, to grasp her need? It was with wisest care and more than care that she began her approach.

“You have told me your hope, and it has gladdened my very heart. May I tell you one of mine?”

A pause. He looked straight at her.

“You know my friend, Yasoma Brandon.” She could not miss the darkening of his face as courtesy took the place of living interest. “I have told you she is going to Japan. Now I will tell you why. Suddenly, as it seems—but not to me for I have seen she was outgrowing her life here—a kind of loathing of it 72 all has seized her. An uncertain feeling. . . . I dare not myself guess how far either revulsion or its reaction will carry her. But I think the shell is breaking that the bird may fly. Do you remember Matthew Arnold?

“‘On that hard Roman world distaste

And secret loathing fell—’

Well, that seems to be her case. I imagine it happens more often than we guess. And I begged her to break with her surroundings for a time. To go abroad. You heard that and you suggested India because you did not want her to go to Japan. I understood your feeling perfectly well. But that would not do. She is rich. She knows all the rich people who travel. She would inevitably be swept into the rhythm of her old life again, and then how could she struggle free? So I said she must go far away among people who have no remotest connection with her world and to whom her advantages of money and beauty will mean nothing and—”

“Do you call Miss Brandon beautiful?” he asked in candid astonishment. “I have never thought that. I can’t analyze her face, but her expression and manner repel me. Forgive me—you are her friend. I apologize deeply.”

“No need. The beauty of Beauty is that it is a shifting quality depending on ourselves. But, aside from that, I think she is at the parting of the ways, and inspiration now—I hoped that Arima sama would perhaps say—perhaps would prompt her to see for herself—” She hesitated.

“No—no, impossible. Surely you will see that. . . . It would always have been difficult and is impossible now. Japan is not England, and women—”

“And India is not England, and yet that question 73 was settled two thousand five hundred years ago when Ananda asked the Buddha whether women also had not as great a need and as great a right as men to the best in the world of spiritual discipline. You know the answer.”

“I know,” he answered obstinately, “but that was on condition they would accept a bitterly hard discipline.”

“And have you any right to be certain that she would refuse? Have you the heart to take the best for yourself and leave nothing for her? That is not what I have thought of you. The truth is that you think of her as one of the women of whom your friend gave so detestably true a picture. These women abound, but there are others and she is one of them.”

He looked at her and away and answered with sarcasm: “You scarcely want to make me believe she is one of the calm noble-minded women of whom my friend says there are not enough to leaven the Western materialism?”

She took him up with spirit. “Quite certainly not. Though she is just twenty-four she is still entirely undeveloped. But she will develop. And though she has lived in about as vulgar and worthless a world as exists she has pride and love of the beautiful enough to have kept her from all its worst imbecilities. I could swear to that. Is it nothing that she has wearied of it? As for courage and willingness to fling herself after anything fine with a kind of reckless joy and beauty, I can answer for that too. You shall not undervalue my friend.”

Ito looked unconvinced. “Need we discuss her?” he said uncomfortably. “I wish I could agree—I have always agreed with you. But, no.”

“You are utterly unjust,” she said with a touch of anger.

They had never spoken to each other in this tone before. For a moment it was as if a gulf had opened between them and a cold wind blew across it. Then Eleanor stretched out her hand.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken like that. Forgive me. I’ll say no more.”

But Ito was shaken and pale. His conscience was astir.

“I am brutal. You are right. Say what you will. I will tell Arima—I promise that. I can do nothing, but he will know what is right. I should not hesitate. Do not take your regard from me.”

They clasped hands silently, and presently he went away, saddened and quiet and very greatly perplexed. In the stern Japanese code no woman could be accepted for teaching in such circumstances, and this woman of all. . . . It is not too much to say that he had a kind of horror of Yasoma. Not only was the freedom she allowed herself just what he must misinterpret, but many people in London had shown forth her character before him decorated in all the hues most revolting to his mind. Always, in the last resort, there is national misunderstanding in every question where women are concerned, for the treasure of the race must be guarded by each according to the best that is in it, and on the rock of the best mutual understanding shipwrecks easily. Eleanor might perhaps form some idea of what Yasoma must seem to a man trained in the sternest traditions of Asiatic good breeding and reserve, but even she not wholly, and Yasoma herself not at all.

All she could hear from Eleanor later was that there would probably be an opportunity of meeting Arima. Perhaps it would be better to delay a little before leaving England.

“Now or never!” said Yasoma with set lips, suspecting 75 where the doubt and unwillingness lay, and with her own secret burning in her heart. “I go within a fortnight or not at all. But one precaution I did take. I got the passenger list of the Kagoshima Maru on which I first took passage for I was in mortal terror lest I should find myself in Ito’s boat. His name was on it, so I changed to this boat. I wouldn’t have sailed with him for anything you could give me! He’d think I had hunted him down. The only man in the world who would think it! But he would. Well—I’m going, Eleanor, and I think you’re sending me on a wild-goose chase, and still I’ll go! I’m through with London though perhaps I may yearn for it when I’m in a strange land. I do believe that seeing things may give me some sort of sense of direction, and I haven’t an atom of it at the moment. But come out before long! It’s a lonesome adventure, and I know no more what I’m going to look for than the Man in the Moon. . . . Ito has gone, hasn’t he?” she added suspiciously.

“He said good-by a week ago. I think he was going to Paris.”

No more was said of him. Eleanor knew when to be silent. There were many talks between the two before the day of parting came. They were together constantly, and Yasoma almost lived at the flat. Yet if Eleanor had known the truth of those last days in London she would have made even greater efforts. It is not too much to say that the girl went through hell. She had sworn Bridget to secrecy about her plans and had talked among her friends of running over to Paris for shopping. “And I may go to Cannes for a week or two. The Morays are there.”

Not a word more, but even that threw Maxwell into alarm when it reached him. He wrote to her daily; he came to the house until he saw that was 76 hopeless. He telephoned; he haunted every place where it was possible they might meet; and all in vain. She had suddenly blotted herself out of his life, and the very thing which he could have sworn would make them necessary to each other had been a sword of division. It startled him, but he by no means despaired. She was unlike other women. She would take things in her own haughty reckless way, but most assuredly she would relent when satisfied pride justified yielding. He believed too that she had fixed her mind on marriage as the only possible relation between them and might be holding off until it became possible. He leaped at that notion. Better say nothing yet, better be very careful lest some frantic jealousy of his wife’s might injure Yasoma publicly. She would never forgive that, he knew. He could not dare to speak of all his plans. Yasoma herself might say or do something rash. He would run down to Cannes while she was there and talk it over secretly.

Eleanor little guessed what was driving Yasoma into the abnormal state of nervous irritability and craving to be gone which she noted daily. She began to be certain that something strange and sudden must have uprooted her from London, but her guesses never remotely touched the truth. In spite of all her follies there was a reckless pride and purity about her which denied any such conjecture. Eleanor’s belief was Yasoma’s sword and shield. It saved some self-respect to cover her self-loathing, helped her to endure Maxwell’s persecution with dogged obstinacy. To him she never answered a word. Never vouchsafed a look. She would put it behind her and forget it—destroy it.

So preparations went on, and the person who felt most pleasure in the wild-goose chase, as Yasoma persisted in calling it, was Bridget. Oddly enough she connected the idea with that of a pilgrimage. Through 77 a heathen land naturally, and the Interpreter would counsel them, and Mr. Greatheart guard them, and the peace of God blossom for Yasoma on the far mountains of the Unknown Country.

“For indeed it isn’t likely she’d be let go so far and get nothing at all for it, the darling!” she said to Eleanor one day. “There was never a one went on a pilgrimage that he didn’t get something for his pains even if he fell down and died before he made good. Sure that’s well known! And I have my own prayer I’ll put up for her, and you’ll see, ma’am, she’ll get the full of her two hands of it. And though ’tis far to go there’s those here that I’m glad to see the seams of their stockings, for they have my child led into every kind of nonsense and if they didn’t leave their mark on her ’tis no thanks to them, but that she held her head too high for the likes of such trash!”

Eleanor agreed, but neither she nor Bridget realized what efforts were made to hold Yasoma back nor what a struggle she endured to break her chain. In addition, she was really almost in a panic about Japan. In moments of doubt she pulled against herself and it was only Eleanor who could say, “Steady on!”—and hold her to it when her thoughts flickered about America or Canada or any nearer refuge.

The day came, and Eleanor motored down with her to the docks, following Bridget and the baggage. Both were silent, and as they sat hand in hand Eleanor felt a little quiver in the grasp now and then and realized the courage it implied. “If I knew what I was going for!” was the wistful cry. But still she held on and would have none of the ordinary introductions showered upon her.

“If I took them I might use them,” she said to Eleanor. “You never know. I might find myself going clean mad and then I might throw it all up. But if 78 I know no one I can’t. Come out soon or you may only have to gather up the fragments. I can’t think what will become of me.”

They went on board together, received by bowing stewards and stewardesses. Bridget was making the suite beautiful with flowers, and all was the perfection of comfort. Books were piled in readiness, the latest magazines and papers lent color to the table in the sitting-room. Bridget’s cabin was next door.

“It really is delightful—the charmingest place!” said Yasoma more hopefully. “I begin to think I shall like the voyage. And I can always jump overboard at Hong Kong or commit suicide before Kobe. Let’s sit here till you must go ashore.”

They sat while Eleanor rehearsed the kindliness and grace of the people who would receive her, and Yasoma listened with dropped black lashes. She wanted passionately at that moment to run ashore and flee swiftly to the shuttered undraped house. But personal cowardice had never been her fault, and she could swallow her medicine.

A boy at the door, gasping, a boy with a cable and a letter—the son of the caretaker.

“My mother she put me in a taxi, miss, and she ses, ses she, ‘Just you get down to the docks like a streak of greased lightning and maybe you’ll catch the boat’—and I done it!”

Yasoma snatched the cable, then handed it to Eleanor. She had hidden the letter at once.

“Glad to assist. Can arrange for you at Naniwa.

Signed—Arima.”

They looked at each other.

“I am glad,” said Eleanor. “That was kind. Now you have a center, and I hear it’s the loveliest place. I’m at rest about you.”

Yasoma’s eyes hardened into steel:

“That’s true, but I may as well say at once that I don’t want to owe anything to Ito. He hates me. He despises me. If he were to be anywhere that’s the place I would keep out of. If he’s to be at Naniwa, I’m not.”

Eleanor thought it better to say as little about Ito as possible and leave the meeting at Naniwa to fate.

“Why reject any kindness?” she asked. “I tell you frankly, Yasoma, that I think Ito a very remarkable man. He has gifts that you, and more than you, will recognize one of these days, and I wish you understood him better.”

“Done’s done,” Yasoma said mischievously, “and now I’ll tell you—if I thought he was on board this boat or if he joined it anywhere I’d get straight out and come home. So that just shows! We should be cuts a week after sailing. But all the same I do think it’s kind of Arima, and it’ll be a new experience. Imagine Bridgie with Japanese maids! The poor pilgrim!”

“They’ll love her in a week. And now—let us talk of happy things. The shore gong will go soon.”

They talked of happy things, yet in spite of themselves when the bell rang Yasoma clung to Eleanor.

“I think you’re the only friend I have in the world,” she said, the words wrung out of her reticence by loss. “The others—Oh, Eleanor, don’t forget me! Write—and come.”

She promised both, her eyes not dry. Yasoma might be a very easy person to censure, but she was also a terribly easy person to love. Her last vision of her was standing in the sitting-room with a haunting look of grief and fear. Eleanor felt not unlike an executioner as she went on deck leaving the prisoner behind.

To her profound amazement as she passed the wide saloon door she saw Ito standing within it talking to an officer. Ito—whom she believed to be speeding down the Mediterranean! She halted a second in much discomfort, intending to run back and warn Yasoma to be prepared with her best behavior. And then the comedy of the situation seized her. She knew in a flash that Ito had had the same inspiration as Yasoma. He had seen her name in the other passenger list and had hurriedly transferred to the next boat. The comic Muse, who is so out of place among her celestial sisters, had certainly taken a hand in affairs on this occasion. She had a mischievous moment of thinking she would like unseen to behold the meeting and the mutual flash of wrath, but it was succeeded by real anxiety. Suppose it should wreck the whole business! Suppose the first available train from Marseille should bring the returning prodigal?

There was nothing to be done, and she ran down the gangway and stood watching as the ship backed water. A handkerchief fluttered from Yasoma’s window, and Bridget had run up to wave from the wide and sheltered deck.

Eleanor was conscious then of acute dismay and alarm. She could only hope that both would see the humor of the situation and relax into laughter. Yasoma might. She doubted Ito.

The great boat made slowly for the shining seas. Eleanor went back to write and protest her innocence.

Yasoma stood alone in her cabin reading a letter.

“They tell me you are going to Cannes, darling, and there I swear I will see you. You can’t keep me away. I’m no good for business or pleasure or anything without you. We have got to settle it. I have a tremendous plan to propose. Don’t be 81 cruel—I know it means nothing but don’t drive me dotty, or I don’t know myself what I may do.”

In bitter anger she tore it into little bits and scattered it on the breeze that was blowing out to sea.