Читать книгу The Splendour of Asia - Elizabeth Louisa Moresby - Страница 6

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But of the child, what shall be said? Borne back to the palace with flute and drum, through streets thronged with eager men and women pressing forward to behold him, he did not sleep, nor shrink, like other children, but gazed about him as though the gem of thought were hidden beneath the blue deeps of his eyes. He shone like pure gold, after the manner of his people, Aryan, noble, a child of high descent. And it is told that the hidden sweetness of precious lilies went with him and that the garments of shining spirits, sweeping unseen above him, made the air vibrant. So the Maharaja, receiving him in his arms, blessed his son, rejoicing in his happy fate who was the father of such a one as the world could not show the like. And in his ears the voices of prophecy made a changing music of pride and triumph. And the Maharani, overweighted with gladness, like a lily surcharged with dew, was borne to her noble couch of ivory and gold; and Prajapati watched each breath she drew, so great were her love and fear.

Then, to the rejoicing palace, came an ascetic of pure life and understanding, a dweller on the holy heights of Himavat, a great marvel-worker, honoured of all men; and he desired to enter the presence of the Maharaja and make obeisance. And this was granted.

Bowing before the Maharaja, he addressed him thus:

“Great sir, as I came on the sun’s way, I heard the rejoicing of radiant spirits in the air, and when I asked why they were glad, they triumphed in this verse—

“ ‘The Wisdom-Child, that precious Jewel, unmatched, unrivalled,

Is born in Lumbini, in the land of the happy Sakyas,

For good and joy to all the world of men.’

“Therefore am I come. Lead me now to the young child that I may see him and be glad also. Rejoice, O Maharaja of happy fortune, for most surely is it owing to your righteous deeds in former lives that this good celestial is fallen to your lot!”

And the Maharaja, dumb with love and pride, led the way to the palace hall where the child slept; and they uncovered his little lovely person that the old man might see and be glad also. So he considered the precious marks and signs of his body, assuring him to be a Buddha, one perfect in enlightenment, reading and comprehending them all with a heart that scarce for joy could believe what lay before him. And, seeing these wonderful birth-portents, the tears rolled down his cheeks; and at his weeping fear seized the father, and he bowed down at the ascetic’s feet, crying:

“O what is my lord’s grief: O what are his tears? Is the child doomed? Do we lose him? Forbid it, all-seeing Divinities! Forbid it that one parched, within reach of the eternal draught, should lose all and perish of thirst! Forbid it that I should lose my treasure! For when a man dies who owns a son, it is as a man with two eyes—one sleeps yet the other watches,—but a man without a son is blind in death’s darkness.”

And the ascetic, seeing his grief, answered swiftly:

“Sir, have no fear. Good and better than good are the portents. I wept for myself. This child shall rule the world, but I, by reason of my age, shall not live to see it. Deep and full and wide is the river of his Law. Like a great lake is the calm of his Yoga; like the sun at the zenith his wisdom. The earth shall be glad for him, and he shall reign and he SHALL reign, and mighty the glory of his dominion!”

And having said this, the ascetic departed mysteriously, after the fashion of the Instructed, leaving joy as his gift.

But still Prajapati watched by the Queen Maya and leaned her ear close to catch a whisper—for as yet the Great Lady had not spoken.

And now the child lay in the hollow of her arm, and it was the seventh day. And without raising her lashes, she whispered:

“Sister, my true sister! On the seventh day I die, for so it is with those mothers whose joy, too great for the lowlands of earth, soars like a bird to the mountains of heaven. My joy is winged. No more can it walk beside my sweet sister nor follow my husband as his shadow nor guard the steps of my child. It is become divine. Already its wings quiver for flight. But all is well. My place is prepared in a heaven where my bliss, rolling outward, may spread into a sea to mirror the Wisdom I have borne. And you, my true sister, will not forget me, but, taking this child for your own, will nourish him with noble milk from your pure bosom. And for our lord you will take heed. And this I know, that the Way of Peace shall be opened to the feet of my son’s foster-mother as to mine.”

And Prajapati pressed her cheek against the Great Lady’s in silence that laid a finger on the lips of grief, and the child slept between them.

Now Night, with the moon in her hair and the stars for ear and breast jewels, came gliding down from the high mountains and wandered in the palace gardens, shedding sleep unutterable and all sweet influences from her outspread hands. And there was not one in the palace, from the Maharaja to the sweeper but slept, dreaming auspicious dreams.

And in the morning all woke refreshed and at peace. But Maya, the Great Lady waked not. And her sister, the Queen Prajapati, seeing the child, lovely as an image of pure gold, blue-eyed and beautiful, loved him, and took him to her fragrant bosom, and became his mother. And he received the name of Siddhartha, meaning “He who has attained his aim”—for who could doubt that such a child must conquer where he would?

Thus have I heard.

With this child all good came to the City of Kapila and to the country round about, and all the Sakya clansmen prospered very greatly. Their cows were pure-coloured, well-proportioned, giving fragrant and rich milk with even flow; their horses were as though winged, shaped for speed and strength; their elephants royal beasts and understanding. When rain was needed the air distilled it seasonably, and the five cereals swelled with scented grain, wholesome and soft for food. All creatures about to produce their young were content and at ease, their bodies well-knit and healthful.

Nor was this grace confined to the lower creation, for in the City of Kapila and its dominions, amongst men and women auspicious things grew like seed flung from the hands of Gods, and even those whom their passions spurred down the broad way of a dangerous karma, considered and took heed, and, laying aside their selfish desires and covetousness, thought no proud, envious thoughts, but lived in quiet with their neighbours; and men were grave and recollected and women chaste and calm, and by all were the Four Rules of Purity honoured. And it is told that the Maharaja, seeing this heavenly guest within his palace, for his sake dwelt purely, practising virtue, putting away from him all evil company, that his heart might not be polluted with lust. And he meditated much by night and day, drinking the moon’s brightness with clasped hands and sacrificing in the golden silences of the dawn, when all high influences are unloosed. And this course of conduct must ensue from such a birth, for, as the lotus and champak flowers exhale their perfume and the moon drops camphor in her secret glories, so do the influences of purity and high thought spread outward from the person of a Buddha-to-be. Therefore, as the light of sun or moon increases little by little and none can measure its growth, so was it with the child, orbing into beauty perfect and yet more perfect—if such a thing can be. And with precious things they surrounded him. Noble amulets guarded his person, great gems adorned him, and the scent of sandalwood made sweet the air for his breathing.

Now, when the time for instruction came, the Maharaja considered whom he should employ to teach his son. Should it be a man of the Wanderers, who, having cast the world utterly aside, scans its wisdom with the diamond ray of perfect comprehension—one of the Unfettered? Or should it be one of the men of braided hair—a Brahman hermit, held, as yet, in family ties, but living the life of pure contemplation? Or a bearer of the Triple Staff?

Much he revolved these matters and, gathering opinions, digested them, and summoned to the high task the wise and saintly Viswamitra. And the boy was brought before him and made due obeisance to his teacher (who is, if possible, more to be reverenced than even a father, being the father of the soul and mind, whereas that other may be but the father of the transitory body); but when Viswamitra questioned the noble child, it has been told that there was nothing he did not know already. For it is related that he was familiar with all that has been written in books or told with tongues, even from the number of the spheres and heavenly bodies, as also their triangular, square and sextile aspects, to the powers of the lowliest worm that creeps upon the earth, unable even to raise its head to adore the divine luminaries. There was nothing that teacher could teach him, for already he knew all. So Viswamitra heard and trembled, and at last, seeing that this matter touched on things deep, incomprehensible and wonderful, he prostrated himself before the child, and, closing up his books, went his way marvelling.

Yet let it not be thought that the Maharaja Suddhodana could behold these portents with a heart of ease, for mingled with all his pride and joy was fear. His son moved before him, beautiful exceedingly, perfect in duty not only to his father and his foster-mother, Prajapati the fair and noble, but also to all with whom he had to do, quick to smile and reply, glad in a boy’s sports and games, and yet—apart. As a man, looking down through the clear crystal of a lake, may behold beneath it groves of strange leafage where silver fish dart and disappear in a life unknown to him, so the Maharaja, looking through the translucence of his son’s eyes uplifted to his, knew that they revealed yet hid a world in which he had no part. And this aloofness grew to be to him a knife driven into his very heart. And time passed, and the child became a noble youth.

One day the Maharaja sent for his minister, an old man, wise and instructed, and to him he said:

“Is all well in the city and the country about it?”

And the old minister, saluting, replied:

“O Maharaj, all is well. And since the birth of your auspicious son how could it be otherwise? For it appears that in past times when a child of pure brilliancy was born, there prevailed great prosperity, and wickedness came to an end. And so it is now.”

And, sighing as if his heart were like to break, the Maharaja replied:

“This is true. And who should rejoice more than I? Yet it is not so, and my heart is consumed with anxiety.”

But the minister remained respectfully silent, and the Maharaja continued:

“For my son is not as the other young nobles, free and gay and enamoured of sports and battle and women, but the opposite—rather enduring than sharing the frolics suited to his age; and when I see him meditating beneath the rose-laurels and mark his calm, abstracted eyes, it recalls to me the saying of the sage Asita, that ‘embarking in the boat of wisdom, he shall save the world from peril.’ Now, were this to be the wisdom of a great King delivering his people, I might triumph as I did in hearing it, but if it is to be the cold wisdom of the Wanderers and forest-dwellers, then I desire none of it, for to embark in that boat is to be severed from power and from all things dear and desirable to the heart of man. What, then, is your counsel?”

And with grief written in his face, the aged minister replied:

“Great sir, who shall challenge Fate and the unwritten laws of the Divine? I will own that sometimes in the noble youth’s presence I have felt as it were a cold air blowing between him and me, as though he stood apart from lesser men. And more than once this thought has occurred: Suppose this noble Siddhartha is a Bodhisattva, destined in his next re-birth to be a Buddha, how then shall we fight against a destiny so great and awful? But yet it may not be thus, and so rarely does a Buddha appear upon the earth that there is neither experience nor knowledge to guide us.”

And, trembling, the Maharaja replied:

“You voice my very fear. It is certain that many of the predictions which my soul applied to earthly glory, may be read otherwise if considered. But since I dread this unspeakably and we are by no means certain of the end, what is your counsel that we may divert him and so fulfil his mind with beauty and bliss, that these cold visions may blow away like mists at sunrise and leave him glad?”

Then, smiling subtly, the old man answered:

“There is one way, and one only. For it is acknowledged throughout the three worlds that there is no charm of forgetfulness like the beauty of a woman. On her bosom the Gods are forgotten and the wisdom of the wise is vanity.”

But the Maharaja, with impatience:

“This is true of others, but as for my son, he has seen the loveliest face to face and has never turned to look again. Think better, old man.”

And he:

“For the noble, a noble bait. And there is a girl, daughter of the great Suprabuddha, young and lovely as the Maiden of the Dawn when she stands, rose-fingered, smiling upon the mountain peaks, and this maiden is pure in health and person, constant and faithful, cheerful evening and morning, one to establish the palace in purity and quiet, full of dignity and grace. Among her companions she moves as the queen-swan leading the flotilla, with stately neck, yet bowed in humility. For a King of all the earth this is a fitting consort. I have made diligent inquiry. Her name is Yashodara.”

And the Maharaja replied with joy:

“In this Yashodara may be our deliverance! Send in haste, but with dignity, to Suprabuddha her father, and call a gathering at which the bridegroom-to-be shall show his strength with bow and sword and horse against all rivals, after the manner of the free choice of our women.”

And the old man bowed and went away, smiling, but with a sore doubt at his heart—for he also recalled the words and portents of the Prince’s birth and dreaded the anger of awful Gods if any should let their purpose.

Thus on a certain day the lists were set, and the Sakya lords were challenged by the noble Siddhartha to archery, to sword-play and to riding, that the maiden, Yashodara, might know she chose no craven to be her husband. And all the people crowded to see, some wagering on the success of this lord and some on that, but all, on whomsoever they wagered, hoping that the son of the good Maharaja might win honour and the bride. Yet most believed that the victor would be Devadatta, cousin of Siddhartha, a young prince proud and obstinate and amorous and very skilful in feats of arms.

It was in the golden silence of very early morning when the people crowded to the maidan where all should be done, for the heat of the later day forbade it then. So still was it that not a frond of the palms stirred nor even a bamboo leaf lifted on the air, and the dew lay bright as silver upon grass and flower. So still that the voice of Rohini, full-throated from the melting snows, would have filled the quiet but for the myriad shufflings of bare feet through the dust and the tinkle of litter bells as the hidden beauty and her companions were borne to the place of meeting. For her face should not be seen until she made her choice.

And all the way was strewn ankle-deep with flowers, as though the Spirits of the Air had rained them with both hands upon the glad earth, and from their bruised beauty was shed such sweetness on the dew that the fragrance rose like incense to greet the lovely ones on their way.

But when the rival lords rode on to the maidan in splendour of armour jewelled and inlaid with gold and swords that flashed like lightning from the rifts of cloudy mountains, and horses that seemed to spurn the ground with their hoofs and desire to ride the air like the very coursers of the sun, then the joy of the people so grew that they clapped their hands and shouted lustily, for of all things the noble fair-skinned Northern peoples love a good man and a good horse, and only next to these a beautiful woman. And of the last the most beautiful as yet was hidden. So they shouted until their voices were like the noise of a great wind and the echoes returned them from far-off heights and woods.

And Devadatta rode a horse so black that in the night he seemed a part of it, but Siddhartha’s horse was white, proud and great and gentle, and his name shall not be forgotten while the round world holds, for he was Kantaka—and of him more hereafter. And when the maiden, looking between the curtains of her palanquin so that none might know she looked, saw the young Sakya lord, her heart left her bosom and fled into his, settling there like a bird nestling with feet and wings, for there was none like him—none. With calm he sat his horse, awaiting the moment, and young he was and slender and like an image of pure gold, and his eyes were blue and dark after the manner of his people, and his lips and cheek shaped by a great graver. He carried his head as a stag in the spring season, and for all his slenderness was he tense and eager as a bow in the hand of the Brahma King with the arrow laid on the string. And so he waited, and his eyes never sought the palanquin where was hidden the Pearl of Victory. And to her sick heart she said:

“He is not mine! He is above me. What woman can cloud the serenity of those eyes? How can the fiery dart of Madhu, the God of Love, pierce that breast, guarded with the snow of high thoughts? He is a King too high for me—too high.”

And it is true that the noble youth thought little of the maiden, but much of the great clash with his rivals, for he knew well that Honour was the prize of the day and that his father’s heart must needs break if he failed before all the Kin of the House and the people.

Now it is certain that of this jousting many tales have grown up, of arrows flying miraculously, winged by eager Gods, of sword-strokes such as the world has never seen nor shall see, of horses that the Wind, Vaya himself, might bestride for swiftness and cruel, dangerous pride. And how all this may be I know not, who was not there; but this I know, that Siddhartha was better than the best in all the tests, and that the people stormed and shouted and laughed and wept, knowing not what they did so only they might hail him conqueror, while he stood leaning on his sword, breathing lightly and resting, for the first time smiling, a very splendid young knight.

And the Maharaja, scarcely daring to look in his son’s face lest he should too openly show his pride and joy, said only:

“Son, you have done well.” And, turning, “Bring forth the bride.”

Then all the people were of a sudden silent, that not a word, not a sound of that Beautiful should be lost. And they drew back the pictured curtains of the litter and she stepped forth, most resembling the silver moon floating through clouds to her unveiling and pure radiance, and so stood before the people, clad in supple silver that flowed about her like water and jewels that dripped glory braided among the silk-soft hair that fell to her ankles and crowned her brows. (Yet none could look at her splendour, for her face drew the bees of all glances to the honey of its sweetness and there held them, dizzy with ecstasy.) Thus, with a maiden, only less fair, on either side, she paced towards Siddhartha where he sat motionless on his white horse as a man of marble, carrying in her hand the Garland of Choosing. And coming before him, she raised her eyes to his and stood silent; but her look pleaded.

Then for the first time he knew in the solitude of his heart the drawing near of another. And soft spring airs came before her, with the singing of mating birds, and pearling of young buds and delicate tremble and thrill of life in green silences and all the good things of this world. And it troubled his calm, because he knew not what it meant, and it was more pain than pleasure. This sweet melody, as it were of flutes and lutes, that came from the tattling of her anklets and the rustle of her garments, overpowered the austere, high voices that had breathed in his ear from birth, and they were silent. Like a man bewildered, he dismounted from white Kantaka, with his arm still laid along the noble neck, and gazed down upon her, and their looks met and were one.

So she stooped and took the dust from his feet, then rising, stately as a young palm-tree, she put the Garland of Choosing about his neck and together they faced the shouting people and the rivals, some sullen as Devadatta the evil-hearted, some glad in the victory as Ananda the Prince, his true cousin.

And of all men who saw that sight be sure that none more beautiful could ever meet their eyes than the silver bride hand in hand with the golden lover, shining as Surya the Sun rejoicing to run his course; for with the touch of her hand, doubt dropped from him like a garment and they were submerged, he and she alike, in the joy of the bridegroom and the bride.

And the Maharaja, laughing aloud for triumph and gladness, said to the old minister:

“We have caught our bird! Thanks be to the God of Love!”

But the old man replied:

“Great sir, it will need the triple cord of love to bind him—your own, the wife’s and the child’s. Let us wait. Still are we not secure.”