Читать книгу The Splendour of Asia - Elizabeth Louisa Moresby - Страница 7

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Thus have I heard.

Time went by, but since he had snared his bird, the Maharaja Suddhodana resolved that the fetters should be gilded, and calling his minister again, he said to him:

“If a man would cage a bird of heaven (and such, I think, is my son), it is necessary that earth should be made heaven, so that no home-sickness for the blue heights should take him. And because a young man may weary of one woman’s beauty, however beautiful, let fresh faces be found to make for him a wreath of such roses of the earth as may intoxicate him with its love and perfume. Send north to Savatthi and south to Benares, and fetch such beauties, such players on the vina and sitar as sing before the high Gods, such dancers as those whose white limbs, melting to music, enchant their eyes. Give orders to build him a house for the winter, when the snow is blue in the hollows of Himalaya and the rivers are locked in his cold heart. See that it be warm and silent and that no wind may creep in, and let white furs of snow-leopards, clouded with black, lie about it, soft and smooth to the touch, and let there be story-tellers to speed the long nights with jest and amorous tale and clash of battle. Shut out the cold and terrible moon with close lattice-work and rich curtains, for she, remote and small in the blue, profound skies, may freeze his soul to the chill calm I fear.”

And the minister, saluting, said:

“All shall be done. And yet——”

“And yet there is more before we may sleep in peace. Build for him also a house of spring. Let it be pavilioned, and with little stiff, frilled roofs flying outward like the skirts of a dancer when she revolves swiftly. On every point set a wind-bell to resemble her anklets and armlets in their tinkling, so that the soft breezes from the hills shall make an aerial music as they wander about it. Let it appear as if the whole were blown together like a cloud on a wind and might be lifted and dispersed like thistle-down—a dream of spring.”

And the old wise man saluted, saying:

“It shall be done. And yet——”

“And yet it is not enough,” mused the Maharaja, stroking his great beard. “For we must build also a house for summer—to drowse in, dim and cool and with long echoing colonnades to catch the faintest breath of breeze. Let this house be set in the grass by Rohini, that her liquid voice may sing of the snows when the dog-days are sultry. And let it be paved with shining stone from the mountains, and the walls be of dark cedar, carved wonderfully, and all the windows dimmed and latticed that the heats die on the threshold. Choose a place for it where the asoka trees are deep with rich leafage and golden blossom, and the neems spread their shade and the acacias rain white petals and the champak swoons in its heavy sweetness. Let there be a lake, pensive with reeds and green reaches, the haunt of swans and cranes and all beautiful water birds, and silver rills by which my son may sit and muse if he will, until the langour of slowly dropping water shall pass into his veins and be a narcotic binding him for ever to long dreaming days and nights, and he be utterly content.”

And the old man saluted, saying:

“So it shall be done. Is it also your pleasure, Maharaja, that I set a guard at the gate of the park of the three Pleasure Houses?”

And he answered:

“It is my pleasure. And now I will visit my son’s wife and hear her mind.”

So he went to the place of the women in the great house. And his presence being told to Yashodara, she came before him, sweet as the star of evening bathed in rosy vapours, for a dress fell about her coloured as though dipped in the blood of red roses and bound with gold that, winding spirally upward round her lovely limbs and bosom, embraced them, drawing the eye to the slender curves, and she wore no jewels but only the great rings in her ears sparkling with fiery gems. And he drew her to his feet and she sat on a cushion beside him, looking upward with duty and affection, waiting for the favour of his speech. And at last, having observed the delicate sweetness of her face and her grace and majesty, he said, sighing:

“Noble daughter, you have now been wedded to my son, Siddhartha, for six months. Is all well with you?”

And, stooping to touch his feet, she replied:

“Great father, all is well. And I did not know that in all the world there was such joy as I share night and day with my dear lord. For beyond all beauty he is beautiful and beyond all goodness, good, and his gentleness of speech is not like that of a woman, but with strength behind it like Himalaya when he smiles in sunshine. And yet——”

The words stopped like hovering birds on her sweet lips and her fine brows drew together as she meditated. And the Maharaja, drawing his hand from her head, leaned forward to look into her eyes.

“Daughter, have you a doubt—and what is it?”

She, lovely and submissive, made haste to answer:

“Great lord, all is pure joy, and yet——”

And he, in great anger, so that she shrank down, veiling her face with her hands:

“And yet! When I command my minister to surround my son with all joy wherewith to bind and hold him, he obeys, but ends always with ‘And yet—’ as though some mystery surrounded him! And you, that should triumph in pride and joy, say the like. My son is fair and free and noble and sharer in my riches and pride. What is this miserable ‘And yet—’ that mocks my hope? Speak out, woman, and tell me what is in your heart.”

And, kindling her courage at his sternness, the wife of Siddhartha looked at him with clear, unsullied eyes.

“Father, all I have said is truth, but there is also this. In the midst of rejoicings of song and when the women dance before him and the feast is spread and the great fruits, cooled with snow, and purple wines in cut crystal cups are set to his hand, then often I know that though his fair body is among us, his soul is escaped and fled away.”

And in her eyes two tears gathered and stood but did not fall.

And he, with anger:

“Would it not be thought a woman should know her business! For what is beauty but to hold a man prisoner to the senses? And you are beautiful as the woman the high Gods made with flowers—how then do you fail? Does he not love you?”

“Sir, he loves me. But not me only. He loves something that I know not, and his thought flies away to it as a dove flies home.”

And he said:

“True, true! It is true. What is this thing? For I, too, have felt it. When I have spoken of wealth and power and pride, I have known that as you, daughter, say, his soul is escaped and gone, I cannot tell where. But have no fear. Tell me only this—has never a word, never a sight of sorrow crept into the paradises I have made for him?”

And she answered:

“Not one. All is joy unceasing.”

“And no sign of age, of sickness, of death? For, as I have told you, he must not know that these things are, and until he passed into your keeping, the secret was well guarded.”

And she replied gravely:

“The secret is well guarded. He does not know. When he speaks, it is of an eternity of delight and of nothing else. And yet—if I may speak and live——”

And he said:

“Speak. Even in the words of women there is sometimes wisdom, and you are a pearl among women.”

“Great lord, is it possible to strive against the high Gods? For they have appointed death and sickness and grief to be our lot, and it may be that the very joy of life is the greater because we know it is brief. Children suck sugar-cane until they sicken, and may not grown man and woman weary of sweet things, desiring to match their fortitude against grief? And he is great of soul.”

Then he would not look at her for anger, saying:

“Folly and double folly—woman’s madness! Have you not heard the saying of the wise, that if ever he hears tell of age and sickness and death, his doom is sealed? And mine with it—and mine with it! For I love my son.”

Then the great tears overflowed her eyes and ran down like a stream at the thaw.

“Forgiveness!” she cried. “Forgiveness! for I love my husband, and if this unknown sweetness capture and carry him from me, what good should my life do me? But now, most honoured father of my lord, I have a hope—a hope! Will a child’s hand hold him?”

And even as the words left her lips, he caught her two hands and gazed deep into her eyes and triumphed. And he said:

“Daughter, you are hope, and your words a cup in the desert! For, knowing what my son is to me, I know that those hands will hold him when yours and mine drop helpless. Go back to him and tell him, and to the great Gods do I give thanks because my prayers and sacrifices have not run to waste but are rewarded!”

And as she knelt before him, the tears rolled down his cheeks for gladness, nor could he hide them, as a warrior should.

And, beautiful as a rainbow flowering against a black cloud, the Princess returned to the carved chamber of cedar with its lattices set wide to the perfumed air of summer. Beneath and around them the ivory chalices of the frangipani blossoms and starred clouds of jasmine offered warm incense to the sun and all was calm as ecstasy, as though the world, captured by the power of Yoga, were in ecstasy, dreaming with open eyes upon Perfection. The leaves of deep-foliaged trees floated on air in absolute stillness, swimming, silent, in liquid gold, and below the shades of the gardens gleamed Rohini, she also dancing no longer as in spring, but calm and silent as the meditation of a saint, pursuing her shining way in a deep quiet.

There, seated beneath a neem tree, in the green bower of its heart, the Princess beheld Siddhartha as he sat with his feet folded and his hands lying upon his knees. And as she watched, kneeling by the lattice, he stirred no more than a noble image of himself made in gold and there was that in his calm that struck her soul with fear. Then presently, gathering courage from knowledge of the gladness she bore within her, she rose, and folding the gold sari about her brows, she went with rose-leaf footsteps through the House of Joy, passing those palace rooms where the fair women talked and sang and made low music with their vinas and sitars, eating fruits cooled in blocks of ice from the mountains and laughing with each other as though joy could never cease nor death wreck youth and life, for it seemed that the secret of the house held them also and that they, like the Prince, believed that these things were immortal.

But Yashodara, going through the garden ways, past groups of tall flowers bee-haunted, flickered about by rose-coloured and black butterflies, caught wafts of varying perfumes, like strains of music through the opening and closing of celestial doors, so sweet was the world that day. The jewelled peacock and his wife led forth their train of little ones to pace in deep grass and silver pheasants went daintily in the plumed shades of the bamboo and their young followed rejoicing in life and warmth and plenty, and birds hidden in high branches sang as if never they would cease, and above all floated the blue sky—a blue pure and strong as that of the infinite ocean, and life and love wandered hand in hand along the blossomed earth in sunlight like clear water. So though her secret winged her feet the Princess must needs pause here and there to share with all these living creatures the wine of joy poured from the sun’s brimming cup, and her soul gladdened within her in the youth of the world. And at last with steps light as the fall of a petal she approached the great neem tree and stood and looked into its shade.

Now here was an extraordinary stillness as though an arresting finger were laid upon the pulse of life, but not wholly silencing it, for from a fern-fringed spring there fell at regular intervals a bright drop of water marking time into divisions lest it should wholly slip into Eternity and be lost. And the shade within was deep and green making a soft dusk at noon, and through the shade could be seen the great spires of silver mountains ecstatic in blue air and resembling the highest reach of the aspiration of man arrested on the verge of comprehension.

Very still in green shade sat the son of the Maharaja, his hands, palm upward, laid empty upon his knees, his eyes fixed on the everlasting hills, neither joy nor trouble upon calm brows, lost in meditation so deep that it walled him as in crystal from the fair shows around, and her coming was nothing to him for he neither saw nor heard it.

Then a wave of anguish rose in her bosom and swelled until it spilt in salt and bitter water from her eyes, and she could not restrain herself from that forbidden show of sorrow and putting aside the boughs she ran to him and fell at his knees and laid her head upon them, sobbing. And with a long sigh he awoke and looked down upon her, smiling.

“What is it, wife, and why do your eyes run like Rohini. Is it a new gladness beyond gladness? And why are you so glad?”

Weeping and sobbing she hid her fair face upon his knees, clasping them passionately, her words stumbling from her lips in agony.

“It is not gladness, O heart of my heart. It is grief.”

And he, from the inward Kingdom of Calm.

“And what is grief, my lotus flower?”

For in all his life he had neither heard the word nor seen the thing and she spoke an unknown language. And as she sobbed on, he lifted her face gently in his two hands and looked at her closed eyelids, the lashes wet and matted on her cheek with running tears, she pale as death, the rich colour dead in her lips, and on his beautiful face was amazement and no more, for how could he pity who had lived only in the presence of joy? And at last he said very slowly as if bewildered:

“My rose, my delight, what is this new thing, and what have you to tell me? Speak that I may rejoice also.”

And his words stung some terror in her because he could not understand and it seemed that she must bear the burden of grief and the hidden secret of the world’s woe not only for him and herself, but for all the earth. For from any creature born human, though young and beautiful and a Prince, it may well seem a daring too great for mortals to deny grief and affront sorrow and to shut the door in their grey faces—knowing them waiting and watching outside. So the words broke from her sobbing lips:

“This morning I woke, and in the august quiet of the dawn I knew that my hope of hopes was given to me and my joy brimmed and sparkled in the cup of jewelled gold from the Gods, and I would have turned then into my lord’s breast to tell of it, but that night you had not passed with me but in the chamber of deodar, so I lay and dreamed awake, lost in bliss until they brought me word that our father would speak with me, and I went.”

“But all this was good, my lily swaying on blue waters. And what was your hope?” he said with a hand coming and going softly in her hair, and the monotony and gentleness of his touch soothed her like the immeasurable falling of far-distant water—no louder than the humming of a bee. And drawing more quiet breath, she continued:

“Our father asked me, lord of my soul, whether still you escaped away in soul from all the love and laughter about you. For when this is so, is it not that we fail to make you glad, and am not I, your wife, the worst sinner? O heart of my heart, what more is there that we have not done? Tell me, I beseech you.”

And he answered, “Nothing,” looking above her head to the heights.

Passionately she caught his hands in hers.

“Then, O beloved, if we have done all and fail, what is it that draws you from me? What is your soul’s desire? When our father, believing a man might weary of my poor beauty, sought out new faces for the Painted Chambers, did I weep? I smiled, though—But no, I will not say it. If it was your pleasure, what should I be but glad? But still you were drawn from us, and it has been a terror that bit into my soul, when waking in a white moonlight, I have seen you sitting with alien eyes fixed upon the great march of the stars. And yet I have kept silence. But now, lord of my life I ask this—where is it your soul goes, and to whom?”

Her hands, hot with the fever of the soul, pleaded for her, clasping his. Her dark eyes heavy with tears entreated mercy. He answered gravely:

“I go to my own people.”

“And we are not your own people? Beloved, beloved—Your words are swords, who then are your own?”

“I cannot tell.”

Her hope forgotten, the Princess knelt beside him.

“O noble one, is it life or death that draws you?”

“I cannot tell. What is death? But life such as this is weariness inexpressible, and how men endure it I cannot know. Without change, break, or ripple the sunshiny days glide past, each bringing in its hands the same offering of love and peace monotonous as a dove’s cooing. My life is without hope, for, having all, what is there to hope for? And what I have is over-sweet. It cloys in the tasting like honey. And the Brahmans make their sacrifices and mutter their mantras of invocation and propitiation, and for what? For if we have all, what more is there to have, and why pray for what is unneeded? If this Paradise over-sweet can never crack asunder; if ages and ages hence we still shall sit here young and beautiful as to-day,—the Gods have emptied their hands and what have they left to give? And if we do amiss, how shall they punish us? And will not the day come when I may lift up my hand to the mountains and curse them, saying—‘Be at ease in your careless heavens, O unapproachable Gods,—but I am a man with a soul not to be captured and tamed in earth’s paddock. I demand my rights, though what they are I know not, for I move in a perfumed cloud that blinds me. But I shall know one day.’ ”

She looked up at him in fear that forbade speech.

“I hear the noise of hammers outside the gardens, the cry of the plougher, the song of the maids who come home with cattle from the outer meadows. And I say that these people have lives better than mine, and if I could change I would, for sweet must be their sleep and glad their leisure, but for me life is all idleness and sleep, and their eternity is better than my own. I will ask my father to let me too go out and labour in the glad world outside this prison, that buys its food with happy toil, that I too may know what it is to eat the bread I have earned in contentment.”

Pale with fear Yashodara answered:

“But, lord of my life, how is it known to you that their life is all good? Is it possible to envy what you know not?”

“I know that with them life is eternal as with me and doubtless joy perpetual. But to this they add useful toil that gives us our luxuries. All these fair things about us are made by the hands of free men rejoicing in beauty. And I make nothing. I pass from one enjoyment to another, fettered—a winged bird in a jewelled cage. Are they not happier than I? And you, sweet wife,—what joy have you in comforting the long hours of a slave?”

She kissed his hands with passion, her black hair falling silken about his feet.

“It is I that am the slave, my King—the happy slave of your beauty and nobleness, and what could I ask but to wait eternally upon your pleasure and that of your son.”

He turned his eyes gravely upon her.

“My son?” he said. And she:

“It is true—it is true. And it is because I bear this hope in my bosom that it pierces me like a sword to see your calm averted eyes and know you far away in that strange heaven where I cannot follow. O, my lord, if it be true that you have alien kindred I cannot reach, let your son be of them. Give him all good!”

Then stooping, he drew her head to his breast and put his arm about her and drew her gently until she sat upon his left knee—that throne of the Indian wife, and thus they remained awhile in silence, and his touch was better than speech and his quiet healing as moonlight. Nor did she miss words of love or rejoicing for his calm folded her in the very wings of peace. At long last he spoke:

“My Pearl of Perfectness, we two are one, and of our true oneness springs this new delight. To me the hope is sweeter than all harps touched in the hollow of Heaven, and if you were dear to me before, judge how dear now. But since we are so one, come nearer, share my thought as well as my heart. Does it content you that we should bring into our prison another prisoner and one so dear? Here the days slip by uncounted—a chain of fadeless flowers. Here the river links its long silver thought for ever and ever down the channel from the peaks. Here the bright birds flash by eternally. Will they people the garden to overflowing with their beauty or do they fly away to freer lands as I would if I could? When this garden is full of our children and theirs, what then? Am I the only prisoner or they also? What is the secret my father holds from me?”

But she, trembling, could answer nothing. And again there was silence and only the bright slow dropping of the little spring, and her heart forboded sorrow.

“O day of joy made bitter with fear!” it said within her.

And again he fell into deep cold meditation, and forgot her utterly and his arm relaxed and slipping fell beside him, and she crept from his knee, and he did not know, staring with lost eyes toward the stainless heavens. And for awhile she stood and watched unnoticed, and then crept shuddering away.

And beneath the shade of the neem Siddhartha sat motionless until the rays from the low sun struck high up the tree trunks, and sunset followed, a breath of rose on a rainbow sky, and presently the moon rose unclouded in luminous loveliness and floated to the zenith, and all boughs dropped dew, and the mountains were lost in stars.

Nor did any dare to break his dream.