Читать книгу The Splendour of Asia - Elizabeth Louisa Moresby - Страница 8

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Thus have I heard.

Time went by, each day sweet as new honey dripping golden from a golden comb, sweet, inexpressibly sweet, and the Princess, moving languidly, trembling with hope mingled with doubt and fear, would tell only her joys to the Maharaja Suddhodana and not her fears. For what help was there in him? He could not strengthen the guarding gates for they were strong and armed men watched by them, nor the walls, for they were high, and observed from watch-towers. And yet, day by day and night by night the spirit of Siddhartha had passed invisible between the swords and unsleeping eyes.

But since the hope of the Princess was made known to him, he shut himself within the great gardens in spirit also. There should no cloud dim the eyes of the mother of his son—flowers must bud and blossom in her heart as about her slender feet, and no thought but peace and security creep into her Paradise. And little by little, as a wild deer glimpsing through the green flies in terror, yet may be slowly won with patience and tenderness till it will browse the rose-leaves in a girl’s hand, so was the fear of the Princess put to sleep, and a low song of joy and immeasurable thankfulness made music in her heart like the summer voice of Rohini after the melting of the snows—when the river is little and peaceful.

And one day the Maharaja came to visit her in the cool chamber of roses looking toward the north and the eternal mountains and found her stringing jade and crystal and amber on a fine golden cord, while ladies sat about her plucking rose petals for paste of roses, and there was a sound of far music in the gardens and looking through the lattice he saw Siddhartha with his best and dearest cousin, the Prince Ananda, shooting with bow and arrow in a wide meadow by the river, and Devadatta and another of the Sakya lords stood by, and the young men laughed and shouted, and their voices came small and clear with distance, so that the heart of the King exulted and he triumphed as he seated himself on the golden and peacock cushions, dismissing the women.

“We have conquered, lovely one!” he said, laughing kindly in his black beard. “What neither I nor all my sages could do your small wise hands have done, for in them the mother of his child holds my son’s heart. I knew—I foretold, it must be so, for he is loving and good and all the pieties of life hold him like bands of iron. You are content?”

And she smiling.

“Noble father, I am content. I have no more ‘And yets’ with which to wound your ear. My lord leaves me neither by night or day, except when I entreat him to try his strength with Ananda and Devadatta and the Sakya lords. And this is wisdom. We strained too tight upon the fetters and they ate into his soul. This freedom among the young lords is well. My noble father, I entreat you to give him what liberty you can, for it is good. Never now do I see him submerged in the cold dreams that stole him from us. Those strange voices call him no more, the hands have ceased to beckon. He is ours—yours and mine and the child’s, and of the child is all his talk and thought. He shall ride with sword and lance and be a King of Kings. So we say—one to the other.”

She looked up with tears of pure joy trembling like shed diamonds on her long black lashes, and the Maharaja, grave with delight, replied:

“So it shall be! What!—the kingdom of Maghada is ruled by a foolish man—the King Bimbisara,—why shall not my son oust him as we gather strength? Ha! are not we too of the Arya—the great fighting people, and may not one elephant subdue another! Daughter, I would have you breathe these things in my son’s ear, and thrill him with hope of great splendours for the child.”

She answered eagerly.

“Father, I have done—I do it. I say each day—‘Give him his inheritance, my lord. Let all good that you gain be his, for he is yours and ours,’ and always he replies: ‘Could I find the whole world’s Pearl it would be for my great father, for you and for the child. Be content, wife, for my heart is with my own people.’ ”

And as she spoke his words the tears of gladness brimmed and fell on the crystals and jade and amber in her golden lap and the Raja clapped his hands together and shouted for joy.

“Ha, ha! we have won him! O auspicious daughter, dip your hands in my treasury and take at your will. What reward is enough for your beauty and wisdom? But now be cautious”—[There he became grave and weighty]—“guard your health and your person as the deposit of a King, and all shall be well. And the day is not far distant when we shall laugh at the sickly foretelling that said if he saw death, pain or old age he would flee into the jungle. What! Shall not my son have strength to face the common lot of man like a great King! But not yet—not yet! We will go warily.”

And the wise Princess saw that beneath his triumph he was not even yet wholly reassured. But she herself was content.

So when Siddhartha returned flushed and gay from riding and shooting by the parks of Rohini with the great bow in his hand and quiver at his shoulder, a glittering glorious young warrior, she clung about him shining with bliss so that it appeared that visible rays surrounded her as they do the Dawn Maiden when she, standing, flings her golden arrows about the world from the peaks of Himalaya. And with his arms about her in their chamber of marble he said:

“And is my dove content? And is life good?” and she replied:

“Most utterly content. If life is good to my lord it is delight to me. But you, O, heart’s dearest—and are you not content? See how the world is white with blossom dropping perfumed dew, and the blue birds flash through them, and there is piping and singing and the flutter of wings through all the happy gardens and the humming of black bees mad for honey. And this morning as I walked with Gautami the slender-waisted, close, close hidden in the jasmin flowers I found a small nest—small and heart-holding and in it four blue jewels of eggs warm from the mother’s breast—warm as love and home, and blue as the skies, and I looked and said—‘One, two, three, four. This is a prophecy. These are the three sons and the one daughter I shall bear to my lord. First—three sons, one by one, and then a daughter so lovely that all Kings of the earth shall desire her, and the three strong brothers shall guard her beauty—that is fit only for the enjoyment of the King of the Three Worlds! And we will hide this lovely one in the heart of the gardens until he comes. Now, since I have seen this portent, four there must be. Less there cannot. But possibly more!’ ”

And she leaned back, flashing the sunshine of her eyes in his, and he laughed back holding her by the two hands, half dazzled with her beauty and gladness.

“This is life,” he said—“and the cold dreams are gone. They rose like mists from Rohini in autumn mornings—and in the rising of the sun they disperse. And the coming of my son has driven them into the night where they belong.”

Therefore great gladness reigned in the House of Gardens and doubt was forgotten, and in his pride, willing to make his son more free and yet security more secure, the Maharaja made another and most beautiful garden across the city where Siddhartha might take his pleasure if he wearied of the Gardens of Rohini, and the Princess approved this with her wisdom, saying: “We must stretch the tether, lest the bird guess he is not free to fly into the distances.”

And this was a most exquisite garden, with great pools and lakes where white cranes stood meditating all day among blue lotus blossoms—the very essence of the blue of the waters, and it was made a Paradise where none might take life or harm the creatures of earth or air or water, and the wild swans floated as pure and fearless upon those lakes as upon the bosom of holy Manasa in the sky-uplifted bosom of the mountains, and the deer were not shy but walked beside men, and with great eyes, silent though full of speech, told them the hidden histories of their wild hearts.

And on a certain day Siddhartha sent a message to his father.

“Great father, if my Paradise is ready, give me permission to drive through the city to-morrow that I may enjoy it with my cousins Ananda and Devadatta and the Sakya lords.”

And the answer returned was “To-morrow,” and that night Siddhartha passed with his wife Yashodara in a pavilion of Chinese silks with blue and gold dragons by the banks where Rohini wandered among her reeds singing a little song of sleep, and as the orange sunset faded into grey a few large stars came out, and swam in immeasurable deeps above them. And she said, holding his hand:

“How beautiful—how beautiful is the coming of the night with all the stars caught like bees in her net of blue,—and is it not strange, O lord of my life, to think that long ages after we and our love are forgotten other lovers shall sit by this little river and see the night glide down the mountains scattering stars about the world like seeds of light. Shall we see, shall we know, in those cold other lives they promise?”

And he in great astonishment:

“Forgotten? In what age to come shall you not still be loveliest and gentlest, Queen of the whole earth for beauty? Then, as now, shall men come to happy Kapila because the city holds the most beautiful as the shell its pearl. How should we be forgotten?”

And for a moment cold fear crept by her like the silent passing of a snake, compelling her to remember that the truth was shut from those dear eyes, light of her life,—and she brushed it from her and said laughing.

“True—who should forget us? I dream sometimes that of all names in the world my lord’s shall be greatest, uplifted, splendid, like that great star throbbing upon the topmost peak of all, and men shall bow down and do homage to it not only in the land of the Sakyas and in Maghada and Kosala, but in the wide great world among strange people who send us their treasures but whose very names we cannot utter.”

“And you have dreamed this, beloved? And how?”

“I have dreams that beat in my ears and their sound goes over the mountains, north and south and east and west. And the sun is dimmed with fumes of incense offered to a great King. And I see golden palaces like the sands of all the rivers for number, with my lord sitting throned beneath them in gold—palaces innumerable, and flowers cast in heaps to exhale their perfume. And all this in my lord’s honour. This have I dreamed four times.”

And he said, slowly:

“It is my dream also. Certainly the Gods come in dream. But who can say? See, beloved, how the night, mother of men, brings us her dark reposes lulling all things to sleep. There is no moon, but strange spirits as white as moonbeams moving among the trees. Sing low to me, beloved, sing low. I would not see their eyes—they look upon me with thoughts I cannot read. Sing to me—fill my eyes with the love in yours. Sing!”

And she took her sitar of ebony and ivory and sang softly as Rohini that made a silver music at their feet.

But there was a seal upon her lips that she might not sing of love though love was beside her, for the awe of the mountains was heavy on them and the listening of night. Therefore she sang these words, but no louder than a bee hovering about a flower.

“The wild swans rise from earth,

Strong in the path of the sun.

How should it give them mirth

With his great day begun?

Upward the white wings fly,

Clouds in the bluest blue,

Far they soar—and high!—

Would I might follow too.”

And again after awhile she sang a great hymn of the ancient Scripture but lower still:

“Though difference be none, I am of Thee,

Not Thou, O Lord, of me.

For of the sea is verily the wave,

Not of the wave the sea.”

And there was silence, and he turned and laid his cheek to hers and they sat together long, gazing speechless at the marvel of the starry deeps. Nor did they know that their last night of peace was with them.

Meanwhile the commands of the Maharaja went out into every street and house of Kapila.

“To-morrow the chariot of my son goes through the streets to the Paradise of Pleasure. See and beware that no aged man or woman be abroad in the city, for my son’s eyes must behold no aged, sick or dead person. It is forbidden by the Powers that rule his destiny. Therefore let none but healthy, glad and beautiful persons fall in his way, for if otherwise the transgressor must die.”

And there was not a soul in the place but heard this command and touching their foreheads murmured, “It is an order.” And men, women and children ran busily here and there garlanding the happy streets, and they set up poles gilded and painted and with gay fluttering banners. And dwarfed trees after the Chinese manner were placed along the roads, and there were hanging canopies of blue and rose silk, and magnificent tapestries were hung from the windows, until the city shone beautiful as the Paradise of the Gods on the holy mountain Sumeru, and bands of children running like the lesser angels strewed flowers through all the ways where Siddhartha should pass.

Then steadily as the running of a river the people poured in from the country-side to see their young Prince, and the ways were gay with happy folk dressed in their best and garlanded with garlands of marigolds and little rosebuds scented with fragrant oils to increase their own fragrance. The towers were filled with men and women clustering like bees. The mounds by the trees, the windows and terraces—were thronged with eager persons,—the men looking sharply about them to see that nothing was left which might offend the eyes of the heir. And there was nothing, for in bright sunshine, tempered by a cool breath from the mountains none but happy and beautiful people with their children rejoiced and were glad.

Now see the glorious chariot of ivory inlaid with gold made ready by the gate of the Garden House, fronted with jewels glittering in the bright challenging sunbeams, spread with noble silks flowered with gold, and drawn by four equal-pacing stately horses, white as the ivory they drew, and harnessed with splendour,—their pride subdued to the pride of their master. And beside them stood Channa, the charioteer, a young man well born and noble in mind and person.

So having saluted his wife, the Princess Yashodara, the Prince Siddhartha advancing ascended the chariot, robed in gold and jewels and appearing like Surya the sun when he blazes at his zenith, and all veiled their eyes from his brilliance.

And as he came through the streets, his horses pacing gently, the people swayed toward him and a whisper of awe and delight ran through them like the breathing of a breeze that blows the blossoms in passing.

Looking upon them his heart exulted with joy and kindness, for he thought—“This is my city of delight. These are my people, and it shall eternally be my bliss to do them good. Look at the strong fathers holding up their little sweet children to see their Prince. Their hearts are full of love even as my own. Look at the lovely mothers with their babes in warm bosoms—only less fair than Yashodara, and full of love and gentleness. And the glorious young men straight and tall, and the antelope-eyed girls with silken hair braided with blossoms. The Gods know it is a happy world with all these noble creatures in it, and my sick dreams of I know not what are dispersed in this bliss and the great joy of my people.”

And he saluted with his hands, smiling right and left that none might be forgotten, and sometimes from the chariot he took an armful of flowers and tossed them lightly among the crowd and they were gathered up with delight and pressed to eager lips and brows because they had touched the Prince’s hand. So he went through the city, marvelling why his father had forbidden it hitherto. And as he flung his last handful of flowers the appointed moment struck—predestined by the Rulers,—and across the way of the chariot staggered an old, old man, and the stately stallions arched white necks and tossed their heads in disdain at this revolting sight, for they too had beheld nothing but loveliness until that moment.

And because the commands of the Maharaja were stern it is said that this figure was no mortal man but a divinity hidden in flesh whom none could let or hinder and that the myriad people of Kapila saw nothing of this—but two saw clearly—the Prince and the charioteer, Channa. And how this may be I cannot tell. Thus have I heard.

And the aged man with tattered white hair depending from his bleached and bony head like lichen from a stricken tree, supporting his painful steps on a stick, weak, imbecile, skinny jaw fallen disclosing toothless gums, eyes red and bleared, without lashes, and moisture oozing from them, drawing oppressed and painful breath and terror-stricken amidst the crowds, tottered across the flowery way and sank, heaped and huddled beside the chariot, casting a look of terror upon the radiant Prince, and mumbling and muttering what none could hear, his head shaking like a leaf in wind. And it was as if darkness and terror obliterated the sun and all the crowded people bowed forward to see the stopping of the chariot, breathlessly remembering the Maharaja’s commands, but none stirred in his place and even the children were dumb. And yet they had seen nothing but the face of the Prince with a shadow fallen upon it. And the Prince laid his hand on the reins and the horses stopped with drooped crests, and shaken with horror he cried aloud to the charioteer:

“Channa, what is it? What is this man? If indeed man it be.”

And the old man crouched there, muttering, and great fear held Channa silent, and again the Prince cried aloud:

“What is it? What is it?”

And again the crowd sighed like the first stirring of winter answer from Channa’s lips where he stood, bowed over the golden reins grasped in his hand.

“Prince, this is an old man. This is old age.” And a long sighing sob commoved the crowded people as though their doom were pronounced, when they heard.

But the Prince, the words almost dying on his lips, said trembling.

“What is old age? Was this unhappy one born so, or has it fallen as a judgment from Heaven?”

And again the crowd sighed like the first stirring of winter winds and Channa, face hidden, replied:

“Prince, he was not so born, nor is it the Gods’ anger, but this is the common lot and to every man born on earth it comes nor can it be escaped. This ruin of a man was once a child at his mother’s breast, and then a boy filled with laughter and sportive gaiety, a joy to see and hear. Later, a youth, beautiful, amorous and brave, such as attended on bliss, and in enjoyment of the Five Pleasures. But old age, dogging the steps of men as a hound with fell teeth, has dragged him down at last and had its will of him, and he lives a life of pain and men avoid him and women pass him by.”

And some women in the crowd wept aloud, and the air was heavy with sighing and the old man moaned and muttered with toothless jaws.

But the Prince, still unbelieving and trembling said:

“And will this doom come upon my great father?

“Noble sir, yes.”

“And upon the beauty of—my ladies?”

“Even so.”

“And upon me.”

And there was a fearful silence like death among the crowd and no word from Channa so that had a breath stirred in the palms it would have affrighted the soul.

Then suddenly the Prince cried aloud:

“Turn back the chariot. What heart have I for pleasures! Tear down the garlands. Where is there room for joy! I have seen what I have seen.”

And, wordless, Channa turned the white horses, and guided the chariot along the way it came and the people fell back to make way, and men and women hid their faces like mourners for it seemed as though in the knowledge of the Prince knowledge had come to them also of the terror of life and the doom inevitable.