Title: Dreams and delights
Author: Beck, L. Adams (Lily Adams)
Language: English
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                           =_THE NOVELS OF_=
                           =_L. ADAMS BECK_=

                      =The Key of Dreams=
                      =The Perfume of the Rainbow=
                      =The Treasure of Ho=
                      =The Ninth Vibration=
                      =The Way of Stars=
                      =The Splendour of Asia=
                      =Dreams and Delights=



                                =DREAMS=
                            =AND  DELIGHTS=


                                  =BY=
                            =L. ADAMS BECK=



                               =NEW YORK=
                        =DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY=
                                 =1926=



             Copyright, 1920, 1922, 1923, 1924, 1925, 1926
                     BY DODD, MEAD, & COMPANY, INC.


                          Printed in U. S. A.

                         THE VAIL-BALLOU PRESS
                        BINGHAMTON AND NEW YORK



                                PREFACE

These stories of dreams and delights in breathless jungles of Ceylon,
among Himalayan mountains, by Chinese seas, in ancientries beneath dead
suns and withered moons, are in truth the soul’s longing to behold the
White Swan of the World when in dim twilights of dawn and evening she
spreads her wings for flight. And because to such wings time and
distance are nothing I have gathered one feather dropped on Dartmoor as
she soared to Gaurisankar where on the highest peak of earth, circled by
great stars, the Mystic Mother of India dreams her divine dream as the
ages unroll beneath her feet. The Snowy Goddess, She who is Very Woman
of very woman, knows that whether by Thames or Ganges, Mississippi,
Yang-tze, or rolling Nile, Her daughters are the same, yesterday, to-day
and for ever, and holding in their hands the hearts of men, so fulfil
Her purpose. And because no true story can be told without this
knowledge, I set Her name at the beginning of these dreams and delights,
invoking devoutly the protection and inspiration of Her who is at once
Eve and Lilith, Athene and Aphrodite, Parwati and Kali, Virgin, Mother,
and Destroyer, but in all forms and incarnations, Enchantress and
Conqueror of men.

                                                         L. Adams Beck.

Canada.



                                 CONTENTS

                                                            PAGE
             “V. Lydiat”.    .    .    .    .    .    .        3

             The Sea of Lilies.    .    .    .    .    .      41

             The Bride of a God.    .    .    .    .    .     61

             The Beloved of the Gods.    .    .    .    .     89

             The Hidden One.    .    .    .    .    .    .   107

             The Marriage of the Princess.    .    .    .    143

             The Wisdom of the Orient.    .    .    .    .   167

             Stately Julia.    .    .    .    .    .    .    185

             The Island of Pearls.    .    .    .    .       215

             The Wonderful Pilgrimage to Amarnath.    .      253

             The Man Without a Sword.    .    .    .    .    281



                              “V. LYDIAT”



                              “V. LYDIAT”


She sat and looked at the signature written under the name of the story
in readiness for typing.

                         “THE NINEFOLD FLOWER.”

It was a fine story, she knew, and the signature satisfied her also as
it always did. _V._ is the most beautiful letter in the alphabet to
write and look at, the ends curving over from the slender base like the
uprush of a fountain from its tense spring. When she “commenced author,”
as the eighteenth century puts it, she devoted days and days to the
consideration of that pen-name. For several reasons it must not reveal
identity. Most women prefer the highwayman’s mask when they ride abroad
to hold up the public. It gives a freedom impossible when one is
tethered to the responsibilities of name and family. One becomes a
foundling in the great city of Literature and the pebble-cold eye of
human relationship passes unaware over what would have stung it into
anger or jealousy if it had held the key of the mystery. That is, if the
secret is guarded as carefully as V. Lydiat’s.

But, for all I know, her strange reason for secrecy may never in this
world have swayed man or woman before.

In reality she was Beatrice Veronica Law Leslie.

A mouthful indeed! You can make as many combinations with that as with
the trick lock of a safe, and it will be as difficult to pick the
secret. She had a strong superstition about keeping to her own initials,
anagrammed or reversed and twisted. It seemed to her that this was part
of a bond of honour of which another held the pledge. With this pen-name
a most astonishing thing had befallen Beatrice Veronica Law Leslie, for
she won a literary success so sudden and singular that the very
management of it required a statesmanship she never before knew she
possessed.

A little must here be said of her life that this strange thing may be
understood. She was the only child of a well-known Oxford don and a
somewhat remarkable mystically-minded mother who died when the girl was
fourteen. Her father, after that loss, “tried life a little, liked it
not, and died” four years later, and Beatrice Veronica who was known in
her family as B. V. then betook herself to the guardianship of an aunt
in Montreal. Here, she also tried life a little, on the society side,
and certainly liked it not. There was an urge within her that cried
aloud for adventure, for the sight of the dissolving glories of the
Orient and contact with strange lives that called to her dumbly in
books. They peeped and mocked and vanished to their unknown countries
taking her longing with them, and life lay about her vapid, flat,
dominated by an Aunt of Fashion.

She floated on a duck pond and sighed for the ocean. What is a young
woman of spirit, not too beautiful to be dangerous, of small but
sufficient means, to do in such a case? Beatrice Veronica knew very
well.

She waited until she was twenty-one, meanwhile securing the allegiance
of a girl, Sidney Verrier, in like case, an enthusiast like herself, and
on a May morning of dreamy sweetness they got themselves into a C.P.R.
train for Victoria, B. C., leaving two ill-auguring aunts on the
platform, and away with them on a trip to the Orient _via_ Japan. They
were under bond to return in a year.

It was a wonderful, a heavenly experience—that wander-year of theirs.
The things they saw, the men and women they met, the marvels which
appealed to every sense! But I must not dwell on these for they are but
the pedestal to the story of V. Lydiat.

A year! Impossible. Four, six, eight years went by and still unheeded
aunts clamoured, and the pavements of Montreal lacked their footsteps.

And then, in Agra, Sidney Verrier married, and apologetically,
doubtfully, dissolved the fair companionship, and Beatrice Veronica was
left to solitude.

When the bridal car rolled off to the station and the honeymoon at
Mussoori, she sat down and considered. She had not realized it until
then. The ways of the world were open, for experience had made them
plain. She had acquaintances, go where she would. There was no material
reason why she should not continue this delightful nomad existence
delightfully. But she was lonely, and suddenly it became clear to her
that she wanted quiet, time, recollection. She had assisted at a great
feast of the senses and had eaten to satiety.

Now—imperatively—something in her heart cried “Enough.”

Afterwards she wondered if that had been the voice of V. Lydiat crying
in the wilderness. The note of preparation.

But where to go? Her aunt was still treading the daily round of bridge
and luncheon parties in Montreal and the soul of Beatrice Veronica
shuddered in the remembrance. No, no. The bird set free does not
re-enter its gilded cage, however temptingly the little dish of seed is
set forth. But she loved Canada for all that. She remembered, as she and
Sidney Verrier had passed through the glorious giant-land of the
Rockies, how broadly uplifted and vast had been the heights and spaces,
how enormous the glee of the rivers tumbling from hidden sources, and
they called her across far waters and beneath strange stars.

But could one live in such colossal companionship? Is it possible to
dine and sleep and yawn in the presence of Gods and Emperors? There was
the doubt. And then she remembered a shining city laving her feet in
shining seas, with quiet gardens where the roses blush and bloom in a
calm so deep that you may count the fall of every petal in the drowsy
summer afternoons. A city of pines and oaks, of happy homes great and
small,—a city above all, bearing the keys of the Orient at her golden
girdle,—for it is but to step aboard a boat, swift almost as the Magic
Carpet, and you wake one happy morning with all the dear remembered
scents and sights before you once more. And her heart said
“Victoria,”—where Westernmost West leans forward to kiss Easternmost
East across the Pacific.

So she went there—now a woman of twenty-nine, self-possessed, and
capable, and settled herself in a great hostelry to choose and build her
home. Her home, mark you!—not her prison. It was not to be so large as
to hamper flight when the inevitable call came—

                  Take down your golden wings now
                  From the hook behind the door,
                  The wind is calling from the East
                  And you must fly once more.

I wish I might write of the building of Beatrice Veronica’s home for it
developed into one of the immense joys of her life. But more important
things are ahead, so it must suffice to say that it was long, low and
brown with sunny verandas and windows avid of sunshine, and that all the
plunder of travel, and books, books, books found happy place in it and
grew there as inevitably as leaves on a tree.

But it was while all this was in embryo that the thought of writing
impressed itself on Beatrice Veronica. Partly because the house
adventure was expensive and she wanted a larger margin, partly because
she had seen with delighted interest and intelligence all the splendid
spectacle of men and cities. Her sound knowledge of history and
cultivated taste in literature should count for pebbles in the writer’s
sling who goes forth to conquer the great Goliath of the public. She
revolved this thought often as she walked by murmurous seas or nested in
a niche of rock to watch the mountains opposite reflecting every change
of sunlight as a soul in adoration reflects its deity. It really seemed
a waste not to turn all this to some sort of account. And success would
be sweet. But how to begin!

She bought an armful of the magazines which make gay the streets of
Victoria. “I ought to be able to do this kind of thing,” she reflected.
“I have a good vocabulary. Father always thought about eight thousand
words, and that should go a long way. Besides I’ve seen nearly all there
is to see. Let’s try.”

She did, and ended with more respect for the average author. The eight
thousand were as unmanageable as mutineers or idiots. They marched
doggedly in heavy columns, they right-about-faced and deployed; but
there was no life in them. The veriest man-handler of a grizzly or a
cow-boy could do better. Being a young person of quick insight and
decision she decided to waste no more time in that direction. She laid
away the magazines and decided to be a spectator with memory and hope
for companions. She burned her manuscripts and turned her attention to
planning her garden.

And it was then that V. Lydiat dawned on the horizon.

Dawned. That is the only word, for it came and the sun came after. It
happened in this way.

One night, in the usual way Beatrice Veronica fell asleep and dreamed,
but not in the usual way. She was standing by a temple she remembered
very well in Southern India, the Temple of Govindhar. It stood there,
under its palms wonderful as a giant rock of majolica, coloured lavishly
in the hard fierce sunshine, monstrously sculptured with gods and
goddesses, and mythical creatures of land and water in all the acts of
their supernal life, writhing and tapering upwards to the great
architectural crown supported by tigers and monkeys which finished the
building,—a crown gemmed with worshipping spirits for jewels, a
nightmare conception of violence in form and colour; the last barbaric
touch to the misbegotten splendour. Vaguely the whole thing reminded
Beatrice Veronica of her literary efforts and she stood among the palms
looking up to the blaze against the blue and smiling a little.

Suddenly she became aware that a man was standing near the great gate
which no unbeliever’s foot may pass, looking up also, shading his eyes
with his hand from the intolerable sunlight. His face was sensitive and
strong, an unusual blending, his eyes grey and noticeable. She liked his
figure in the light tropical clothing. He had the air of birth and
breeding. But he seemed wearied, as if the climate had been too much for
him, a look one knows very well where the Peninsula runs down to Cape
Cormorin, and the sun beats on the head like a mighty man of valour.

Then, as dream-people will, he came towards her as if they had known
each other all their lives, and said, slowly, meditatively:

“I have tried and tried. I can’t do it.”

With a sense that she knew what he meant though she could not drag it to
the surface, she found herself saying earnestly:

“But have you tried hard enough? _Really_ tried?”

He put his hands to his forehead with a tired gesture:

“I’m always trying. But _you_ could do it.”

She said, “Could I?” in great astonishment.

They stood a moment side by side, looking at each other and then as if
from a blurred distance she heard his voice again.

“It was said long ago that if any creatures united their psychic forces
they could conquer the world, though singly they could do nothing.”

Temple and palms dissolved into coloured mist; they swam away on another
wave of dream and vanished. She floated up to the surface of
consciousness again, awake, with the pale morning gold streaming in
through the east window.

She knew she had dreamed, for a sense of something lost haunted her all
day, yet could not remember anything, and things went on in their usual
course.

That evening sitting in a corner of the hotel lounge, with the babble of
music and talk about her, she had the irresistible impulse to write,—to
write something; she did not in the least know what. It was so urgent
that she walked quickly to the elevator and so to her sitting room, and
there she snatched pen and paper and wrote the beginning of a story of
modern life in India, but strangely influenced by and centring about the
Temple of Govindhar. As she wrote the name she remembered that she had
seen it among the palm trees in its hideous beauty, and now, like a
human personality, it forced itself upon her and compelled her to be its
mouthpiece.

How it happened she could not in the least tell. Certainly she had
travelled, kept her ears and eyes open and learned as much as any woman
can do who keeps on the beaten track in the Orient and consorts with her
own kind in preference to the natives. The two worlds are very far
apart—so far that nothing from below the surface can pass over the
well-defined limits. Moreover she was not a learned woman,—Indian
thought of the mystic order had never come her way, and Indian history
except at the point where it touches European was a closed book.
Therefore this story astonished her very much. She read it over
breathlessly when it was finished. If she had had that knowledge when
she was there how all the mysteries of the temple would have leaped to
light—what drama, what strange suspense would have lurked in its
monstrous form and colour! The critic in her brain who, standing aside,
watched the posturing and mouthing of the characters, told her austerely
that the work was good—excellent. But something behind her brain had
told her that already. She read it over ardently, lingeringly, with an
astonishing sense of ownership yet of doubt. _How_ had it come? And the
writing? No longer did the eight thousand of her vocabulary march in
dull squadrons, heavy-footed, languid. They sped, ran, flew, with
perfect grace, like the dancers of princes. They were beautiful
exceedingly. They bore the tale like a garland. She read it again and
again, with bewildered delight.

She tapped it out herself on the keys of her Corona and sent it to the
editor of a very famous magazine, with the signature of “V. Lydiat.” As
I have said, that matter took long thought, prompted from behind by
instincts.

It was done and V. Lydiat, a climbing star, shed a faint beam over the
world. For the editor wrote back eagerly. He knew he had found a new
flavour. “Your work impresses me as extremely original. I am anxious to
see more of it. I need hardly say I accept it for the magazine and I
shall hope to hear from you again before long.” A cheque followed.

No need to dwell on Beatrice Veronica’s feelings, mixed beyond
disentanglement. She was not astonished that the work should be
recognized as good, but—V. Lydiat! What had happened to her and how?
Strange tales are told to-day of sudden brain-stimulations and
complexes. Was she the happy victim of such an adventure, and if so,
would it be recurrent? How should she know? What should she do? She felt
herself moving in worlds not realized, and could not in the least decide
the simple question of whether it was honest to accept commendation for
a thing she felt in her very soul she had not done and could not do.

But then, who? What was V. Lydiat?

He, she, or it, came from starrier spheres than hers. Wings plumed its
shoulders, while hers were merely becomingly draped in seasonable
materials. She knew that the visitor was a subtler spirit, dwelling
beyond the mysteries, saturated with the colour and desire of dead ages
which can never die—an authentic voice, hailed at once by the few, to
be blown at last on the winds of the soul which, wandering the world,
let fall here and there the seeds of amaranth and asphodel.

Yes—V. Lydiat was entirely beyond her.

But you will understand that, though Beatrice Veronica could not enter
into the secret places, it was a most wonderful thing to be amanuensis
and business manager. To her fell the letters from editors and
publishers, the correspondence which rained in from the ends of the
earth, protesting gratitude, praise, entreaties for counsel in all
things from routes to religions. These latter were the most difficult,
for it would have taken V. Lydiat to answer them adequately. But
Beatrice Veronica did the best she could, and her life moved onward
aureoled and haloed.

She learned at last the rules of the game. V. Lydiat’s ethereal approach
could only be secured by the wand of a fountain pen. She must sit thus
armed with a fair sheet before her and wait, fixing her mind on some
idle point of light or persistent trembling of leaves, and suddenly the
world would pass miraculously from her and she would awake in
another—an amazing world, most beautiful, brimming with romance, lit by
suns of gallant men and moons of loveliest women. The great jewels of
the Orient shed starry splendours, and ghostly creeping figures pursued
them through jungles and mountain passes. Strange magics lurked in the
dark and drew the soul along the Way of Wonder.

The strangest experience. It began always in the same way. The blue
Canadian sky, the hyacinth gleam of the sea through oak and pine
dissolved in unrealities of mist, and sultry Oriental skies, yellow as a
lion’s eyes or the brazen boom of a gong, beat their fierce sunlight
downward as from an inverted bowl. And then—then, she knew V. Lydiat
was at hand. But never with companionship. It was a despot and entered
in, with flags flying, to the annihilation of Beatrice Veronica. She
wrote like a thing driven on a wind, and woke to find it done. The
possession obliterated her, and when she could collect her routed forces
it was gone.

So time went on and V. Lydiat’s fame was established and Beatrice
Veronica wore it as a woman too poor to appear at Court with fitting
magnificence shines in borrowed jewels and trembles to wear them.

One night in the moonlit warmth, with the vast Princesses of the Dark
hidden in the ambush of breathless trees, she sat in the high veranda of
her little house with the broad vista through pines to the sea.

It was a heavenly night; if the baby waves broke in the little bay they
must break in diamonds,—the wet stones must shine like crystals.

That day V. Lydiat had transported her to a great and silent jungle in
Cambodia and they went up together through the crowding whispering trees
to the ruined palaces where once great kings dwelt, and passed together
through sounding halls sculptured with dead myths to the chambers, once
secret, whence queens looked forth languidly from wildly-carved
casements into the wilderness of sweets in the gardens.

V. Lydiat had led her to a great tank of crystal water in the knotted
shade, paved with strange stones inlaid with human figures in wrought
metal,—a place where women with gold-embraced heads once idly bathed
their slender limbs in the warm lymph—a secret place then, but now open
to cruel sunlight and cold incurious stars.

So far she knew it all. She had photographed that tank with its stony
cobras while Sidney Verrier timed the exposure. But of the story told
to-day she knew nothing.

A wonderful story, old as time, new as to-morrow, for the figures in it
were of to-day, people who had gone there, as she herself had done, only
to see, and were captured, subjugated by the old alarming magic which
lurks in the jungle and behind the carven walls and eyeless windows. A
dangerous place, and she had not known it then—had thought of it only
as a sight to be seen, a memory to be treasured. But V. Lydiat knew
better—knew it was alive and terrible still.

She leaned her arms on the sill and looked out to the sea that led
towards the hidden Orient and in her heart she spoke to the strange
visitor.

“I wish I knew you,” she whispered. “You come and go and I can’t touch
you even while you are within and about me. You interpret. You make life
wonderful, but perhaps you are more wonderful still. If I could only lay
hold of you, touch you, have one glimpse of you! _What_ are you? Where
do you come from? Where do you go? I hear. O, let me see!”

It was like a prayer, and the more intense because the dead stillness of
the night presented it as its own cry and entreaty.

Dead silence. Not even the voice of the sea.

She laid her head on her folded arms.

“I’ve been obedient. I’ve laid myself down on the threshold that you
might walk over me and take possession. Have you no reward for me? Are
you just some strange cell of my own brain suddenly awake and working,
or are you some other—what?—but nearer to me than breathing, as near
as my own soul?”

The longing grew inarticulate and stronger, like the dumb yearning
instincts which move the world of unspeaking creatures. It seemed to her
that she sent her soul through the night pleading, pleading. Then very
slowly she relaxed into sleep as she lay in the moonlight—deep,
soul-satisfying sleep. And so dreamed.

She stood in the Shalimar Garden of the dead Mogul Empresses in Kashmir.
How well she knew it, how passionately she loved it! She and Sidney
Verrier had moored their houseboat on the Dal Lake not far away one
happy summer and had wandered almost daily to the Shalimar, glorying in
the beauty of its fountains and rushing cascades, and the roses—roses
everywhere in a most bewildering sweetness. How often she had gone up
the long garden ways to the foot of the hills that rise into mountains
and catch the snows and stars upon their heights. It was no wonder she
should dream of it. So in her dream she walked up to the great pavilion
supported on noble pillars of black marble from Pampoor, and the moon
swam in a wavering circle in the water before it, and she held back a
moment to see it break into a thousand reflections, and then became
aware of a man leaning with folded arms by the steps: his face clear in
the moonlight.

Instantly she knew him, as he did her—the man of her dream of the
Temple of Govindhar.

As before he turned and came toward her.

“I have waited for you by the temple and here and in many other places.
I wait every night. How is it you come so seldom?” he said. His voice
was stronger, his bearing more alert and eager than at Govindhar. He
spoke with a kind of assurance of welcome which she responded to
instantly.

“I would have come. I didn’t know. How can I tell?”

He looked at her smiling.

“There is only one way. Why didn’t you learn it in India? It was all
round you and you didn’t even notice. You don’t know your powers.
Listen.”

Beatrice Veronica drew towards him, eyes rapt on his face, scarcely
breathing. Yes—in India she had felt there were mighty stirrings about
her, thrills of an unknown spiritual life, crisping the surface like a
breeze, and passing—passing before ever you could say it was there. But
it did not touch her with so much as an outermost ripple. She was too
ignorant. Now—she could learn.

“You see—this is the way of it,” he said, leaning against the black
pillar. “The soul is sheer thought and knowledge, but, prisoned in the
body, it is the slave of the senses and all its powers are limited by
these. And they lead it into acts which in their consequences are
fetters of iron. Still, at a certain point of attainment one can be
freer than most men believe possible. When this is so, you use the Eight
Means of Mental Concentration and are free. You step into a new
dimension.”

“Is this true? Do you know it?” she said earnestly. “Because, if there
is any way which can be taken, I have a quest—something—someone——”

She stammered, and could not finish.

“I know. Someone you want to find in the dark. Well, it can be done. You
would not believe the possibilities of that freed state of
consciousness. Here, in the Shalimar you think you see nothing but
moonlight and water—nothing in fact but what your senses tell you. But
that is nonsense. Your eyes are shut. You are asleep in Canada and yet
you see them by the inner light of memory even now and the help I am
giving you! Well—use the Eight Means, and you will see them waking and
as clearly as you do in sleep. But I, who am instructed, see more. This
garden to me is peopled with those who made it—the dead kings and
queens who rejoiced in its beauty. See—” he laid his hand on hers and
suddenly she saw. Amazing—amazing! They were alone no longer.

Sitting on the floor of the pavilion, looking down into the
moon-mirroring water was a woman in the ancient dress of Persia, golden
and jewelled,—she flung her head up magnificently as if at the words,
and looked at them, the moon full in her eyes. The garden was peopled
now not only with roses but white blossoms sending out fierce hot shafts
of perfume. They struck Beatrice Veronica like something tangible, and
half dazed her as she stared at the startling beauty of the unveiled
woman revealed like a flaming jewel in the black and white glory of the
night.

With his hand on hers, she knew without words. Nourmahal the Empress,
ruler of the Emperor who made the Shalimar for her pleasure, who put
India with all its glories at her feet. Who else should be the soul of
the garden?

It seemed to Beatrice Veronica that she had never beheld beauty before.
It was beyond all pictures, all images in its sultry passionate
loveliness,—it was——

But as she watched spellbound, the man lifted his hand from hers and the
garden was empty of all but moonlight and roses once more, and he and
she alone. She could have wept for utter loss.

“Was it a ghost?” she asked trembling.

“No, no,—an essential something that remains in certain places, not a
ghost. There is nothing of what you mean by that word. Don’t be
frightened! You’ll often see them.”

She stared at him perplexed, and he added:

“You see? One has only to put oneself in the receptive state and time is
no more. One sees—one hears. You are only a beginner so I cannot show
you much. But you _are_ a beginner or you would not be here in the
Shalimar with me now. There is a bond between us which goes back—” He
paused, looking keenly at her, and said quickly “Centuries, and
further.”

She was stunned, dazed by the revelations. They meant so much more that
it is possible to record. Also the sensation was beginning in her which
we all know before waking. The dream wavers on its foundation, loosens,
becomes misty, makes ready to disappear. It would be gone—gone before
she could know. She caught his hand as if to steady it.

“Are you V. Lydiat?” she cried.—“You must be. You are. You come to me
every day—a voice. O let me come to you like this, and teach me, teach
me, that I may know and see. I am a blind creature in a universe of
wonders. Let me come every night.”

His face was receding, palpitating, collapsing, but his voice came as if
from something beyond it.

“That is what you call me. Names are nothing. Yes, come every night.”

It was gone. She was in the Shalimar alone, and somewhere in the
distance she heard Sidney Verrier’s voice calling clear as a bird.
Beatrice Veronica woke that morning with the sun glorying through the
eastern arch of her veranda. She was still dressed. She had slept there
all night. Of the dream she remembered snatches, hints, which left new
hopes and impulses germinating in her soul. The unknown flowers were
sown in spring. They would blossom in summer in unimaginable beauty.

That was the beginning of a time of strange and enchanting happiness.
Thus one may imagine the joy of a man born blind who by some miraculous
means is made to see, and wakes in a world of wonders. It is impossible
that anyone should know greater bliss. The very weight of it made her
methodical and practical lest a grain of heavenly gold should escape her
in its transmutation to earthly terms.

The morning was V. Lydiat’s. At ten o’clock she betook herself to her
high veranda, and folding her hands and composing her mind looked out to
sea through the wide way of pines which terminated in its azure beauty.
Then, as has been told before, it would blow softly away on a
dream-wind, and the story begin.

And at night there was now invariably the meeting. At first that was
always in some place she knew—somewhere she recognized from memory,
haunts of her own with Sidney Verrier. But one night a new thing
happened—she woke into dream by the Ganges at Cawnpore, at the terrible
Massacre Ghaut, a place she had always avoided because of the horrible
memories of the Indian mutiny which sicken the soul of every European
who stands there.

Now she stood at the top of the beautiful broken steps under the dense
shade of the very trees where the mutineers ambushed, and he was below,
beckoning her.

“Well done, well done!” he said, as she came slowly down to where holy
Ganges lips the lowest step. “This was a great experiment. You could
never have come here alone,—I could not have brought you until now, and
I had to fight the repugnance in you, but here you are. You see? We have
been putting stepping-stones, you and I, each from our own side, and now
the bridge is made and we hold hands in the middle. You can come
anywhere now. And listen—I too am learning to go where I have never
been. The world will be open to us soon.”

He looked at her with glowing eyes—the eyes of the explorer, the
discoverer, on the edge of triumph.

“But why here—in this horrible place?” She shrank a little even from
him as she looked about her. He laughed:

“That is no more now than a last year’s winter storm. They know. They
were not afraid even then. They laugh now as they go on their way. Be
happy, beloved. They are beyond the mysteries.”

Of that dream, she carried back to earth the word “beloved.” Who had
said it, she could not tell, but in the dark—the warm friendly
dark—there was someone who loved her, whom she loved with a perfect
union. Was it—could it be V. Lydiat? She did not know. Also she
remembered that she had dreamed the Massacre Ghaut at Cawnpore, and took
pains to search for pictures and stories of the place to verify her
dream. Yes—it was true. Things were becoming clearer.

Also, her power in writing increased very noticeably about this time. V.
Lydiat was recognized as holding a unique place amongst writers of the
Orient. On the one side were the scholars, the learned men who wrote in
terms of ancient Oriental thought, terms no ordinary reader could
understand, and on the other, the writers of the many-faceted surface,
the adventurers, toying with the titillating life of zenana and veiled
dangerous love-affairs,—a tissue of coloured crime. V. Lydiat recorded
all, and with a method of his own which approached perfect loveliness in
word and phrase. The faiths of the East were his,—in India and China
alike his soul sheltered under the Divine Wings, at home in strange
heavens, and hells which one day would blossom into heavens. As he and
Beatrice Veronica had posed stepping-stones until they met in the
middle, so he built a splendid bridge across the wide seas of
misunderstanding between east and west, and many souls passed across it
going and coming and were glad.

“I’m only a pioneer,” he said to Beatrice Veronica one day (she could
dream the day as well as the night) sitting in the gardens of the Taj.
“You too. It will be done much better soon. See how we are out-growing
our limitations and feeling out after the wonders of the sub-conscious
self, the essential that hands on the torch when we die. Die? No, I hate
that word. Let’s say, climb a step higher on the ladder of existence.
Every inch gives us a wider view of the country. You see?”

She liked that “You see?” which came so often. It was so eager—so
fraternal in a way. Yes, they were good comrades, she and V. Lydiat.

“Do you know I write for you?” she ventured to ask. “I have often
wondered if you speak as unconsciously as I write.”

“No, no. I know. I always know. Longer ago than you would believe you
used to work for me. We are in the same whirl-pool, you and I. Our atoms
must always be whirled together again. You can’t escape me, Beatrice
Veronica.”

“Do you think I want to?” she asked.

But in daily life she clung to her secret like grim death. She would not
have been burdened with V. Lydiat’s laurels for the world. The
dishonesty of it! And yet one could never explain. Hopeless! Who would
believe? And apart from that, she had a kind of growing certainty that
V. Lydiat would enter upon his own one day. Not that she remembered him
as any more than a vague dream influence; she did not, but yet the
realization of a Presence was growing, and she herself developing daily.

There is not much space here to tell the wondrous sights she saw with V.
Lydiat, and holding by his hand. That would be a book in itself—and a
beautiful one. And though she could only remember them in drifts like a
waft of far-off music on a breeze, it was incomparable food for the
sub-conscious self, and strengthened every latent faculty of memory and
experience. Beatrice Veronica promised to be a very remarkable woman if
some day the inner and outer faculties should unite.

But what was to be the solvent? That, this story can only indicate
faintly for the end is not yet.

She went out a little less into her small world of daily life—not
shunning it certainly, but her inner life was so crowded, so blissful
that the outer seemed insipid enough. Why figure at teas and bridge
parties, and struggle with the boredom of mah jong when the veranda was
waiting with the green way before it that led to the silence of the sea,
and the lover beyond? For it had come to that—the lover. All joy summed
up in that word, joy unmeasurable as the oceans of sunlight—a perfect
union. She walked as one carefully bearing a brimmed cup,—not a drop,
not a drop must spill,—so she carried herself a little stiffly as it
might seem to the outer world which could not guess the reason.

People liked her—but she moved on her own orbit, and it only
intersected theirs at certain well-defined points. Her soft abstracted
air won but eluded;—it put an atmosphere of strangeness about her, of
thoughts she could not share with anyone.

“She must have rather a lonely life of it!” they said. But she never
had.

One day came a letter from Sidney Verrier, now Sidney Mourilyan, from
her husband’s coffee plantation in the Shevaroy Hills in southern India.
She wrote from the settlement of Yercaud— “Not a town,” she wrote, “but
dear little scattered houses in the trees. We have even a club, think of
it!—after the wilds where you and I have been!—and there are pleasant
people, and Tony expects to do well with coffee here. I wish half the
day that you could come. You would like it, B. V.— You would like it!
And you would like my boy—two years old now, and a sheer delight. Not
to mention my garden. The growth here! The heliotropes are almost trees.
The jasmines have giant stars. The house is stormed with flowers—almost
too sweet. Couldn’t you come? Don’t you hear the east calling? At all
events you hear me calling, for I want you. And you must be having very
idle lazy days, for I remember I never could imagine what you would find
to do if you stopped travelling. Your whole soul was in that. It’s a
cold country you’re in—frigid pines, and stark mountains and icy seas.
Do come out into the sunshine again.”

She laid down the letter there and looked at the beloved pines almost
glittering in the sunshine as it slid off their smooth needles. And
idle?—her life, her wonderful secret life! Little indeed did Sidney
know if she could write like that. She took up the letter again,
smiling.

“And listen, B. V.—there’s a man going round by Japan to Canada, a man
called Martin Welland. I should like you to know him for two reasons.
First, he can tell you all about this place. Second, I think he is
interesting. If you don’t find him so, shunt him. My love, my dear B.
V., and do come. Think of all you might do with this as a starting
point.”

There was more, but that is the essential. You may think at this point
that you know exactly how this story must inevitably end. But no.

It was about four months after this that Beatrice Veronica was rung up
on the telephone in her veranda as she sat reading. The imperative
interruption annoyed her;—she put down her book. A man’s voice.

“Miss Leslie? I think your friend Mrs. Mourilyan told you I was coming
to Victoria. My name is Welland.”

Polite assurances from the veranda.

“Yes, I am staying at the Empress. May I come out and see you this
afternoon? I have a small parcel for you from Mrs. Mourilyan.”

So it was settled, and with her Chinese servant she made the little
black oak table beautiful with silver and long-stemmed flowers in
beautiful old English glass bowls. If he went back to Yercaud he should
at least tell Sidney that her home in “that cold country” was desirable.

He came at four and she could hear his voice in the little hall as Wing
admitted him.

She liked it. The words were clear, well-cut, neither blurred nor
bungled. Then he came in. A tall man, broad-shouldered, with grey eyes
and hair that sprang strongly from a broad forehead, clean-shaven, a
sensitive mouth, possibly thirty-eight, or so. All these things flashed
together in an impression of something to be liked and trusted. On his
side he saw a young woman in a blue-grey gown with hazel eyes and hair
to match—a harmony of delicate browns enhancing an almond-pale face
with faintly coloured lips and a look of fragility which belied the
nervous strength beneath.

The parcel was given and received; a chain of Indian moonstones in
silver, very lovely in its shifting lights, and then came news, much
news, of the home at Yercaud.

“I heard of you so much there that you are no stranger to me,” he said,
watching with curious interest while she filled the Chinese cups of pink
and jade porcelain with jasmine tea from a hidden valley in Anhui. It
fascinated him—the white hands flitting like little quick birds on
their quick errands, the girl, so calm and self-possessed, mistress of
herself and her house. Many years of wandering had opened his heart to
the feminine charm of it all, the quiet, the rose-leaf scent in the air,
the things which group by instinct about a refined woman.

“You have a delightful home!” he said at last, rather abruptly.

“Yes— When you return do try to convince Mrs. Mourilyan that I don’t
live in a hut on an iceberg. You agree with me, I am sure, that only
Kashmir and perhaps one or two other places can be more beautiful than
this.”

“Yes. I fully agree. Yet it misses something which permeates India in
places far less beautiful. It lacks atmosphere. Just as the fallen
leaves of a forest make up a rich soil in which all growth is luxuriant,
so the dead ancientry of India makes earth and air rich with memory and
tradition—and more. You can’t get it in these new countries.”

“I know,” she said eagerly. “Here it’s just a beautiful child with all
her complexities before her. It rests one, you know. I felt it an
amazing rest when I came here.”

“I can understand that. And they tell me the climate is delightful. I
wish I could stay here. I may come back some day. But I must return to
India in four months.”

“You have work?”

“Yes and no. I have collected an immense quantity of notes for several
books, but—now you will laugh!—I shall never write them.”

“But why—why? I know there’s an immense opening for true books about
the Orient.”

“I think so too. But you allow it’s a drawback that I am entirely devoid
of the writing gift. I have my knowledge. I have the thing flame-clear
in my mind. But let me put it on paper and it evaporates. Dull as
ditchwater! You see?”

That last little phrase sent a blush flying up her cheek. It recalled
many things.

“Yes, I see. But couldn’t you put it in skilful hands?”

He laid down his cup and turned suddenly on her.

“Could _you_ do it?”

“I? I wish I could, but I am doing work at present——”

“Literary?”

“Of a sort. Secretarial. I write from dictation.”

“May I ask what sort of things?”

With a curious reluctance she answered.

“Indian,” and said no more.

He seemed to meditate a moment on that; then said slowly:

“It appears you have experience of the very things that interest me.
Tell me—for I have been so long in the wilds— Is there any writer
nowadays taking the place with regard to things Indian that Lafcadio
Hearn did with things Japanese? A man who gets at the soul of it as well
as the beautiful surface?”

With her eyes on the ground and a sense of something startling in the
air, she answered with a question.

“Have you ever heard of V. Lydiat’s books?”

There was a puzzled furrow between his eyebrows.

“Not that I know of. Up in Kulu and beyond, the new books don’t
penetrate. A man or a woman?”

“People are not certain. The initial might mean either. But the critics
all say a man. The last is called the ‘The Unstruck Music,’ the one
before ‘The Dream of Stars.’ The first, ‘The Ninefold Flower.’”

“Beautiful names,” he said. “Can I get them here?”

“I can lend them to you.”

They talked long after that, in a curiously intimate way that gave her
secret but intense happiness. It was almost in fear that she asked when
he was going on and where.

When he went off he carried the three books under his arm.

“I shall read ‘The Ninefold Flower,’ first. It interests me to see how a
writer’s mind develops.”

That night she had no dream and next day she tried even more eagerly
than usual to get in touch with V. Lydiat, but in vain. The oracle was
dumb. It frightened her, for the whole thing was so strange that she had
never felt sure it might not vanish as suddenly as it came. She sat
patiently all that morning, hoping and sorely disturbed, but the Pacific
hung a relentless azure curtain before her fairyland and the pines
dreamed their own sunshine-fragrance and made no way for palms.

At one o’clock the telephone rang sharply,

“Welland speaking. May I come and see you this afternoon?”

It was impossible for she had an engagement, but she named the evening
at eight. He caught at it—his voice was evidence of that eagerness.

He came a minute or two before the time, and a book was in his hand. She
knew the cover with a drift of stars across it before he spoke.

It broke out the moment he was in the room.

“A most amazing thing. I hardly know how to tell you. You’ll think I’m
mad. It’s my book—_mine_, yet I never wrote it.”

They stared at each other in a kind of consternation and the little
colour in her face fell away and left her lily-pale. She could feel but
not control the trembling of her hands.

“You mean——”

“I mean—there are my notes one after another, but expressed in a way I
never could hope for, exquisitely expressed. But it’s mine all the same.
A cruel, enchanting robbery! You don’t believe me. How could you? But I
can prove it. See here.”

With passionate haste he pulled a roll of paper from his pocket, and
pushed the typed sheets before her. The first story in “The Ninefold
Flower,” was called “The Lady of Beauty.” The notes began, “The Queen of
Beauty,” and went on _seriatim_ with the scaffolding of the story.

“The way it’s done here, in this book, is the very way I used to see it
in my dreams, but it was utterly beyond me. For God’s sake, tell me what
you think.”

She laid it down.

“Of course it’s yours. No doubt of that. But his too. You blocked out
the marble. He made the statue. The very judgment of Solomon could not
decide between you.”

“That’s true,” he said hopelessly. “But the mystery of it. The appalling
hopeless mystery. No eye but mine has ever seen that paper till now.”

Silence. A grey moth flew in from the garden and circled about the lamp.
The little flutter of its wings was the only sound. Then in a shaken
voice very unlike its usual sedate sweetness, she asked.

“Mr. Welland, do you ever dream?”

“Awake? Constantly.”

“Asleep?”

She saw caution steal into his frank eyes and drop a curtain before
them.

“Why do you ask? Everyone dreams.”

She gathered up all her courage for the next question.

“Were you ever in the Shalimar?”

“Certainly. Does anyone ever go to Kashmir and miss it?”

He was fencing, that was palpable. It gave her hope for a golden gleam
through her fear. She clasped her shaking hands tightly in each other.

“I have the strangest dreams. I can only bring back snatches. Yet I know
there is a wonderful connected story behind them. I dreamt the Shalimar
not long ago,—I brought back one image. A woman in an old Persian dress
sitting by the black Pampoor pillars and looking down into the water
where the moon dipped and swam all gold.”

“Yes, yes, go on!” he breathed.

“There were flowers—white flowers. I never saw them there in the
daylight.”

“Unbearably sweet,” he interjected. “The scent is like the thrust of a
lance. I know, I know. But there was another woman. I can’t remember her
face.”

“How did she stand?” asked Beatrice Veronica.

“Near me—but she could see nothing. The day still blinded her,
until——”

“Until you laid your hand on hers. Then she saw.”

Another long silence. Only the beating of the moth’s wings. He leaned
forward from his chair and laid his hands on the clasp of hers. Their
eyes met, absorbing each other; the way for the electric current was
clear.

“I remember now,” he said, very softly. “It was you. It was you at the
Temple of Govindhar. At the Massacre Ghaut of Cawnpore. Ah, I dragged
you there against your will to show I was the stronger. It is
you—always you.”

What was she to say? With his hands on hers it was a union of strength
which put the past before both like an open book. She remembered all the
dreams now. Impossible to tell them here—they were so many, like and
unlike, shaken shifting jewels in a kaleidoscope held in some unseen
hand. But jewels. They sat a long time in this way, rapt in wordless
memories, their eyes absorbing each other—the strangest reunion. When
speech came it brought rapture which needed little explanation. They
bathed in wonder as in clear water, they flung the sparkle of it over
their heads and glittered to each other in its radiance. When had such a
miracle been wrought for any two people in all the world? The dreams of
the visionary were actual for them and heaven and earth instinct with
miracle.

“When we are married—when we pass our lives utterly together the bond
will be stronger,” he said, kissing her hand passionately two hours
later. “We shall be awake with reason and intellect as well as vision to
help our work, we shall do such things as the world has never dreamed,
prove that miracle is the daily bread of those who know. Two halves of a
perfect whole made one forever and ever. You see?”

He looked at her a moment with shining eyes and added, “The wise will
come to us for wisdom, the poets for beauty, and we shall make our
meeting-places the shrines of a new worship.”

Beatrice Veronica agreed with every pulse of her blood. The Great
Adventure, and together!—what bliss could equal that marvel?

They were together perpetually, and surely human happiness was never
greater than that of these two adventurers with the blue capes of
Wonderland in sight at last over leagues of perilous seas. In another
image, their caravan halted outside the gates of Paradise, and in a
short few weeks those gates would swing open for them and, closing, shut
out Fate.

But she did not dream of Martin Welland now, nor he of her. The
discovery and all it involved was so thrilling that it brought every
emotion to the surface as blood flushes the face when the heart beats
violently. The inner centres were depleted.

They were married and Paradise was at hand, but for a while the happy
business of settling their life engrossed them. It would be better to
live in Canada and make long delightful visits to the Orient to refill
the cisterns of marvel, they thought. A room for mutual work must be
plotted in the bungalow; then there was the anxious question of a
southern aspect. Then it was built, and it became a debatable decision
whether some of the pines must fall to enlarge the vista to the sea.
Friends rallied about her on the news of the marriage, and rejoiced to
see the irradiation of Beatrice Veronica’s pale face. Then they must be
entertained.

Then the endless joyful discussions as to whether the author should
still be V. Lydiat or whether collaboration should be admitted. These
things and many more filled the happy world they dwelt in.

Can the end be foreseen? They never foresaw it.

The hungry claim of human bliss fixed its roots in the inner soil where
the Rosa Mystica had blossomed, and exhausted it for all else. That, at
least, is the way in which one endeavours to state the mysterious
enervation of the sub-conscious self which had built the stepping-stones
between them to the meeting-point.

She went hopefully to her table when they had settled down, and he sat
beside her doing his utmost to force the impulse across inches which had
made nothing of oceans. It was dead. He could think of nothing but the
sweet mist of brown tendrils in the nape of her neck, the pure line from
ear to chin, the delights of the day to be. She sat with the poor
remnant of his notes before her—for nearly all had been exhausted in
the three books—and tried to shape them into V. Lydiat’s clear and
sensitive beauty of words. It could not be done. Her eight thousand
words marched and deployed heavy-footed as before. They were as
unmanageable as mutineers or idiots. There was no life in them.

So it all descended to calmer levels. They slept in each other’s arms,
but they never dreamed of each other now. They had really been nearer in
their ghostly meeting by the Taj Mahal or in the evil splendours of
Govindhar—far nearer, when she wrote and could not cease for joy, than
when Martin Welland sat beside her and struggled to find what had
flashed like light in the old days. They had to face it at last—V.
Lydiat was dead.

It troubled them much for a while, but troubled the world more. The
publishers were besieged with questions and entreaties. Finally those
also slackened and died off.

V. Lydiat was buried.

They thought that perhaps if they returned to India the dead fire would
re-kindle under that ardent sun. But no.

One day, at Benares, standing near the great Monkey Temple of Durga,
Martin stopped suddenly, and a light came into his eyes.

“B. V. I’ve just remembered that one of the wisest of the pandits lives
near here—a wonderful old fellow called Jadrup Gosein. Let’s go and
state the case to him. The wisest man I know.”

They went, Beatrice Veronica ashamed to feel a little uprush of regret
at the sacrifice of a part of the wonderful day. Martin knew so much. It
was heavenly to go to these places with him, and have them illumined by
his research. But they went to the pandit.

The holy man was seated under the shadow of a great image of Ganesha the
Elephant-Headed One, the Giver of Counsel, and when they sat themselves
before him at a measured distance the case was stated.

There was a long pause—a deep silence filled with hot sunshine smelling
of marigolds, and the patter of bare feet on sun-baked floors, as
curious quick eyes watched the conclave from afar.

Jadrup Gosein meditated deeply, then raised his serene dark face upon
them with the dim look that peers from the very recesses of being. His
words, incomprehensible to Beatrice Veronica, had the hollow resonance
of a bell, near at hand but softened.

“There was a man long since,” he began, “to whom the high Gods offered
in reward of merit, a rose-tree—very small and weak,—a suckling, as it
were, among trees, with feeble fibrous root, accessible to all the
dangers of drought and sun, and as he stretched his hand doubting, they
offered him for choice a rose from the trees of Paradise, crimson and
perfumed, its hidden bosom pearled with dew and wafting divine odours.
And they said ‘Choose.’ So he said within his soul, ‘The tree may
die—who knows the management of its frail roots? But the rose is here,
sweeter than sweet, immortal since it grew in Paradise! I choose the
rose.’

“And they put it in his hand. And the wise Elephant-Headed One said:

“‘O fool! What is a rose compared to a rose-tree that bears myriads of
roses? Also the rose dies in the heat of human hands. The tree lives; a
gathered rose is dead.’

“My children, you have chosen the rose. Be content. Yet in another life
remember and cling to that which unsevered from the parent tree sends
roots into the Now, the Then, and the Future, and blossoms immortally.”

So he dismissed them kindly.

“He means,” said Martin with troubled brow, “that ordinary household
happiness shuts a man in from the stars. Do you remember the flute of
Pan, B. V.? He tore the reed from the river and massacred it as a reed
to make it a music-bearer for the Gods.

             “The true Gods sigh for the cost and pain,
             For the reed that grows never more again
             As a reed with the reeds in the river.”

“But we are so happy!” she whispered, clinging against him to feel the
warmth of his love. “The outer spaces are cold, cold. I don’t regret V.
Lydiat. I have you. The reeds were happier in the river.”

Martin Welland sighed.

“You had both,” he said. “You have only me now.”

But that regret also slipped away. They forgot. It all faded into the
light of common day and they were extremely happy.

The two could never account for the way in which they had come together
in that dream-land of theirs. They had lost the clue of the mystery once
and for all.

Jadrup Gosein could have told them, but it never occurred to them to ask
him. There are however many lives and the Gods have a long patience.



                           THE SEA OF LILIES
                            A STORY OF CHINA



                           THE SEA OF LILIES

                            A STORY OF CHINA


I had come down from the mountain fastnesses of my home in Kashmir on
pilgrimage to a certain island off the coast of China. A long, long
pilgrimage, but necessary; for, with a Buddhist monk attached to the
monastery of Kan-lu-ssu in the hills of North China, I was to collect
certain information from the libraries and scholars of two famous
monasteries on the island of Puto. I, Lancelot Dunbar, am known to the
monks of the northern monastery of Kan-lu-ssu by the friendly title of
“Brother of the Pen,” and it is my delightful lot to labour abundantly
among the strange and wonderful stores of ancient Buddhist and historic
knowledge contained in some of the many monastic libraries scattered up
and down India, China and Ceylon. It follows that my wife and I own two
homes.

One is a little deserted monastery in the Western Hills, in China, known
as “First Gate of Heaven,” and so beautiful that the name might have
grown about it like the moss on its tiled roofs. Following the bigger
monasteries, it has its quiet courtyard, its lotus-pool and the peaked
roofs with their outward, upturned sweep. The pines crowd upon us, and
the cloud-dragons of rain and wind play in their uncouth sport among the
peaks and fill our streams with singing, glittering water.

Our other home is a red-pine hut near the Liderwat in Kashmir. The
beauty of it, the warm homeliness set amid the cold magnificence of the
hills and immeasurable forests, no tongue can tell. The hut is very
large and low, divided into our own rooms and the guest-rooms, with
hospitable fireplaces for fragrant pine-logs and floors strewn with rugs
brought by yak and pony down the wild tracks from Yarkand and Leh.
Beautiful rooms, as I think—the windows looking out into the pines and
the endless ways that lead to romance and vision.

Which home is the more beautiful I cannot say. We have never known, and
our friends give no help; for some choose one and some the other. One
day I shall write of our life in Kashmir, the clean, beautiful
enchantment of it, the journeyings into the mountains—but to-day I must
recall myself to the pilgrimage to Puto.

It is an island off the coast of China, as I said before, most holy to
the Buddhists of the Far East, dear to all who know it in its beauty and
religious peace and the lovely legends that cling about it, a place of
purification of the heart and of a serenity that the true pilgrim may
hope to carry away with him as the crowning of his toil and prayer. It
is one of the Chusan Archipelago and is separated from the large island
of Chusan by a stretch of water known as the “Sea of Lilies.” And it is
not very far distant from the hybrid dissipations of Shanghai and the
swarming streets of Ningpo and can be reached from either. Yet it is as
far removed from their hard realities as if it were built on floating
clouds and lit by other dawns than ours.

Shanghai concerns itself, I am told, with that ancient and universally
respected Trinity of the World, the Flesh, and the Devil. I know little
of it myself and accept the testimony of friends, and especially of one
who knew it well. “I just think,” he said with conviction, “that if
nothing happens to Shanghai, Sodom and Gomorrah were very unfairly dealt
with.”

So I met my friend Shan Tao in Ningpo, and we set sail together. The
island of Puto, at all events, concerns itself with a very different
Trinity from that of Shanghai. For the deity of Puto is the Supreme,
enthroned in eternal light, and on his right hand stands Wisdom and on
his left, Love. The patron saint of this island is Kwan-yin (the Kwannon
of Japan), the incarnation of divine love and pity, she who has refused
to enter paradise, so that, remaining on this sad earth, she may be
attentive to the tears and prayers of humanity and depart from it only
when the Starry Gates have closed behind the last sinner and sorrow and
sighing have fled away like clouds melting into the golden calms of
sunset. Yet when I say “she,” I limit the power of this mighty
_Bodhisattva_, or _Pusa_, as Buddhas-to-be are called in India and
China. For that pure essence is far above all limitations of sex and,
uniting in itself the perfection of both, may be manifested as either,
according to need and opportunity. Be that as it may, Puto is the
holiest, most immediate home of Kwan-yin, and her influence spreads far
beyond its shores and makes the very sea that surrounds it sacred.
Therefore it is to this day the Sea of Lilies.

For when the Dwarf-men, the Japanese, came storming down on the island
from Hangchow long ago and carried off a part of the sacred relics, they
woke in the dawn to find their ship moving slower and slower and finally
rocking like a ship asleep in what seemed a vast meadow of lilies. Thick
as snow about them lay the ivory chalices with golden stamens; thick as
the coiling of snakes innumerable were the long piped and knotted stems,
with the great prone leaves. Neither oar nor sail could move the ship;
for the mysterious lilies, white and silent, that had sprung up from the
depths in a night held it as if with chains. And then comprehension
entered the hearts of the Dwarfs, and, taking hurried counsel, they put
the ship about and headed for the sacred island once more. As they did
so, a soft wind like the waft of a passing garment breathed on the
surface of the sea, the ivory chalices closed and the crystal lymph
flowed over them, and, where the leagues of blossom had spread, were now
only the foam-flowers of the waste ocean. So the treasures were restored
to Puto, and, when the story was told to the monks, they adored the
Heavenly Lady who guards her own.

Lest it be said that the burdened consciences of the Dwarfs misled them
into a dream, let the story be told of Wang Kuei, a haughty official who
was sent on his Emperor’s behalf to do reverence at the shrines of Puto
and did it grudgingly and with a pride that ill became him. So, when his
ship set sail from the island and he sat in glory on deck, glad at heart
that his service was over, suddenly her swift course was stayed. Behold,
in the moonlight, the meadows of ocean had bloomed into innumerable
lilies, and there was no sea-track between them, no glimmer of water in
the interstices of the paving-leaves, and the ship was a prisoner of
beauty! Then the story of the Dwarfs rushed into his soul. In haste he
prostrated himself on the deck with his face toward the island and
prayed for pardon as he had never yet prayed, and the Heavenly Lady
heard him and the lilies were resumed into her pure being. The man of
pride returned to Puto and, doing homage of the humblest, went back in
security to his Emperor.

But who can tell the beauty of Puto, looking forth on its little sisters
of the archipelago with the serenity of an elder who has attained? We
put up in one of the cells allotted to pilgrims in a monastery among the
hills overlooking the Sea of Lilies. Surely, I think, a lovelier place
could not be. The little ways wind about the island, past great rocks
sculptured with holy figures and groves of trees that climb the hills to
the tiled roofs of the many temples and monasteries. And wild and sweet
on the hills grows the gardenia, whence the island has its name of
“White Flower.” The sunny sweetness of its perfume recalled to me the
far-away, wild daphne bushes of Mount Abu in Rajputana, near the
marvellous white temples of Dilwara, temples of another, yet not
unallied, faith. It is easy to tell when the gods go by—it can never be
common air again, but sweet, sweet unutterably.

All day I trod the bays on sand fine as powdered gold or wandered among
the flowers, taking notes for my book at the various temples and talking
with the monks and such hermits as are not under the vow of silence.
When they found I was at work for Kan-lu-ssu in the hills, they opened
their hearts and told me many things.

I suppose it is difficult for the western mind to comprehend the
impulses that send a man to dwell in the solitudes of Puto, girdled with
its miraculous sea, there to let the years slip from him like a vesture,
unheeded, unregretted—but to me it is easy. Let me tell the story of
one of these monks, gathered from his own lips and told where a ravine
breaks down to the sands of a little bay; where the small waves fall in
a lulling monotone, a fitting burden to quiet words softly spoken as the
shadows lengthened to the hour of rest. He was named in religion “High
Illumination.” His name in the world I cannot tell.

His father had been a farmer in Anhui, a well-to-do man for his class.
There were two sons, and my friend was the younger. His father, of whom
he spoke with deep reverence, had the utmost confidence in the elder
brother. In dying, he expressed only the desire that the elder brother
would make a just division with the younger of all the possessions he
was leaving, and so departed.

“And I was content,” said High Illumination, “knowing my father’s wisdom
and believing that his wish, uttered in the presence of us both, would
be as binding upon my honoured brother as an imperial command.
Therefore, when all observances of departure had been completed and the
proper time came, I expected my share in peace, and the more so since my
good father had provided for my marriage with a beautiful maiden, the
daughter of a lifelong friend. But that was not to be.

“And still my brother said nothing; all the duties of the seasons
proceeded and I worked and helped him, expecting daily that he would
speak.

“Then at last in great astonishment I ventured this: ‘Honoured Elder
Brother, the will of our just father is still unfulfilled. Should we not
proceed in this matter?’

“And he, with anger and a reddened face: ‘What is this discontent? Do
you not share the land where you labour upon it? What more would you
have?’

“So, very temperately and courteously, I said: ‘Honoured Elder Brother,
I work but as a hired man who has no hire. I have not so much as a
_cash_ in my pocket to buy me the least of pleasures or needs. I have
but my food, and that, as I think, my elder sister [the brother’s wife]
grudges me. Such certainly was not the intention of our just father.’

“Then, his face distorted with rage, he replied, ‘Have your way, and if
it bring bitterness and disturbance of spirit, then thank yourself for
your greed!’”

High Illumination paused a moment as if in memory.

“Greed!” I said indignantly. “My friend, you were wronged and cruelly.
You could in a court of law have compelled him to do you justice.”

“Yet he was right: for me it was greed,” said High Illumination, with a
smile of quiet humour. “I had thought of it night and day, till it had
soured my soul. But the next day at dawn my brother called to me with
anger in his voice and said: ‘The division is now made. Come and see.’

“So we passed along through the dewy dawn-gold in silence, past his
fields of budding rice and millet prosperously green, and at last we
came to a great stretch of pebbles and water-springs where nothing would
grow, no, not even a blade of grass. The place had come to my father
from many ancestors, and none could either use or sell its barrenness.

“And there it lay, grey and hard in the morning gold, and my brother,
pointing, said: ‘Take it; the division is made. And when you store your
plentiful rice, thank my generosity.’ And, turning, he left me and went
back to his prosperity, laughing.”

“It was a devil’s deed,” I said. “Surely he laid up for himself a black
_karma_ in so doing.”

High Illumination shook his head slowly. “Who can judge the karma of
another? Daily did I pray that my brother’s feet might be set in the way
of peace, and I had assurance that thus and no otherwise it should be.
But hear the story and its loveliness.

“So I sat nearly all day, staring at the pebbles. There was not even a
yard of the ground that spade and hoe could conquer, and I knew myself
vanquished. Then in the evening I rose and went to a neighbour and said,
‘I beseech you to find me work; for I must eat or die.’ He gave me work
and the wage was my food only; for he was bone-poor. So I lived for two
years, and, if I passed my brother, he would jeer at my rags and
leanness.

“Now, as I went by my desolate heritage one day, I saw that between the
pebbles were pushing little bright green shoots, strong and hardy,
thrusting the small stones aside to make room for their impatience. The
tender greenness pleased me. It was like warmth and sunshine to see the
life of it, and I wondered what manner of growth could find food among
the stones. For a while I could not go that way, but, when I went again,
behold a thing most beautiful, for all the plants were covered with buds
like pearls!

“My brother, hear a marvel. One day, before ever I came in sight of it,
a sweet perfume, warm with the sun, exhaling the very breath of
paradise, surrounded me. When I approached, the desert had blossomed
abundantly. I could not see the stones; they were covered with lilies,
white lilies, each with a gold cup, set in ivory, to hold the
incense-offering to the sun. What could I say, what think in beholding
this miracle of loveliness? I sat beside them to watch what they would
do, and a light breeze moved the flowers like bells upon the stems, and
there was a going in the leaves of them as though the hem of an unseen
garment trailed among them. And they were mine.”

“They had never grown there before?” I asked.

“No man of those parts had seen the like; nor I myself. Every day, when
my work was done, I went to look at them and sat to see their beauty of
ivory and gold. And once, as I sat, the rich official, Chung Ching-yu,
rode by. Pausing in astonishment, he bought a handful of the flowers,
giving me the first money I had seen for a year, and he told me to
gather the bulbs in due season and receive from him in return their
weight in silver. And what he said ran on to other rich men and to men
not rich, in the city of Ningpo, and they came bidding against one
another for the bulbs to sell to the great and to send in ships to
strange countries, until I who had been poor scarce knew how to store my
riches. And I saw what my lilies loved and put for them more stones and
water, and the next year they were a wilderness of sweets, where all the
bees of the world came to gather nectar.

“But I knew indeed whence they came, since such beauty could not be of
earth, and I withdrew myself to a lonely place and addressed my prayer
to Kwan-yin, who had thus blessed my poverty, and I said: ‘O Adorable,
whose ears are open ever to the cry of the oppressed, whose beautiful
eyes are pitiful to sorrow, I bless thee for this compassion. And
because I dread the love of riches, and the flowers and not money, are
to me my soul, give me grace so to receive the mercy of thy gift that it
may befit thy greatness and my littleness.’ Even as I said the words, a
thought came to me, and I went to find my brother, whom I had not seen
for long days.

“Now, when he saw me come, his face darkened with rage, and he said:
‘Are you come to taunt me because of my folly, in that I gave the best
of all the land to your idleness, or to thank me for the gold it has
heaped upon you? Speak out; for the lucky man may speak.’

“Then, standing at the door, I said this: ‘Elder Brother, your action
was unjust, and certainly the Divine does not sleep, but awaits its hour
in peace. As for me, the Spirit of Compassion has seen my poverty and
had pity upon me, and now I will tell you my heart. Two nights ago as I
lay and slept, it seemed to me that the moonlit air grew sweet with a
sweetness more than all my lilies—nay, than all the flowers of
earth—and I knew that the gates of paradise were opened and that the
immortal flowers exhaled their souls, and that to breathe them was
purification. Then, far off on a cloud so white that it resembled the
mystic petals of the lotus, stood a lady with veiled face, and in one
hand a chalice and in the other a willow spray, and even through the
veil her beauty rayed as the moon behind a fleece of cloud. My Brother,
need I say her name?’

“And, as I spoke, the hard face softened; for who is there that knows
not the Pity of the Lord? I continued: ‘In a voice sweeter than sleep,
she augustly addressed me, saying: ‘The Divine on its hidden throne
knows no repose while the sigh of the oppressed is heard before it. And
because this injustice was borne with patience, the armies of the
flowers of paradise were marshaled. Say, now, whether justice was
done.’”

“And I said, ‘It was done.’ And, as a cloud slips off the moon as she
glides upward to the zenith, so fell the veil—but what I saw I may not
tell, nor could, for I weep in remembering that Beauty.”

His voice faltered even in recollection; nor could I speak myself. We
sat in silence awhile, looking over the Sea of Lilies with the twilight
settling softly upon it.

Then he resumed: “So I said: ‘Elder Brother, having seen this, I have
all riches and need no more. Take the land; for I depart into the life
of peace, where is no need of gold or gain, having beheld the ineffable
Treasure of the Nirvana and the very Soul of Quiet.’

“And his eyes kindling, he said, ‘What, is it mine—all mine?’

“‘Yours. Yet remember that these lilies are of heaven. It is in my mind
that these will have not only pure water and clean rock but also a clean
heart to tend them.’

“Then, very doubtfully, he took my hand and held it awhile in his and,
dropping it at last, turned, weeping, away. Thus we parted, and I came
to Puto.”

“And you never saw him again?”

High Illumination smiled, looking to where the star of evening blossomed
above us. “Four years passed,” he replied. “Then, among the pilgrims who
came to the holy shrines, I saw my brother, and yet could scarcely think
it he, so reverently and with such humility he knelt where the Divine
Lady waits in gold at the left side of the Infinite One.

“Need I recount the rest, O Brother of the Pen? He came to my cell and,
seated at my feet, he told me all. When I was gone, the lilies withered,
and at first he thought he lacked my skill and spent much money on
digging and trenching, but still the lilies died, and at last he saw
that the air that clung about his garments withered them. So, as he sat
musing on this strange thing, he resolved in his soul that he would no
more sell the Divine in the streets nor market his peace for gold, but
that he would set aside these stones and pure springs for almsgiving to
the poorest of the poor. Looking up, he said this: ‘Spirit of
Compassion, have pity on my soul, bound and crippled by the love of
gain. For I too am not beyond the bounds of thy pity, and, if there is
hope of it for me in this life as the fruit of some solitary good deed
in former existences, grant that the flowers of heaven may blossom once
more and the souls of many rejoice in their loveliness.’

“And, as the words were said, he knew that the prayer was heard. The
lilies returned in a beauty beyond telling, and it seemed that half the
world desired them. He who had not known the joy of giving became now,
as it were, the very source of charity and gave not only of his lilies
but of his rice and millet and all his gains, that the heart of the poor
might be gladdened with plenty. So, as he told, we sat together, hand in
hand, with tongues that could not be satisfied in telling and eyes that
beheld the greatness of the Divine. And for many years he came, and the
monks watched and watched for his coming and I most of all. And at last
he did not come, but his son in his place, who told me that the bond of
life had been gently loosed, and it was believed that High Presences
stood about his death-bed while the villages mourned.

“O Brother of the Pen, write this true story, that all may know there is
none like unto the Hearer of Prayer!”

The evening star hung like a steadfast lamp over the dim ocean, and the
air was so still that, when at last a faint stirring came in the grasses
and leaves, it was as if some listening influence were passing softly
away, as indeed I believe.

Skeptics may say that the wish was father to the thought. But I know
better. And as for the flowers themselves, there is a strange
susceptibility in the plant life we call “lower.” Of that truth I know
many stories which I shall tell one day.

But how shall I tell the beauty of Puto looking forth on its little
sisters of the Archipelago with the serenity of a saint who has
attained? I sat alone next day by the carved Rock of Meditation
pondering these things, and bathing my soul in the peace of them as in
deep water. The mystery of the place was about me, for Puto is a home of
the mystic order of Buddhist monasticism which in India is called Jhana,
in Japan Zen, and there were men at hand to whom the bond of the flesh
is a thing easily unloosed. One sat on the height above me now in
profound meditation.

I analyzed my own heart. Is it because all this with the atmosphere it
creates, is so beautiful that I love it? Or is it because it presents a
truth forgotten, lost, in our hurrying day of fevered unrest?

Because it is of the truth. That is the answer. None can doubt it who
understands and loves these people and their teachings.

None—who is admitted to the quiet of their secret places and thoughts.

It is a truth which is a part of nature itself. Consider the lilies of
the field. They breathe it, the soft breezes whisper it among the leaves
of the maiden-hair trees, the measured cadence of the sea chimes it
eternally on the golden shores of Puto.

They have the secret of peace, which we have immeasurably and to our
ruin lost.

So my friend Shan Tao and I paced along the pilgrim’s path past the
sea-cave where visions of the holy Kwan-yin are said to have been seen
in the sun ray that strikes through the rent roof with something of the
same effect as the light contrived to fall from above in the temple of
Mendoet in Java on the white and beautiful face of the Bodhisattva who
sits in ecstasy below. And wandering on, beguiling the way with legends
and tales of the Excellent Law to reach the southern monastery, pausing
to look at the half ruined pagoda adorned on its four faces with
carvings of Kwan-yin, and her brother saints, P’uhsien, Wen-shu and
Ti-tsang, the last known in Japan as Jizo the beloved protector of dead
children, we reached the southern monastery and the courtyard with its
noble incense burners and candle holders, shaded by trees. Here it was a
part of my purpose to search for references in the library on the upper
story where the treasures are guarded by a serene Buddha in alabaster.
And let me say that if ever the libraries of the many Chinese
monasteries are searched with care and patience great additions will be
made not only to the science of the soul but also to the world’s wisdom.
Many lost treasures thus await their day of resurrection—treasures
brought back in the early days of our era by Chinese monks who made the
terrible pilgrimage through the cruel deserts and mountains to India
that they might return loaded with the spiritual treasures of
illumination and wisdom, and learned comments and digressions on these
written by mighty Chinese patriarchs whose gilded and lacquered bodies
are still preserved in the remote abodes of faith.

                 *        *        *        *        *

And when that day of revelation comes it will be found how much of the
religious thought of the divided faiths can be traced to common sources
in an antiquity so vast that it strikes the soul with awe. May that
knowledge bring union and surcease to the petty wranglings and contempts
which cloud the living waters of Truth.

There are few scenes more serenely beautiful than the lotus pond of this
monastery and its still waters doubling the old arched bridge and the
sailing clouds, and the sunshine, unbearably delicious, brooding,
brooding upon it like a soul in ecstasy. A soft collegiate calm was
about us, the monks coming and going at intervals with kindly glances at
my pen and note book, and the reverence for the written character and
for what it represents that contact with our civilization will most
certainly kill. A harmless snake was basking in the sun not far away,
and a deer taught tameness by fellowship wandered about under the trees,
as they do on the island of Miyajima in Japan.

How beautiful the confidence of the creatures in these Buddhist resorts,
how much we lose in losing their companionship! The gentleness of heaven
was on Puto that day, and the words of a poet-monk who wrote of the
beloved island floated through my mind like little golden clouds.

“Who tells you that there is no road to heaven? This is heaven’s own
gateway, and through it you may pass direct to the very Throne of the
Divine.”

I left it on a lovely day of summer—no foam-flowers blossoming on the
Sea of Lilies, a drowsy golden haze veiling the neighbouring islands. I
could scarcely have borne to leave it, especially its unrifled stores of
wisdom, had I not known that I was free of it henceforward and might
count on my welcome, come when I would. Almost, as we crossed the sea, I
could dream that the miraculous ship of Kwan-yin floated before us, its
sails filled with no earthly breeze, bearing the happy souls to the
golden Paradise of the West where the very perfume of the flowers is
audible in song. We who in Dante read the story of another Boat of Souls
may well recognize the inmost truth of this legend. And certainly in
Puto the soul may at least enter the heavenly Boat of Beauty that the
poets have sung in all tongues and ages, and pass in it to the blue
horizon of dreams and delights.



                           THE BRIDE OF A GOD



                           THE BRIDE OF A GOD


                                   I

Two hundred years ago in India, many happy people dwelt in the little
town of Krishnapur—happy because their belief was fixed and immutable
and it brought them gladness; for in all innocence and devotion they
worshipped Krishna the Beloved, the Herdsman of Brindaban, Lord of Love,
whose name their little town carried like a jewel of price.

And certainly the God had gifted it with beauty. The terraced houses
climbed the ways of a hill deeply wooded with tamarind and pippala
trees, and down a deep ravine ran the little Bhadra River, falling from
great heights to feed the blue lake below. The place lay in the
sunshine, clear and bright as a painting on crystal brought by the
Chinese merchants, and by the favour of the God a delicate coolness
spread upward from the lake among the clustered houses. In its midst was
a very small island with a little temple lifting its shining gilded roof
and spires among the palms. In this he was worshipped as the
Flute-Player, an image of black basalt, very beautiful—a youth with the
Flute forever at his lips; and there were devout men and women who
declared that, in the midnight silence, sounds of music comparable only
to the music of Indra’s heaven had been heard among the palm trees and
mingled with the eternal song of the river. This report and the beauty
and quiet of the fair little town brought a few pilgrims to bathe in the
lake, crowding the broad low ghats that led down to its pure waters with
their flower-hued garments and the strong chanting of their prayers.

Many legends haunted the town of Krishnapur.

Now the Pandit Anand Das was a man learned in the Vedas and all the
sacred books, and his heart glowed with a great devotion. Since his son,
who should have inherited his learning, was dead, and it could not flow
in that beloved channel, he resolved that, slight and frail as a woman’s
intellect must needs be, he would instruct his daughter Radha in the
mysteries of the Holy Ones, as far as possible. He had named her Radha
from his devotion to Sri Krishna; for Radha is the heart’s love of the
God; and in bestowing this name he had made offering and prayed that he
might live to see her as beautiful, as true in devotion as the Crowned
Lady. The prayer was answered.

Beautiful indeed was Radha, an image of golden ivory, with lips like a
pomegranate bud before its sweetness is tasted, and great eyes dark as
the midnight and lit by her stars. Beautiful the soft moulding of her
rounded chin, and the shaping of the flower-face poised on its stem like
a champak blossom that all the bees of love must seek, and the silk-soft
brows and the heavy sweep of shadowy lashes. Flawless from head to rosy
heel as the work of a mighty craftsman who wills not that his name shall
perish, so was Radha; and when the people saw her as she passed along
the little street, they gave thanks to the Beautiful for her beauty.
Fairer than fair, wiser than wise in all the matters of the Gods, she
lived her quiet days among the palms and temples, and each day laid its
gift at her feet.

Now the Brahman, her father, having, as it were, devoted her to the God,
rejoiced to see that _bhakti_—which is faith, love, and worship in a
perfect unity—was a steadfast flame in her heart; nor was there any
word to utter her burning devotion. As a child she would leave all play
to sit before his feet and hear as he read of the divine Krishna,—

                    The story of the Lord of All
                    Beginneth with a Pastoral,—

and her child’s heart lived among the meadows of Brindaban with the
marvellous Child whose very name is ‘He who draws or attracts.’

And thus her learned father taught her.

“This Krishna is the true incarnation of the Preserver who upholds the
universe. ‘For in him,’ says the Mahabharata Santeparva, ‘the worlds
flutter like birds in water’; and of him did not Maheshwara the
Destroyer say: ‘The divine and radiant Krishna must be beheld by him who
desires to behold Me.’ Thus in Sri Krishna is all Deity sheathed in
flesh, that the soul of man may dimly apprehend his glory. A Child—yet
thus in the Holy Song does the Prince Arjun cry to him:—

               “‘God, in thy body I see all the Gods,
               And all the varied hosts of living things,
               The undivided Thou, the highest point
               Of human thought.’

“Can such a Being be approached by mere humanity? No, he is too far
away—the ear of man may not hear, and the eye of man may not see. How
if he were born among us, if we might touch his feet, and show him in
simple human ways our devotion? How if he would turn the common earth to
beauty by breathing the air we breathe?

“And because it is so desired, it is done and Krishna is born, the
Herdsman of Brindaban, the Beloved of India.”

So reading day by day, he instructed her in the lovely story of the
Childhood, and, with the ancient Pastoral, took her to the forests and
rich cattle pastures where Jumna River flows wide and still to the sea.
The people are kind and simple, the sacred cows are driven out at dawn
to feed, and brought back in the brief glow of evening by the fair women
who tend the gentle beasts; and this is Brindaban, the home on earth of
the Lord of All, the utterly Adored.

So much a child! But when floods of rain threatened to sweep away the
herds and their keepers, he raised the hill Govardhan on the palm of his
small soft hand, and sheltered them from the torrents and the fighting
winds. And, as she sat at his feet, the Pandit showed his child Radha
pictures of that other Child, darkly beautiful, who could poise the
world on his shoulder.

                                   II

As she grew older, the story widened and deepened with her years. But as
she came to girlhood, her anxious mother, Sita Bai, ventured with
trembling to doubt if it were well to draw her heart yet closer to the
radiant manhood of the young God; for now the story is to be mystically
interpreted and read by the light of the wisdom of the old and learned.

“Was there not Mira Bai, who went mad for the love of him and could not
leave his image or his temple, and dreamed of his sweetness night and
day until she wasted to a shadow and died? And, my lord, is not his
great temple as Jagannath, Lord of the World, but ten miles from us at
the great town of Chaki; and is it not filled with bands of
_devidasis_—the dancing girls? Would you have your daughter as one of
them—sacred but—vile?”

She caught the word back on her lips and looked about her in terror.
Then added passionately:—

“O my lord, is it well to kindle such a passion in her heart, and she
little more than a child?”

“Better be possessed by that love than by the follies and wickednesses
that haunt the hearts of women to their ruin and ours. Woman, I know
what I do. Be silent!” was all his answer.

So she was silent, and daily the story went onward and filled the soul
of the girl. For now, as Krishna grew to manhood, beauty came upon him,
irresistible, heart-compelling, the world’s Desire, and on the banks of
Jumna was sung the Song of Songs—the Lover, dark and glorious, to whom
the souls of all the women of Brindaban, whether wife or maid, cling
passionately, forgetful of self and of all but him. And the deepest
symbol of the adoration of Krishna is the passion of man for woman and
woman for man.

“Walk warily here, my child, if you would understand,” said the Pandit;
“for we move among pitfalls made by the mind of man fettered to his
senses—the mind of man, that coin bearing the double superscription of
spirit and flesh. Yet the story is plain for him who has ears to hear!”

And Radha, speechless, with dark eyes filled with adoring love,
listened—listened, with no heart for aught else.

“Tell me more, more!” she said.

And he, seeing the Divine Passion, the trembling of her lips, the
uttering of her heart, told on, imparting the desire of the God.

And when, as at this time, a marriage was spoken of for her with the son
of the rich Brahman Narayan, she shrank from it with such shuddering
horror that for very pity her father put it by for a while. But her
mother watched in great fear.

And every evening, when the light was calm and golden and her father
laid his books aside, she would sit before him, putting all else aside
that she might drink in the sweet nectar of his words.

And now he told of the Herd-maidens bathing in the clear ripple of the
river where the trees hang in green shadow over the deep pools.

Their garments lie on the bank, forgotten in the joy of youth and life,
as they sing the praises of the Beloved, until at length one remembers
and looks, and lo! some thief has stolen the vesture, and they stand
ashamed in the crystal lymph, their long locks gathered about them.

Who has so bereft them? For no man or woman should bathe uncovered; and
they have sinned—they know it!

And then a voice calls from the world of leaves above their heads, and
there sits the Desired, shining like a star caught in the topmost
boughs, and before him are rolled the stolen garments, and when, all
shamefaced, they entreat for their restoration, the Voice exhorts
them:—

“And if it is for My sake you have bathed and purified yourselves, then
come forth fearless, and receive your vesture from my hands.”

And he laid in her hand the picture of the Gopis fearing and adoring as
they leave the lustral water, some shrinking in humility, to receive
their vesture from the Beautiful, who sits smiling far above them.

“And this, my daughter, is a very great mystery!” he said gravely. “And
its meaning is this: ‘Thy _Thou_ is still with thee; if thou wilt attain
unto me, quit thyself, and come.’”

And she said,—

“Father, surely the Self is withered into nothing when this dearworthy
One calls. What were life, death—anything in the Three Worlds, compared
with beholding his blissful countenance?”

And he replied,—

“Even so it is”; and laid aside his book and fell into a deep musing on
the Perfections of the Lord; and Radha sat beside him.

So that night her mother said timidly,—

“Lord of my life, the girl is possessed by the God. I fear for her life.
In her sleep she speaks aloud of him and stretches empty arms to the
air, moaning. The colour fades in her lips, her eyes are fixed on
dreams. She has no peace. Should we not seek an earthly lover for her
own, that she may forget this Divine that is all the world’s?”

And he replied sternly,—

“Woman, lift up a grateful heart to the God that this girl is not as the
rest but consumed by the love of the Highest. I have a thought unknown
to you. All will be better than well.”

And she desisted in great fear and obedience; but the very next evening
was the story told of Radha—heart of the God’s heart, the Beautiful
whose name she herself bore! And the girl listened in an ecstasy.

It was a very still evening, the stars shining large and near the earth,
the moon a mere crescent, such as when Maheshwara wears it in his hair
and dreams on the mountain-peaks of Himalaya. They sat in the wide
veranda, supported on wooden pillars bowered in the blossoms of the
purple bougainvillæa and the white and scented constellations of
jasmine. The wide transparent blinds of split cane were raised to admit
the faintly perfumed breath of the garden; and by the Pandit’s elbow, as
he sat on his raised seat, burned a little oil lamp, that he might read
the sacred pages.

Radha sat on her low cushion beside him, the _sari_ of Dakka muslin
threaded with gold fallen back from her head as she looked up.

“‘In the passion of their worship, the women of Brindaban are drawn out
into the forest, each grieving if he do but turn his calm immortal eyes
upon any other than herself. Therefore, only in the secret places of the
forest is there now any joy. It has left the little houses and gone out
to dwell by the river. They must follow, for they bear the world’s wound
in their heart, and he is its Balm.

“‘For a time his eyes rest on Radha the Beautiful, and she, transported
with the pride of love, entreats that he will carry her in his arms. He
stretches them to her with his mystic smile, and even as they touch her,
he vanishes, and she is alone in a great darkness.’

“Here again, my daughter, is the parable clear,” the Pandit interrupted
the reading to say. “Here is no room for spiritual pride and exclusive
desire. Learn your place, proud soul! It is at his feet until he,
unasked, shall raise you to the level of his heart.”

“‘So at the last she falters and falls, stunned with grief, the
Herd-maidens weeping beside her, and—suddenly the Light shines. He has
returned. He speaks:—

“‘Now I have tried you. You have remembered and thought upon me.

“‘You have increased your affection like beggars made newly rich.

“‘You have chosen my service, abandoning the world and the Scriptures.

“‘How can I do you honour? I cannot reward you enough.

“‘Though I should live for a hundred of Brahma’s years, yet I could not
be free of my debt.’”

                                  III

She sat in silence; and breaking upon it, they heard the soft tread of a
man stop by their gate, and voices, and the servant who guarded the gate
came in haste.

“Great Sir, here is the holy Brahman who is chief at the altar of great
Jagannath in Chaki, and he would speak with you.”

“Bring him instantly hither. Stay! I go myself!” cried the Pandit,
rising. He had forgotten his daughter.

“Father, have I your leave to go?” She drew the sari about her face.

“Daughter, no. This is a wise man and great. Be reverent and humble, and
stay.”

She stood, trembling with fear to see one so holy. Surely it was a
portent that the servant of the God should come on their reading. Yet
she quieted her heart, and when her father, attending the great guest,
placed him on his own seat, with the image of the wise Elephant-Headed
One wreathing his trunk behind him, she bowed before him and touched his
feet, for to her he was as Brahman and priest, an earthly God.

He was a man in middle life, tall and dignified in spite of a corpulence
which gained upon him, and his features clear-cut in the proud lines
that denoted his unstained ancestry. He knew himself the superior of
kings. He would have spurned with his foot a jewel touched by the Mogul
Emperor of India. Yet more. Had the Rajput Rana, a king of his own
faith, sun-descended, royal, cast his shadow on his food in passing, he
had cast it, polluted, away. So great is the pride of the Brahmans.

“Namaskar, Maharaj! What is your honoured pleasure?” asked the Pandit.

“I am on my way to Dilapur on the divine business,” he answered, with a
voice like the lowest throbbing notes of the bronze temple gong. “But I
would have a word with you, Brother, as I go.”

“Has my daughter your leave to depart, Maharaj?”

“Certainly, friend, though it is of her I come to speak. May I behold
the face of the maiden? A Brahmani has no need to veil it. They are not
secluded like the Toorki women.”

“Unveil before the Presence, my daughter, Radha.”

The guest started at the name so familiar to him in his devotions.

“It is singular, in view of my errand, that you should have given her
this holy name, Pandit-ji.”

“She deserves it for the devoted love that she bears to Sri Krishna,”
returned her father. “Of her face I say nothing, but her heart is
flawless.”

“It is well!” said the priest Nilkant Rai, and turned gravely to Radha.

Many were the _devidasis_, the nautch girls of the God, in the Temple of
Jagannath. His eyes, deep and glowing, were no strangers to beauty, for
the fairest were gathered like flowers to adorn the altars of the God,
to dance and sing before his divine dreams, in all things to abide his
will.

Six thousand priests serve Sri Krishna as Jagannath, Lord of the
Universe, at Chaki, for great is his splendour. The Raja of Dulai, royal
though he be, is the sweeper of his house. More than twenty thousand men
and women do his pleasure, and of the glories of his temple who can
speak?

But never had Nilkant Rai beheld such beauty as trembled before him
then—darkly lovely, whitely fair, the very arrows of desire shooting
from the bow of her sweet lips, half-child, half-woman, wholly
desirable.

His eyes roved from the wonder of her face to the delicate rounding of
her young breasts and the limbs exquisitely expressed, yet hidden, by
the sari.

He looked in silence, then turned to the Pandit.

“Surely she is an incarnation of Radha in face as in name. Brother, she
has my leave to go.”

Yet, when she had fled like a shadow, Nilkant Rai did not hasten. The
other waited respectfully. _Pañ_—the betel for chewing—was offered in
a silver casket. A garland of flowers perfumed with attar of roses was
placed about the guest’s neck. Refreshments were served and refused.

At length he spoke, looking on the ground.

“Brother, it is known to you that the God makes choice when he will of a
bride, favoured above all earthly women. Beautiful must she be, pure as
a dewdrop to reflect his glory and return it in broken radiance, young,
devout— Surely, even in this land of devotion, it is not easy to find
such a one!”

“It is not easy, holy one!” returned the Pandit, trembling as he
foreknew the end.

The other continued calmly.

“Now it so chanced that the priest Balaram passed lately through this
town, and going by the tank to the temple, beheld your daughter, and
returning, he came to me and said: ‘The God has shown the way. I have
seen the Desire of his eyes.’”

“Great is the unlooked-for honour,” said the Pandit trembling violently;
“so great that her father and mother bend and break beneath it. But
consider, Holy One—she is an only child. Have pity and spare us! The
desolate house—the empty days!” His voice trailed broken into silence.

“If this hides reluctance!” Nilkant Rai began sternly. “If you have
given a foul belief to any tale of the Temple——”

“I, holy Sir! I have heard nothing. What should I hear?” The old man’s
voice was feeble with fear. “Do I disparage the honour? Sri Krishna
forbid! No, it is but the dread of losing her—the empty, empty house!”

“And is she not at the age when marriage becomes a duty, and would she
not leave you then? Unreasonable old man!”

“Holy Sir—Maharaj, I tremble before the honour. But if the girl
married, she would bring her babe and make her boast and gladden our
hearts. But thus she is lost to us. Have pity! There are other Brahmans
rich in daughters. Take not the one from my poverty.”

Nilkant Rai rose to his feet with majesty.

“I go. Never shall the God be rejected and ask twice. But when your
daughter, old and haggard, looks up at you, answer that it was her
unworthy father who kept her as a drudge on earth, when he might have
raised her to a throne in heaven.”

As the old man stood with clasped hands, Radha broke from the shadows
and threw herself before him.

“My father, would you hold me back? What joy, what glory in all the
world can befall your child like this? The bride of the God! O Father!”

The tears were running down her face like rain. They glittered in the
lamplight. He could not meet her eyes. Nilkant Rai stood by, silent.

“She is beautiful as a nymph of Indra’s heaven!” he thought. “Not Urvasi
and Menaka, the temptresses of sages, were more lovely!” He said aloud;

“The maiden is right. She is worthy of the God’s embrace. Is there more
to say?”

“Maharaj, I worship you!” said the old man submissively (and still he
had not looked at his child). “It is well. What orders?”

“Let her be perfumed and anointed daily. Let her food and drink be purer
than the pure. Let her worship daily at the temple of Sri Krishna. The
bridal shall be held in a month from this, that time being auspicious.
The Car of her Lord shall come for her as the Queen she is, and all envy
the Chosen.”

He turned to Radha, still at her father’s feet.

“Farewell, happiest Lady. Joys earthly and celestial await you. Rest in
the knowledge of the favour of Sri Krishna. Hear of him, dream of him,
until the glad truth slays all dream.”

He moved slowly toward the steps. Her father pursued him.

“Maharaj. Forgive, forgive! I neglect my manners. Thanks a thousandfold
for the honour you have condescended to bring us this happy day. Your
commands are ever before me.”

The words poured forth. He could not say enough.

“It is well, Pandit-ji. It is well. Say no more!” said the great guest,
striding onward to the gate where two other Brahmans and his _palki_
awaited him.

She stood in the shadows as the Pandit returned.

“Father, beloved, did I do wrong? Have you not taught me all my life
that there is none like him—none?”

“My pearl, what is done is done. He cannot be resisted. It is well your
heart goes with your feet. Now sleep.”

She passed in silently, and sat all night by the small cotton mattress
laid on the floor. How could she sleep?

Nor was there sleep for the Pandit. Sita Bai needed little telling, for
she had listened behind the curtains; and now, with a livid pallor upon
her, she confronted him.

“Lord of my life, what is there to say? You know—you know!”

“I know,” he answered heavily.

Sita Bai was too dutiful a wife to reproach her husband with anything
done; but his own thoughts returned to the long evenings spent in
contemplating the Perfections of the God. He replied to his thought.

“Yet had she never heard his name, it had been the same. Nothing could
have saved her from the temple of Jagannath.”

“Saved.” He caught the word back from his own lips in deadly fear, and
added in haste: “Whom the God honours cannot set his grace aside, and
there is none who would. None in heaven or earth.”

“None,” echoed the woman faintly. Then, in a whisper scarcely to be
heard, “Whom Nilkant Rai chooses”—and steadily averted her eyes.

They dared say no more of this even in whispers to each other; for if
this were reported, grief, ruin, death were the sure end.

One word more did Anand Pandit breathe:—

“She must keep her joy. It is the God’s. If he love her, he yet may save
her. Let no word be said.”

She touched his feet in token of submission. All night they sat in a
bitter silence.

                                   IV

Next day, all through the little holy town, bathing in its glad sunshine
beneath the swaying palms, had run the news of this honour. Sita Bai,
with a mask of gladness fixed on her face, visited the wife of the
goldsmith, and begged her sympathy with the divine event. The gold
bangles rang as she joined her hands; for she had come clad in
splendour, and her sari was of purple silk of Paitan woven with strands
of gold.

When Radha went with her mother to the temple, crowds of the simple
people had gathered by the lake beneath the neems and tamarinds to
behold the beauty beloved of the God. True, they had seen it before, but
to-day it was strange and new. Her throat rose like the stem of the
lotus above the snowy folds of her sari, and like the purity of the
lotus was her face with its downward eyes hidden in heavy lashes. She
moved already like a bride, a little apart from her mother, to whom she
had clung hitherto.

A voice shouted, “Jai Krishna!” (Victory to Krishna), and many voices
took up the cry. A woman, quivering with eagerness, flung a garland of
wet marigolds about her neck. Flowers were strewn before her happy feet.
Never before had a Bride been chosen from Krishnapur. It might well seem
the benediction of the God.

A beautiful woman, in a sari of jade-green and silver, pressed up close
to her and whispered,—

“Pray for me, O Beautiful, when you lie in the arms of the God, for me
Ramu, wife of Narayan the Sahoukhar, that I may bear a son. Surely he
will grant it for a wedding gift!” She stooped to the feet of Radha to
worship her.

“I will pray,” the bride answered, pacing gently onward.

Petitions poured in upon her as she moved through the dappled light and
shadow of the trees, beside the melted jewels of the lake. A great
gladness possessed her. It was as if the air upbore her light feet; and
the people followed in crowding joy until she made the _ashtanga_—the
great prostration before the Flute-Player, the Alone, the Beautiful, who
moves through the world scattering joy and love with the far music of
his Flute—He to whom all and none may draw near.

When the people were gone and the sun had set, and quiet breathed from
the grey garments of evening, she entreated her father to read to her
from the Song of Songs, written by the sweet-voiced singer Jayadeva, who
has sounded all the secrets of love.

At first he hesitated, then with a strange look upward, he read.

“‘This is the story of the anguish of Radha.

“‘For Radha, jasmine-bosomed, beautiful, waited in vain for her immortal
Lover, by the banks of Jumna. This is the Dark Night of the Soul, for
the face of the Beloved is averted in eclipse. In her sight, joyous and
joy-giving, he lingers on the banks of Jumna with the happy herd-maids,
while the _koels_ flute their soft _koo-hoo-oo_ in the deep green shade.
And the poet makes the invocation:—

“‘“Krishna, Lord of Love, stoop from thy throne to aid us. Deign to lift
up our hearts for the sake of this song that is the cry of all who shed
the tears of desertion as Radha shed them.”

“‘And Radha cries aloud in her despair:—

          “‘“Wind of the Indian stream,
          A little, O a little, breathe once more
          The fragrance of his mouth. Blow from thy store
          One last word, as he fades into a dream.”

“‘But he, far away in his Heaven, is lost in the Infinite Bliss; while
she, deceived, beholds him playing by the river. Yet, because the soul,
fevered with illusion, cannot soar to him, he forsakes his throne,
sending his messenger before him, thus to plead with her:—

        “‘“The lesson that thy faithful love has taught him
          He has heard.
        The wind of spring, obeying thee has brought him
          At thy word.
        What joy in all the Three Worlds was so precious
          To thy mind?
        _Ma kuru manini manamayè_,[1]
          O be kind!”

[1] My proud one, do not indulge in scorn.

-----

“‘He pleads, as it were, for forgiveness, the Divine reasoning with the
soul and justifying his ways. And all is well, and joy leaps over the
horizon like the sun that drives the dark with arrows of victory. For he
comes.

“‘So then, Jayadeva writes of the high close, the mystic nuptials of the
soul and her Bridegroom.’”

The old Pandit paused, his voice trembling, with the dark eyes of his
Radha fixed upon him. Then read on:—

          “‘Enter the House of Love, O Loveliest!
          Enter the marriage bower, most Beautiful,
          And take and give the joy that Krishna grants.’”

And again he paused, the words choking in his throat, and she laid a
soft hand on his.

          “‘Then she, no more delaying, entered straight;
          Shame, which had lingered in her downcast eyes,
          Departed shamed. And like the mighty deep
          Which sees the moon and rises, all his life
          Uprose to drink her beams.’”

He laid the book aside and extinguished the little lamp, so that only
the moonlight was about them.

After a while, he said,—

“My daughter, the God leads you in strange ways. Yet, whatever the
hearts of men, he is true. Offer him your heart in all purity, and in
the end it shall be well with you. We will speak of this no more.”

“But, Father beloved, do you not share my joy?” she said tremulously.

He was silent.

                                   V

The days went by very swiftly to the time of the divine marriage.
Messengers came and went between the mighty temple of Jagannath and
little Krishnapur, bearing gifts and jewels. Casting half-contemptuous
glances, they passed by the little shrine where the Bride worshipped
daily; but all contempt died when they were admitted to see her face.

“The God has chosen well!” they said, and looked at one another with
meaning.

So the great day dawned in a passion of sunlight, and with flutes and
drums and shouting the great Car of Jagannath waited for the Bride; and
as she came forth, the pomegranate-blossom flush of joy rising in her
golden cheek, her parents bowed before her and touched her feet in
worship—no longer their daughter, but a goddess.

Ankleted and zoned with gold, clothed in woven gold so supple that it
yielded to every breath, the sun-rays dazzled back from her upon the
adoring crowd until they put up their hands to veil the splendour. And
so she sat, a Radiance, for all the world to see, high on the Car
wreathed and hung with flowers, the image of the Bridegroom beside her.

Oh, wonderful, terrible greatness for a woman! And so, with songs and
triumph they bore her to her bridal.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Mighty is the Temple of Jagannath, where by the eternal sea the people
crowd all day to worship the Lord of the Universe. In little Krishnapur,
he is the Beloved, the Herdsman, the Beautiful. Here, he is far
removed—too great for love or fear. Human thought quails before his
Vastness.

The temple is in itself a city, and no feet but those of worshippers may
pass even the strong outward walls. Very glorious are the carvings that
adorn it. Terrible figures of Gods, many-headed, many-armed, bending
giant bows, trampling giant enemies, brandishing awful weapons, dandling
on their knees great Goddesses with slender loins and full breasts that
overweight their swaying grace. Very awful are these figures, with
clustering hair and crowns above their long eyes, and suns and moons
rising and setting on their brows, and the symbols of their might
scattered about them.

But it was night, and it was among the wildly tossing lights that the
Bride approached the home of her Lord; and the temple was dreadful, for
it was dark and all the intricate ways lit with flickering points of
light like the eyes of beasts; and, lost among strangers, her heart
turned to water; for it resembled a great cave of blackness, and she
could see but the naked bodies of worshippers and giant images of the
holy Gods hovering through thick air laden with incense fumes and
burning _ghi_ and the dung of the sacred animals and the pungent smell
of rotting marigolds. And there were cauldrons with flames fed by wild
worshippers from the hills, and these crowded about the _palki_ wherein
they brought her through the temple, and touched it with hands that made
her tremble, imploring her prayers as she lay in the breast of the God.
Bats hung from the roof or swooped in the gloom. Their sourness tainted
the air, and men, dim as ghosts, slunk about the fearful ways.

Thus dwell the Gods.

And suddenly terror submerged her like an ocean wave, and she sank back
and the world left her.

When sense and memory returned, she lay in her _palki_ in the great Hall
of Dancing—a mighty hall supported on many pillars; and around her
stood in motionless bands the _devidasis_, the dancers of the God,
chosen to delight his senses for their grace and beauty.

And, seeing her stretch her hands for help, the wild and flying dance
began. They lifted her from the _palki_ and she stood among them,
shimmering in gold, and about her they wheeled, advancing and retiring,
linking and unlinking like dancers in a dream. And they sang the
marriage song she had heard in the quiet of her home; but now it was
terrible as it burst from hundreds of throats, gonged and cymbaled, with
clashing and a thunder-beat of drums.

            “Enter, thrice-Happy, enter, thrice-Desired,
            And let the gates of Hari shut thee in.
            Tremble not. Lay thy lovely shame aside
            And love him with the love that knows not fear.
            Give him the drink of amrit from thy lips.”

She stood like one clinging to a surf-beaten rock as they tossed about
her with wild hands and eyes, the whole world mad with noise and dance
and colour; then, dropping on her knees, she covered her eyes in terror.

And thus the servants of the God welcomed her to his arms.

                                   VI

Night, and a great quiet. A chamber of gold set with jewels glittering
in the moonlight that came down some secret way, borne on a cool breath
from the sea.

She lay alone in the golden place, and the jewels watched her like eyes.
Was it terror, was it love that possessed her? A thousand images blurred
her closed eyes—He, the Beautiful, with peacock crown, with eyes that
draw the soul, with lips of indescribable sweetness. It could not be
that she should lie close to the heart of the God. How dare flesh and
blood aspire to that mystic marriage? Must they not perish in the awful
contact? And, if it could be, how return to earth after that ecstasy?

“May I know and die!” she prayed. “Oh, let me not pass unknowing! Let me
know and die!”

And as the minutes dropped by, this prayer was all her thought, and it
possessed her being.

Then, dividing the darkness, she heard the voice of a Flute very far
off. Like a silver mist, it spread vaporous, a small fine music, but
growing, drawing nearer, and, as it strengthened, clear drops of music
fell through this mist like honey from the black bees’ comb. It crept
about her brain and steeped her eyes as if in poppy juice, so sweet, so
gliding, most infinitely wooing as it grew and filled the air with
peace.

And in this high marvel was a blissful safety beyond all words, more
sweet and delectable than any man may tell. The grace of his Childhood,
of the dearworthy passage of his blessed Feet among men, returned to her
with a joy that melted her heart with love. And so she rose and stood
upon her feet, as one called, trembling with blissful longing.

Far down the long ways, passing through pools of moonlight and dark,
came One whom the music followed. His face could not at first be seen;
about him was a leopard skin. Naked but for this, beautiful and slender,
his silent feet moved onward. Like one utterly alone in a great forest,
he came,—slowly,—lost in some unutterable thought, made audible in
sweet sound.

The Bride, the Lover, and between them, the music and the moonlight
only. She would have knelt, but her feet were fixed; and he drew near
with unseeing eyes—O Beautiful, O wholly desirable, to draw the hearts
of men! And still the Face Divine was hidden.

But as he drew near and would have passed, she cried aloud with a
passionate glad cry, “My Lord indeed!” rejoicing suddenly.

And he turned and looked upon his Bride with heavens in his eyes. And as
she saw what no words can utter, she fell upon his feet and lay, slain
sweetly with a bliss more keen than any pain.

                 *        *        *        *        *

But the Brahman, Nilkant Rai, waiting behind the pillar to seize his
prey, had heard and seen nothing of the Glory.

As she fell, he sprang like a tiger on a fawn, and lifted the fair dead
body, and stumbled in the trailing hair, and knew his vileness
conquered. And in that moment the Eye of Destruction opened upon him the
beam that withers worlds and hurls them like shriveled leaves into the
Abyss.

And he dropped her and stumbled screaming into the dark, a leper white
as snow.

But when they came in the dawn to implore the will of the God from the
happy lips that his had blessed, the Bride lay at rest on the dim
straight golden bed, and between her breasts was a Flute set with
strange jewels that no man could name. Nor shall they ever; for when
they laid her body on the pyre they left this Flute in her bosom.

And when Anand Das heard what had befallen, he said this:—

“When did the Herdsman sleep on his guard or the Beloved fail the heart
that loved Him? It is well, and better than well.”

And he who tells this story ends it thus:—

              “Meditates the Herdsman ever,
              Seated by the sacred river,
              The mystic stream that o’er His feet
              Glides slow with murmurs low and sweet—”

and breast to breast with God, the soul that adores Him.



                        THE BELOVED OF THE GODS
                      A STORY FROM THE MAHABHARATA



                        THE BELOVED OF THE GODS


                      A STORY FROM THE MAHABHARATA

Reverence to Ganesha, Lord of the Elephant Trunk, that, in a day found
fortunate, he aid me to tell this tale, which whoso heareth shall
receive prosperity in this world and in that other.

In the age of the ancestors there dwelt a great King in Vidarbha, with a
Queen of the highest grace and beauty, and these did all things pleasing
to the gods, making rich gifts to Brahmans and honouring kine, and in
reward for these things the gods gave to them three sons and a daughter,
and this was Damayanti, the loveliest of earthly women. And she was
known throughout the universe as the “Consumer of Hearts”; for the very
report of her beauty agitated the hearts of thousands who might never
hope to see it. Slender-waisted was she and stately as a young
palm-tree, and though she was a mortal, Sri, the wife of Narayana, had
dowered her with her own eyes, black and soft and so long-lidded that
they all but touched the silken hair upon her temples. The very gods in
the Paradise of Indra heard the report of this marvel and coveted it.

Now as Damayanti, like a crescent moon, rounded into maidenhood, it so
befell that her maidens in talk together praised none but that Tiger
among Men, Nala the Prince. For they said: “This Prince overpasses all
men, and what shall be said of him? Surely he is laughing, bold and
handsome as Kama, the God of Love—he whose bow is strung with
honey-bees, sweet and stinging. The arrows of his eyes are pointed with
five-tongued flame. All hearts burn in his glances.”

And Damayanti silently heard and pondered.

But the report of her had in like manner reached Nala, and sweet
thoughts grew up in him for the slender-waisted maid. And he dreamed of
her.

Now it chanced that one day, wandering in the great woods that
surrounded his palace, he saw a flock of swans, white and beautiful as
though washed in the waters of Lake Manasarovar, that cold jewel of the
Himalaya, and indeed they were of that royal race of swans who, dwelling
there, feed only on unpierced seed-pearls, and therefore are they so
white. So, as they drew together, the Prince, stealing noiseless as a
snake through the jungle, seized one, for love of its whiteness, and
held the long throat clutched in his hands and the plumed wings beneath
his knees.

But in those days royal men had understanding of the lesser creatures of
the gods, and that king-swan spoke and Nala heard his speech: “O Tiger
among Men, slay me not. To me also is my life dear and precious! Have
pity, for I will do good service. I will fly through many leagues of
air, and in the ear of the Princess Damayanti will I say that of all men
you are the noblest and stateliest. And having heard this, she will
greatly desire you.”

And by the favour of Kama, the Prince withdrew his hands, saying, “Swan,
observe your promise; for this is the duty of the honourable.”

And the swan, inclining his head, flew away with his companions, having
instructed them as to the course they should pursue on alighting in the
gardens of Vidarbha.

Now in the garden-close the Princess and her maidens played, and she
excelled them all, though each was fair. And the swans, seeing these
lovely ones among the flowers, fluttered to earth and stood near them,
arching their necks and preening their feathers, and their whiteness
delighted the Princess and she said, laughing: “Chase these swans, each
one a swan; for it appears that they desire captivity at our hands.”

And every maiden pursued a swan, with laughter and sweet cries, and as
each all but seized her swan, the swan eluded her and fluttered a little
farther. Most lovely of all sights was it to behold the maidens and the
swans, as, equal in beauty, they fluttered hither and thither among the
flowers and the trees. And Damayanti, laughing with her voice of music,
pursued her swan, she also, that lovely lady of the long eyes, not
knowing that her heart was the destined prey of the swan she sought to
capture.

For, when her hands were even upon the snow of his plumage, that
king-swan eluded her again and spoke in the speech of man, and in
amazement she stood to hear what he would say, as he inclined his head
before her feet. “Lady, O Most Beautiful, Damayanti, Consumer of Hearts,
there is a Prince in Nishada, and his name—oh, mark it well—is Nala.
As the Twin Stars shine in the sky, so he shines among men. Surely we
swans, flying in the pure air, see all men and divine beings and the
great gods. But we have seen none like unto Nala. Pearl among Women, if
you should wed this Prince of Princes, were it not better than well?”

And when Damayanti heard this, she looked sidelong through her lashes
like a maid, for she was young and tender, and she said this, very
softly: “Dear swan—white swan! Fly and tell this thing to the Prince.”

And that white beauty, the feeder on pearls, said, “Hearing and obeying,
I go.”

And with strong strokes of his pinions he rose into the sky, followed by
his mates, and clove the air to Nishada and told the Prince her word,
being the destined messenger of love.

But he carried the heart of the maid upon his wings; for Damayanti sat
her down upon the flowers and, when her ladies returned from chasing the
swans, they found her with her hand pressed upon her empty bosom and
tears welling like jewels from the dark deeps of her eyes. And though
they entreated her to speak and reveal the cause of her grief, she would
say nothing but this one thing: “All is well—and ill! Trouble me no
further.”

And they returned, sighing, to the palace, with Care among them for a
companion.

For Damayanti wanned and paled. Like a caged jungle-dweller would she
pace up and down, unresting, her eyes upon the ground. Food lost its
savour, and what was sleep but a weariness? And in the garden-close she
sat in her gold gown and watched the peacocks displaying their splendour
to the sun as they danced before the rains, and she only prayed for
wings that she might fly to Nishada. Very full of mischief were the
words of that swan!

So her royal mother, instructed by the maidens that the Princess pined
away daily, went to her lord, the King, and said: “Such and such is the
case of our daughter. Do then according to your wisdom.”

And the King pondered the thing deeply; for he loved his daughter, and
he answered: “I perceive she is no longer a child. Youth and maidenhood
are waxing in her, and who can gainsay them? It is now fitting that she
make her choice among princes and kings.”

So the careful King, having considered, sent forth this message to the
courts of kings: “Lords of the Earth, it is with us an ancient and
honourable custom that the daughters of kings make choice of a husband
suitable to their degree and royalty; nor do we force them to unchosen
marriages. And this is known as the _swayamvara_ of a king’s daughter.
My Princess is now of due age to choose her lord. Come therefore to the
swayamvara of Damayanti, receiving honourable welcome.”

And the news flew like gongs and drums over the land; for there was no
man but knew of the loveliness of the Consumer of Hearts, and each one
thought within himself, “She will choose me, and yet if not, still shall
I see that face of faces.”

So from every country came processions to the court of Vidarbha: trains
of elephants walking slowly beneath the weight of the gold and silver
castles upon their backs, where sat the kings of men; horses with
jewelled saddles and bridles, the very stirrups glittering with
clarified gems that the feet of kings might tread upon them; glorious
companies of fighting-men, bearing their pennons; archers with bows
tipped with ivory, strung until they sang like the strings of the
_sitar_ in the wind. So in armies they came until the earth groaned
beneath their feet, and the great camps were set about Vidarbha.

Also came Nala the Prince, gallantly accompanied, riding to Vidarbha,
and thoughts of love were thick as honey-bees in his heart.

But who shall discern the thoughts of the Gods?

For it chanced that two great saints, Narada and Parvata, mighty in
their austerities, pure and high of thought, ascended the heavens at
that time, to make a visit and obeisance to Indra the God, in his own
Paradise. And he, the King of the Clouds, rising to them, did them
honour and welcomed them; for the presence of the saints is as a rich
perfume in the nostrils of the gods. Therefore he saluted the two,
asking tidings of the world.

And Narada replied: “High God, it is well with the world. It is well
with the kings. There is no complaint.”

And Indra spoke again: “But where are my fighters—the kings of men? Do
they not love—do they not fight as of old? I see no souls of haughty
warriors entering my heaven. Is it all peace? Where are my
fighting-men?”

So Narada made reply: “O Cloudy God, all is peace upon the earth, and
there is no thought but of beauty: the King of Vidarbha makes the
choosing for his daughter and the kings and princes dream of naught
else; for she is the very Lotus of the World and the Pearl of Women. And
the kings flock as one man to Vidarbha.”

And while Narada said this, the Immortals gathered to hear, and when he
spoke of the maid Damayanti, their eyes shot forth peculiar radiance and
they said: “To this maid’s choosing we four will go. She is worthy to
choose among the deathless rather than the kings, and she shall reign in
the Paradise of Indra and sit beside that divinity whose bride she wills
to be.”

And Indra, the Cloudy God, said, “I will go.”

And Agni, the Lord of Fire, said, “I also.”

And Varuna, the King of Waters, said, “And I.”

And the Dark Presence that is Yama, the Lord of Death, said, “I go.”

So their winged chariots that are self-directed, flying like thought
where they will, awaited them, and the gods ascended them and, thinking
of Vidarbha, were presently beside its walls.

But Nala the Prince, approaching with his company of great men and
soldiers, elated with love and hope, looked up and beheld the Gods,
seated in their golden chariots. And these, the Protectors of the World,
saw him and hesitation in their purpose seized them, because he shone
like the sun and was a man indeed, and their divine hearts adjudged him
worthy even of Damayanti—so straight and tall he stood and like a
king’s lance, and in the beauty of his brows and strength of his person
was there no blemish from head to foot. Even like their own brother,
Kama, the God of Love, so he seemed to them.

But, descending through the clouds and softening their divine voices
that human ears might abide them, they accosted him: “Aho! Prince of
Nishada—Prince Royal! We have an errand. We have need of a noble
messenger. Who will go for us?”

And he did homage, pressing his palms together, answering: “I see Four
Shining Ones. I will go. What is your errand, that I may do it?”

So Indra, leaning from his chariot, said this: “The Gods stand before
you, Prince of Nishada. I am Indra, the King of the Clouds, and he
beside me is Agni, the Lord of Fire, and here, Varuna, the King of
Waters, and he behind me is Yama, the Lord of Death. Go now to Damayanti
the Princess, and say this to her: ‘The Protectors of the World, the
Four Great Gods, desiring your beauty, are come to the swayamvara. Make
choice then to which of these Great Ones your heart inclines; for that
dignity whom you shall choose is yours, O maiden of excelling fortune.’”

But Nala, joining his hands in prayer, said to Indra: “O Mighty, how can
I do this? O Mightinesses, anything but this! I, too, have journeyed to
Vidarbha, desiring the maid. How should I entreat for another, even for
a god? Being divine, have pity.”

But these divinities replied: “Have you not said, ‘I go’? Is it possible
that a royal man should break his word? It is not possible. The great
forswear themselves in nothing. Depart.”

So he said: “Her gates are guarded; for she is a king’s daughter. A man
may have no secret speech with her.”

And Indra answered: “But that may you! Fear not. Depart.”

And as the divine voice ceased, the Prince stood in the inmost chamber
of Damayanti. He knew not how; yet he was there.

And his eyes swam and his heart fluttered within him; for she sat with
her maids like a goddess and his heart knew her. Beautiful was she and
yet more than beautiful; for all grace, all love shone about her as the
light surrounds the moon in her interlunar caves. So a mild radiance
filled the air about the Princess and moved as she moved, going with
her.

Now, when these ladies beheld a man standing in their presence, they
sprang up like frightened deer, each grasping the other for protection
and gathering about the Princess to shield her, so great was their fear.
Then, seeing the kindliness of his beauty and the nobility of his brows,
these lovely ones gathered courage and they saluted him with timidity,
murmuring: “Aho, his grace! Aho, his beauty! What is he? Who?”

But the Princess, her heart fluttering like a leaf in the wind, stood
higher than the rest and spoke thus: “Noble Prince—for by a faultless
body I judge you royal—how have you come thus suddenly like a God?
Surely this would anger my father. Have you no fear of his wrath?”

But there was love in her voice and with love the Prince answered: “O
Most Lovely, I am Nala of Nishada, and I am the herald of the gods. For
to your choosing come the Four, almighty, heaven-shining—Indra the King
of the Clouds, Agni of the Fire, Varuna of the Waters, and he whom to
name is fear, Yama, the Lord of Death. And these will that you choose
one among them to be your immortal lord, and it is by their power that I
stand before you. Who am I to be the messenger of the Great Ones? Now
judge what is well; for this is an honour to shake the soul of a woman.”

So Damayanti bowed her fair head in reverence, hearing the gods named,
and having done obeisance, she raised her head and spoke: “Yet, O
Prince, is my heart set on you and I am faithful. The white swan was my
messenger and to you he bore my love. It is for your sake only that the
kings are bidden to my swayamvara, but I have already chosen. Even now
the maidens make ready the garland that I would hang about your neck. O
Prince of Men, O Flame of Strength and Knightliness, what says your
heart? For me, I choose your arms or death. There is no other way.”

And he, sighing bitterly, said: “With the very Gods awaiting you, how,
Princess, should you choose a man? And what am I but dust beneath their
feet? But you, O lady, choosing one of these excelling Gods, shall
escape all death and mortality and reign shining beside him throughout
the ages; for immortal flowers do not wither, and death and time are
unknown to such as these. Sit therefore enthroned above us. Choose and,
choosing, be divine.”

But she replied in haste and weeping: “Before these mighty Gods I bow.
To them I address my prayers, but you I choose—you only will I take for
my husband. You only. What to me is immortal life if I have not you?”

And her body trembled like a bamboo in the wind, while he replied: “Here
being their messenger, I may not speak for myself. Duty and reverence
hold the door of my lips. Yet if the time come when in honour I may
speak, then will I utter what lies in my heart. May that time come!”

“May it come!” said the Princess and dashed the tears from her eyes, and
like a queen she stood and said: “In full presence of my father and of
the kings let these Divine Ones enter, and, O Prince, who are the light
of my sad eyes, enter you, too, and I, a free maiden, will choose
freely. And to you, what blame? For it is I who choose and the gods know
all.”

So he returned to the Gods and, sighing, told what had befallen, bidding
them to the swayamvara of Damayanti, the Consumer of Hearts. So the
Shining Ones knew that her heart was set upon Nala of Nishada.

Now, on an auspicious day and in the right quarter of the moon, the
swayamvara was held in a mighty court surrounded by golden pillars bound
with garlands, and with royal seats set for the suitors. And closing it
in was a great gatehouse with guards.

Through the gates passed the kings to their places, and what a sight was
there as these noblest of the earth approached! How should a woman
choose among them? Crowned were they with odorous blossoms pressed down
upon their dark locks. Lordly jewels swung in their ears. Some were
rough in majesty, great-thewed, and the muscles stood out upon them like
cords. Some were delicate in strength like bows of the archer Gods, but
splendid kings were all, proud and fierce of aspect, fit spouses for
such beauty; and in a ring they sat, their eyes glittering and fixed
upon the way that Damayanti should enter, desiring that loveliness as
the very crown jewel of their state. But none saw the Gods.

And into that ring of set faces entered the Princess, unveiled and
pacing like a deer, and on her right hand her brother Danta, and the
garland of choosing on her arm, and when she entered all held their
breath, so more than mortal fair she seemed, and they knew that the half
was not told them.

So, with her soul set on Nala of Nishada, the Princess Damayanti went by
the kings, and, as she passed each one, his face darkened as when a
cloud crosses the sun and the world is grey. So at last she stood before
Nala and raised her eyes under the cloud of her beautifully bent lashes,
and fear and pain shot through her tender heart like an arrow, for lo,
the Four Shining Ones had condescended to take the earthly shape of Nala
as they stood beside him, so that they might try the maid and she not
know her love. There were five Nalas, and which was her own she could in
no way tell, for each one bore his very face, his very form. So the Gods
walk disguised, and who shall know them?

Then, sore perplexed, trembling in her great fear and reverence, she
sought, meditating, to recall the signs by which the Gods may be
discerned when they assume flesh. But of these none could she see, and
the five remained immovable as she stood before them and in silence the
kings watched what would be.

So, seeing no help in herself or anywhere on earth, that lovely lady
joined her palms and, raising her lotus-eyes, spoke thus: “O Divine
Ones, I heard the swan and chose my lord, and by that sincerity which I
have kept in all faith and honour, I call upon your greatness, O Mighty,
who for a while have blinded my eyes, to show my King to me! Appear, O
Protectors of the World, in your proper shape, that I may do such
reverence as mortals owe to Gods; and reveal him, mortal, but mine own.”

Being thus called upon in the strength of a pure woman, straightway the
Gods, dropping all disguise, disclosed their beauty. And immediately she
knew them; for their sacred feet touched not the earth but hung a span’s
length above it in the air, and their forms of crystal essence cast no
shadow. No sweat was beaded on their pure, eternal brows, and their
crowns of flowers in radiance cast back the sun’s beams nor drooped in
the heat. And neither wavered their shining eyes, fixed upon the
Princess, nor did the lids flicker, and in motionless majesty the
Immortal Gods stood there.

And beside them stood Nala, very weary and foredone with grief and pain.
His shadow lay black before him in the fierce sun, the sweat hung thick
upon his brows where the faded flowers drooped. Beautiful, wearied and
mortal, he stood beside the Immortal Gods.

So Damayanti looked upon those unchanging faces, in which was neither
sorrow nor anger, for they sit above the thunder; and they regarded her,
as it were unseeing, yet seeing all things, as do the holy images, and
in their divine hearts was no love at all. So she passed them by and
hung the perfumed garland round the bowed neck of her love, and in her
voice of music took him to be her lord.

And he said this: “O Lovely—O Faithful, since before Gods and men you
have chosen me, unworthy, true man will I be and faith and honour will I
keep while the breath is in my nostrils.”

So together they worshipped the Four, while all the kings and princes
cried aloud: “_Sadhu!_”—“Well done!” For there was none but rejoiced in
the beauty and faithfulness of these two.

So the Immortal Gods, standing in that presence, gave lordly gifts to
the pair. And Indra, the Cloudy God, gave this: that, when Nala should
perform sacrifice, he should with mortal eyes see the visible God and
behold him unafraid. And Agni, the Lord of Fire, gave this: that at all
times he would come at the call of Nala. And this is a great gift. And
Varuna, the King of Waters, gave this: that at the word of Nala of
Nishada the waters should rise and fall, obedient. But Yama, the Lord of
Death, gave two gifts; and of these the first was to walk steadfastly in
the ways of righteousness; and the second (let it not be despised!) was
to be skilful in preparing food. And in after times by strange chance
did this prove a great and goodly gift.

Thus was the marrying of Nala, King of Men, with Damayanti, Pearl of
Women.

Reverence to that Lord of Elephant Trunk to whom obstacles are as
nothing, and to those Four Shining Ones who showed compassion, their
ears being open to the prayer of purity.



                             THE HIDDEN ONE



                             THE HIDDEN ONE


(The heroine of this story was a Princess of the great Mogul dynasty of
Emperors in India. She was granddaughter of Shah-Jahan and the lovely
lady of the Taj Mahal, and daughter of the Emperor Aurungzib whose
fanaticism was the ruin of the dynasty. The Princess’s title was
Zeb-un-Nissa—Glory of Women. She was beautiful and was and is a famous
poet in India, writing under the pen-name of Makhfi—the Hidden One. Her
love adventures were such as I relate, though I have taken the liberty
of transferring the fate of one lover to another.

For her poems, which I quote, I use the charming translations by J.
Duncan Westbrook, who has written a brief memoir of this fascinating
Princess. She was a mystic of the Sufi order and her verses “The Hunter
of the Soul,” which I give, strangely anticipate Francis Thompson’s
“Hound of Heaven”, in their imagery. The poems not specified as hers are
a part of my story.)

The office of hakim (physician) to the Mogul Emperors being hereditary
in my family from the days of Babar the conquering Emperor, I was
appointed physician to the Padshah known as Shah-Jahan, and when his
Majesty became a Resident in Paradise (may his tomb be sanctified!) my
office was continued by his Majesty Aurungzib, the Shahinshah, and rooms
were bestowed on me in his palace, and by his abundant favour the health
of the Begams (queens) in the seclusion of his mahal was placed in the
hands of this suppliant and I came and went freely in my duties and was
enlightened by the rays of his magnanimity. And my name is Abul Qasim.

But of all that garden of flowers, the Begams and Princesses, there was
one whom my soul loved as a father loves his child, for she resembled
that loveliest of all sweet ladies, her father’s mother, she who lies
buried by Jumna River in the divine white beauty of the Taj Mahal. (May
it be sanctified to her rest!) In my Princess’s sisters, it is true I
have seen a flash now and again of that lost beauty, but in her it abode
steadfast as a moon that knows no change and at her birth she received
the name of Arjemand after that beloved lady, whose death clouded the
universe so that its chronogram gives the one word “Grief.” But the
child also received the title of Zeb-un-Nissa—Glory of Women, and such
this resplendent Princess most truly was.

And surely the prayer for resemblance was granted by the bounty of
Allah, for she grew into womanhood dark, delicious as a damask rose,
enfolding the hidden heart of its perfume in velvet leaves, a soft
luxuriant beauty that stole upon the heart like a blossom-bearing breeze
and conquered it insensibly. Of her might it be said:

“For the mole upon thy cheek would I give the cities of Samarkand and
Bokhara,” and a poet of Persia, catching a glimpse of her as she walked
in her garden, cried aloud in an ecstasy of verse:

  “O golden zone that circles the Universe of Beauty,
  It were little to give the earth itself for what thou circlest.”

Yet, this surprising loveliness was the least of her perfections.

But how shall this suppliant who is but a man describe the spell of her
charm? Allah, when he made man and laid the world at his feet, resolved
that one thing should be hidden from his understanding, that still for
all his knowledge he should own there is but one Searcher of Secrets.
And the heart of this mystery is woman, and if she be called the other
half of man it is only as the moon reflects the glory of her lord the
sun in brilliance, though (as a wise Hindu pandit told me for truth) she
has a cold and dark side which is always unknown to him, where alone she
revolves thoughts silent, cold, and dangerous. Therefore to sift her in
her secrecies is a foolhardy thing, and not in vain is it written by
Aflatoun (Plato), the wise man of Greece, that the unhappy man who
surprised a goddess bathing in the forest was rent in pieces by his own
hounds.

Yet this feat must be attempted for if there is a thing it concerns man
to know it is the soul of this fair mystery who moves beside him and
surrenders Heaven to him in a first kiss and the bitterness of the hells
in a last embrace.

Therefore I essay the history of this Princess, the Glory of Women, who
was an epitome of her sex in that she was beautiful, a dreamer, a poet,
and on the surface sweet in gentleness as a summer river kissing its
banks in flowing, but beneath——

I write.

Seeing her intelligence clear as a sword of Azerbajan, her exalted
father resolved that his jewel should not be dulled by lack of polishing
and cutting, and he appointed the wise lady Miyabai to be her first
teacher. At the age of seven she knew the Koran by heart, and in her
honour a mighty feast was made for the army and for the poor. As she
grew, aged and saintly tutors were appointed, from whom she absorbed
Arabic, mathematics and astronomy, as a rose drinks rain. No subject
eluded her swift mind, no toil wearied her. Verses she wrote with
careless ease in the foreign tongue of Arabia, but hearing from an Arab
scholar that in a single line the exquisite skill betrayed an Indian
idiom, she discarded it instantly because she would have perfection and
wrote henceforward in her own tongue—Persian.

No pains were spared upon this jewel, for the Emperor desired that its
radiance should be splendid throughout Asia, yet her limit was drawn,
and sharply. For in her young pride of learning she began a commentary
on the holy Koran, and hearing this, he sternly forbade it. A woman
might do much in her own sphere, he wrote, but such a creature of dust
may not handle the Divine.

I, Abul Qasim, was with her when the imperial order reached her and saw
her take the fair manuscript and obediently tear it across, desiring
that the rent leaves be offered to the Shadow of God in token of
obedience. But those dark and dangerous eyes of hers were not obedient
beneath the veiling of silken lashes, and turning to me, to whom she
told her royal heart, she said;

“What the hand may not write the heart may think, and in the heart is no
Emperor. It is free,” and leaning from the marble casement she looked
down into the gliding river and said no more.

Yet the Emperor made amends, and noble, as far as his light led him. Not
for a woman the mysteries of the faith of Islam that he held of all
things the greatest, but, fired by the praises of her tutors, he sent
throughout India, Persia and Kashmir for poets worthy of this
poet-Princess and bid them come to Delhi and Agra and there dwell that a
fitting company be made for her.

So, veiled like the moon in clouds, curtained and attended, the Princess
Arjemand was permitted to be present at tournaments in the palace where
the weapons were the wit and beauty of words, when quotations and
questions were flung about as it might be handsful of stars, and a line
given be capped with some perfect finish of the moment’s prompting and
become a couplet unsurpassable, and very often it was the soft voice
from behind the golden veil that capped the wisest and completed the
most exquisite, and recited verses that brought exclamations from the
assembled poets.

“Not even Saadi (may Allah enlighten him!) nor Jalalu’d-din Rumi (may
his eyes be gladdened in Paradise) excelled this lady in the perfumed
honey of their words.” So with one voice they cried.

And this was not homage to the daughter of the Protector of the
Universe. No indeed! for death has not washed out her name with the cold
waters of oblivion and now that she is no more beautiful nor daughter of
the Emperor her verse is still repeated where the poets and saints meet
in concourse.

It will be seen that her life in the Begam Mahal (the Palace of the
Queens) must needs be lonely, for there was none among the princesses
who shared her pleasures, and their recreation in languidly watching the
dancers or buying jewels and embroideries and devouring sweetmeats
wearied her as sorely. But she had one friend, Imami, daughter of Arshad
Beg Khan, and this creature of mortality who writes these words was also
accounted her friend though unworthy to be the ground whereon she set
her little foot.

Day after day did the Lady Arjemand with Imami write and study, and the
librarians of the Emperor had little peace because of the demand of
these ladies for the glorious manuscripts and books collected by her
ancestors from all parts of the earth.

They sat and the walls echoed to the low note of her voice as she read
and recited and so beautiful were the tones of my Princess that I have
seen the water stand in the eyes of those who heard her recite her own
verses or those of the great Persians. It was a noble instrument ranging
from the deepest notes of passion to the keen cry of despair, and I
would listen unwearied while the day trod its blossomed way from dawn to
sunset in the Palace gardens. Great and wonderful was this new palace of
the Emperor with tall lilies inlaid in the pure marble in stones so
precious that they might have been the bosom adornments of some lesser
beauty. Palms in great vases brought by the merchants of Cathay made a
green shade and coolness for two fountains—the one of the pure waters
of the canal, the other of rose-water, and they plashed beside a
miniature lake of fretted marble rocks sunk in the floor where white
lotuses slept in the twilight of the calm retreat. Such was the chamber
of the daughter of the Padshah.

But of all the jewels the Princess was the glory.

Surely with small pains may the Great Mogul’s daughter be a beauty, but
had she been sold naked in the common market-place this lady had brought
a royal price.

Toorki and Persian and Indian blood mingled in her and each gave of its
best. The silken dark hair braided about her head was an imperial crown.
From the well-beloved lady who lies in the Taj Mahal (may Allah make
fragrant her memory), she had received eyes whose glance of slow
sweetness no man, not even the men of her own blood (excepting only her
stern father), could resist, and of her rose-red lips half sensuous,
half child-like, might it be said

“Their honey was set as a snare and my heart a wandering bee,
Clung and could not be satisfied, tasted and returned home never more.”

The imperial Mogul women were indeed the jewels of the world, because
the beauties of Asia were chosen to be their mothers. The net of the
Emperors swept wide, and I, who in virtue of my age and faithful service
have seen, testify that there was none like them, and the loveliest of
all was fit but to serve my Princess kneeling. Shall not the truth be
told? Of the soul within that delicious shrine her deeds must tell.

Now as I have written she sat with Imami by the little lake, and I in a
marble recess by one of the great latticed windows that looks down on
Jumna river and on the other side over the city of Shahjahanabad, new
and luminous in magnificence. In all the world else are no such palace
and city. At this moment she read aloud a letter from her father
Aurungzib concerning the memoirs of her ancestor the Emperor Babar who
founded their dynasty in India, a book written by his own hand and
religiously preserved in the Mogul archives, and she read it with anger
because when she demanded this book from the librarian, the Padshah
hearing wrote thus:

“Happy Daughter of Sovereignty. There is one manner of life for men, who
are the rulers, and for women, who are the slaves. It seems you go too
far. What has a daughter of our House to do with our ancestor
Zah-r-ud-din Muhammed Babar, the resident in Paradise? I have granted
much already. Plant not the herb of regret in the garden of affection.
He writes as a man for men. The request is refused. Recall the verse of
the poet:

 “‘Ride slowly and humbly, and not in hurrying pride
 For o’er the dusty bones of men, the creature of dust must ride.’

“What an Emperor writes is not suitable for the Princesses of his House.
His duty is rule; theirs, obedience.”

It was a discouragement but a command, and another had laid the finger
of obedience on the lips of silence, but, taking counsel with her heart,
this Princess did not so.

She called to me for her pen and wrote in answer:

“Exalted Emperor, Shahinshah, Shadow of God, King of the world, Refuge
of the needy, father of the body of this creature of mortality, be
pleased to hear this ignorant one’s supplication. Surely you have fed my
mind on the bee’s-bread of wisdom, and from your own royal lips have I
learnt that the words of our ancestor (upon whom be the Peace!) are full
of flavour and laughter, generous and kind, shining with honour and the
valour of our family. Now, since this is the root whence sprang your
auspicious Majesty’s rule, should not a humble daughter triumph in it?
True is it that I am your female slave, yet may this worthless body bear
one day a son to transmit your likeness to the prostrate ages, and since
we do not breed lions from lambs, his mother should carry the laughter
and fire of her race like a jewel in the mine of her soul. I make my
petition to the Padshah, the holiest of Emperors.”

“It will be granted me,” said the Princess reading these letters aloud
to Imami and to me, “because of that last word—the holiest. He values
that title more than to be called the Shahinshah. And with all my heart
I would it were otherwise.”

“And why, high Lady?” cried Imami in sheer astonishment. “Surely the
Padshah is a saint and his deeds and words will shine in Paradise. It is
blessed to be devout.”

“I know little of Paradise, but I know, and my father might know if he
studied the life of Akbar the Great, his great-grandfather, that to be
so bitter a saint in our Mohammedan faith that he insults and persecutes
every other is to break our dynasty to powder. Consider of it, Imami, as
I do. Have you read the Acts of Akbar Padshah the greatest sovereign
that ever reigned? Were I emperor in India thus and thus I would do.”

“Glory of Women, may your condescension increase! What did Akbar
Padshah?” said Imami, joining her hands, but I said nothing because I
knew.

“Though he was born Moslem yet he honoured all the Faiths, knowing in
his wisdom that the music is One and the dogmas but the foolish words
that man in his ignorance sets to it. All faiths are true, and none!”

The blood almost fell from my face as I heard her, because had these
words been carried to the Emperor not even her rank, not even her
daughterhood, could have saved the Princess. With Imami and me she was
safe, but in a palace a bird of the air may carry the matter.

“Yes!” she went on, laughing coldly, “Akbar Padshah had in all ways the
tastes of Solomon the Wise and his Begam Mahal (Palace of the Queens)
was a garden of beauty. But observe! The Queens were chosen from every
faith and each had the right to worship as she would. There were Indian
princesses who adored Shiva the Great God and Krishna the Beloved. There
was the Fair Persian who worshipped the Fire as Zoroaster taught, and
there were ladies of the faith of our Prophet more than can be counted.
Whereas in the zenana of my imperial father——”

She paused, and Imami continued with gravity that concealed a smile:

“The Begams recite the holy Koran all day, as becomes the ladies of the
Emperor who says that he sighs for the life of a faquir.”

“And would he had it!” cried the Princess with passion, “for every day
discontent grows among the Hindus that are taxed, beaten, and despised
only because they hold the faith of their fathers. Is there one of them
employed about the court or in the great offices? Not any. Whereas the
Emperor Akbar in his deep wisdom made them as one with ourselves and
thus built up a mighty Empire that my father with holy hands destroys
daily.”

“O Brilliant Lady, for the sake of the Prophet, be silent!” I said, for
indeed she terrified me by her insight. It is better for a woman that
she should not know, or, knowing, keep silence. “If these words were
carried to the Padshah——”

“I should at the least be imprisoned and never more see the light of
day— Well, one may be a devotee out of the Faith as in it, and like
Akbar Padshah, I am the devotee of Truth who shuts her fair eyes on no
faith that men hold in humbleness of heart. And were it policy only, is
it not madness to disgust and terrify the countless millions of the
Hindus upon whom our throne is carried? The end is sure.”

“What is the end?” asked Imami in a whisper.

“Misery for himself—though that matters little, for he will take it as
the robe of martyrdom from the hand of Allah, but ruin for the Mogul
Empire in India. O that I were a man!”

Her face lit up into such pride and valour as she spoke that I wished it
also, for I knew that her words were true as truth. But in India a woman
can do nothing. It is little wonder I trembled for my Princess.

A picture of her Imperial father lay on the low table at her elbow,
painted by a Persian artist of fame, and beautiful as a jewel in its
small brilliant colours, and looking upon it one might see the Kismet of
the Emperor in every feature. Eyes stern but sad, the narrow brows and
close lips of the man who sees not life as it is but as his own thought
of it, bounded by those high narrow brows that overweighted the lower
part. The head of the Emperor was surrounded like that of a saint with a
golden halo and his stern eyes were fixed on some vision invisible to
others. The jaw was weak but fine, and of all dangerous things on earth
beware the strength of a weak man in the grip of his belief. The
Princess looked at it, and then at me:

“The Emperor (may Allah enlarge his reign) should have lived in the time
of the Prophet and have been the Sword in his right hand. He is born
centuries too late. It is policy now that carries all before it. O could
I speak my mind to him, for my brothers dare not, but he and I are
worlds apart and in his presence I am silent.”

I sighed. Not his throne, nor his children, nor his women, nor aught on
earth weighed for one grain of sand against the Pearl of the Faith. True
is it that the Emperor Akbar followed the Vision also but with eyes how
wide and clear!—knowing this for certain, that mortal man _cannot_
know, that Truth is a bird flying in the skies and lets fall but a
feather to earth here and there. So he made for himself a faith that
held the quintessence of all the faiths, and had his sons been like to
him—but past is past. They were not, and they broke his great heart.

So I said, bowing very low:

“Princess, when the happy day comes that you must wed you shall make
your lord Lord of the World with your wisdom.”

She laughed, but bitterly.

“O, I have lovers! For one, Suleiman, my cousin, son of the brother whom
the Emperor slew because he stood too near the throne. By report I knew
what he was, but I saw him and spoke with him——”

“My Princess, and how?” I asked in great surprise, knowing that his
presence in the Begam Mahal would have been death.

She looked at me with large calm eyes.

“My faithful servant, have you come and gone so long about the Begam
Mahal and have not known that all things are possible? Prince Suleiman
was veiled like a woman, and like a woman he stood where you sit, and I
saw his face and we spoke together. Should not cousins meet who may be
man and wife? And I have loved his father, Prince Dara, very much, who
was learned and good.”

I trembled again when I heard, for had the Emperor guessed that she had
done this thing what hope for her? His three brothers had he
slaughtered, and the Prince Suleiman was doomed.

“And he saw your face, O Brilliant Lady?”

“No, and not for fear’s sake but because I liked him not at all. He said
‘O Envy of the Moon, lift up your veil that I may enjoy the marvel of
your beauty’ and I sang this verse I had made to my lute.”

She caught up her lute that lay beside her and sang,

                 “I will not lift my Veil,
                 For if I did, who knows?
                 The bulbul might forget the rose,
                 The Brahman worshipper
                 Adoring Lakshmi’s grace
                 Might turn, forsaking her,
                   To see my face;
                 My beauty might prevail.
                 Think how within the flower
                 Hidden as in a bower
                 Her fragrant soul must be,
                 And none can look on it.
                 So me the world shall see
                 Only within the verses I have writ.
                   I will not lift the Veil.

“And the fool caught me and would have torn it,” she added, “but Imami
restrained him, and he flung from us like a woman in temper as in dress.
A contemptible creature!”

“But Lady of Beauty, what had you against him?”

“Do I not know all that goes on in this city? Do I not know that Prince
Suleiman spends his days and nights in Shaitanpur (Devilsville, the
quarter of pleasure) and was I to show my face to a man reeking from the
embraces of the bazaar? No, I am Makhfi (the Hidden One) and hidden I
will remain for such as he. I will be no rival to Peri Mahal the dancer
and her like.”

And even as she ended a low voice at the curtain that veiled the
entrance asked for admission and when she granted it, the heavy silk was
drawn aside and a tall veiled woman entered. The Princess did not look
up but I saw Imami’s eyes fix as if startled.

“Her slave prays for a word with the Marvel of the Age whose mind is so
lovely that it outshines even her fair face and her face so beautiful,
that it is the lamp that permits the light of her soul to shine
through.”

“Warm for a woman!” said the Princess, and looked straight at the
new-comer who stood salaaming with the utmost humility. She added
impatiently:

“There is no need of this ceremony, lady. Remove your veil. The good
physician Abul Qasim is privileged to see the faces of all in the Begam
Mahal.”

In a flash the veil was torn off and a man’s face appeared beneath
it—young, bold, and handsome with the high features of the Imperial
House, a splendid dissolute young man with the down black on his upper
lip like the black astride the young swan’s bill. Prince Suleiman, the
son of Dara the Emperor’s brother.

“Ha, daughter of my uncle!” he cried,— “Did I not wager, did I not
swear, that I would see that hidden beauty and now I see it face to
face. Poets have sung it and painters praised it, but their words and
their colours were lies for they could not utter the truth. And having
seen I entreat for my father’s sake, for love’s sake, that it may be
mine.”

He made towards her eagerly, wholly disregarding Imami and me. I looked
to see her confused or angry, but she spoke with a most misleading calm.

“Exalted cousin, you have won your wager and your bride. If her embrace
is cold it is at least constant and——”

“Cold, with those burning lips of rose, those glowing eyes? O Loveliest,
Divinest, grant me one kiss for earnest if you would not have me die at
your feet.”

I saw her sign with her hand to Imami who glided away, flattening
herself against the wall as if terrified, then she spoke serenely.

“Exalted cousin, when were you last in Shaitanpur?”

It stopped him like a lightning flash. He stood arrested on the marble
before her face.

“I know nothing of Shaitanpur,” he said, breathless.

“No? Nor of the dancer Peri Mahal and her house with the courtyard of
roses, nor of the song she sings?”

Again she caught up her lute and sang in a low voice,

              “Black bee, strong bee, the honey-eater,
              Plunder my perfume, seek my heart
              Cling to me, ravage me, make me sweeter,
              Tear the leaves of the rose apart.”

He stared, his eyes slowly dilating. That the daughter of the Emperor
should sing the song of the bazaar—the song of the light women—! Then
it emboldened him. He threw himself forward to seize her hand.

“Maker of verses, this is a rose of your own garden. Till now I never
heard it, but it speaks of love. You shall not ask me twice. My rose, my
pearl, my star!—” He caught the hem of her veil. Now I knew well from
her eyes that he rushed on his fate, but it was written in the book of
his destiny and what is written who can avert?

She drew back a little and looked at him with soft eyes—wells of
delicious darkness, the swelling curves of her lovely form a temptation
for true believers, and her lips smiling a little as if from delight at
their own sweetness. And indeed her voice was gentle as moonbeams and as
caressing, as though she could sacrifice all to please the man whom she
exalted with the sight of her.

“Fortunate cousin, I am a weak woman. How dare I face the wrath of the
Emperor? He did not love your father. He does not love your father’s
son, yet if he did——”

She drooped her head a little as if with a soft shame that overwhelmed
her in the depths of modesty. O very woman, divine yet a child!— She
had turned wisdom into folly with a glance. And he trembling, and with
eyes fixed, stammered out:

“Alas, I have dreamed of your sweetness and what is the dream to the
truth? I am drowned in it. O give it to me; make it mine that in life
and death it may enfold me and that I may never again behold a lesser
light, having seen the ineffable.”

And he caught her hand passionately and drew her towards him, she
yielding gently and slowly, resisting a very little, and looking at him
as if with compassion.

And very softly in a voice like the breathing of a flute she said:

“O my cousin, how should we face the wrath of the Emperor?” as though
all her soul were in that question.

And he, kissing her hands with frenzy, said in broken words:

“Ah, Moon of my delight that knows no wane, let me but watch with you
through the starry hours of one night, and then, then if the Padshah’s
will be to slay me, I shall at least have lived.”

“And I also,” she said, looking down like the feminine incarnation of
modesty, so that enraptured he flung his arms about the yielding
softness of her most exquisite form and kissed her on the lips as a
thirsty man in the desert grasps the cup nor can sever his mouth from
it. And when he would permit her to speak she leaned her head backward
to gain space, and she said:

“What is my lord’s will with his slave? And in what shall I obey him?”

Now I, standing in the recess would have warned him, if I could, that
not thus—O not thus, does the proudest and wisest of women abandon
herself to such as he! For I had pity on his youth and the manly beauty
of him, and the Imperial blood that he shared with her. But who was this
creature of dust to obstruct the design of the Imperial Princess? And
indeed even I wavered and was uncertain that I guessed her meaning, with
such veiled submissive sweetness did she hold his hand in hers and touch
it to her lovely brows.

And trembling like a man in a fever, he replied.

“O darling little slave, since you give me the right to command what is
wholly mine, I say this— Let my slave, whose slave I am, expect me
to-night when the moonlight touches the western corner of the
Divan-i-Am, and I will come to this chamber of bliss, and my life, my
soul, are in the hand of my slave whose feet I kiss.”

And throwing himself on the marble like a worshipper he kissed the
flower-soft feet that showed like bare gold beneath the hem of her robe,
and so rising to his knee, looked up at her as an idolater at the
goddess vouchsafed to his eyes.

But she looked beyond him at the curtain that veiled the door. It lifted
to a hidden hand, and Imami stood there, ash-pale, in her hand a dish of
gold, and standing upon it a great goblet of jewelled glass with
pomegranate sherbet brimming in it rose-red and rose-petals floating on
the surface and beside it two cups of gold flashing with diamond sparks,
and on her knee she offered it to the Princess, who took the goblet and
a cup smiling.

“Fortunate cousin, since this is so, and I, my father’s best-beloved
child, will petition him to grant me my heart’s desire, let us drink the
cup of betrothal in the presence of the Hakim Abul Qasim and the lady
Imami. Heart of my heart, I pledge you!” and setting the blossom of her
lips to the jewelled rim she drank, and filled the other cup for him,
and still kneeling before her breathless with adoration, he took the cup
in both his hands, and I watched and could say no word because her
purpose was clear to me and I knew well that of all women on earth she
was the last to endure the insult of his presence. And Imami knelt by
the door,—her face like ivory against the heavy gold curtain. Now, as
he set his lips to the cup, suddenly Imami sprang to her feet and
tottered back against the sculptured marble and with scarce breath to
fill her voice——

“The Emperor comes,” she said, and fell again on her knees at the door,
hiding her face in her hands.

I saw the sickening terror that struck the colour from the cheeks and
lips of the lover. He knelt there with a glassy countenance like a man
in the clutch of a nightmare who cannot flee from the advancing
doom—his limbs weighted with lead, his heart with the pressure of an
exceeding horror. But Glory of Women caught him by the hand.

“Exalted cousin, there is but one way from these rooms, and the Emperor
closes it. Fly to the room beyond my bed-chamber, the room of the marble
bath, and hide where you can while I hold him in talk. Allah hafiz! (God
protect you!) Go!”

And she pushed him from her, and he fled. Then, most singular to see,
she composed her veil, glancing in the mirror set in silver that was the
gift of the Portuguese priests, and turned to the door, and as she did
so the curtain was lifted and Aurungzib Padshah entered and Imami
prostrated herself and I also, but the Princess Arjemand knelt.

Now I know not how this should be, but in a room where great events have
just happened it is as if the waves of passion beat about the walls and
waft the garments of those who have been present, and it seemed to my
guilty heart as though the very flowers enamelled on the marble cried
aloud,

“Majesty, there is a man—a man in hiding.”

And certainly the Padshah halted and looked with suspicion from one to
the other of us. He was ever a man of suspicion, unlike the easy humour
of his father Shah-Jahan, and the half drunken good-nature (shot with
frightful angers) of his grandfather Jahangir. Aurungzib Padshah was a
small man, dark exceedingly, with veiled eyes and shut lips, and never
have I seen him warmed by any emotion of love, pity, fear, but always
calm, cold, self-collected and austere. For it is well known that his
only care was religion, and to this he sacrificed his all.

So looking hard at the kneeling Glory of Women he said coldly,

“In the name of the most beneficent and merciful God, what is this
disturbance? Speak, exalted daughter, Princess of the family of
chastity. It is revealed to this suppliant at the throne of Allah that
there is a hidden thing in these chambers. Speak. What is it?”

And kneeling, my Princess answered.

“May joy attend my exalted father, the adorner of the gardens of
happiness, the decorator of the rose-parterre of enjoyment! There is but
one hidden thing in these chambers, and it is your unworthy daughter,
who is known by your august favour as Makhfi, the Hidden One.”

I saw the eyes of the Padshah fix on the golden dish that lay on the
marble with one cup emptied of the pomegranate sherbet and the other
half emptied, the sherbet running in a red stream like blood along the
marble.

“This was set down in haste!” he said through clipped lips.

“In haste, O Glory of Allah!” said the Princess with the wet beads
clamming the silken tendrils on her forehead. “I drank and was about to
drink the second when your auspicious feet blessed the threshold.”

“You are thirsty, happy daughter of sovereignty? Then drink the
remainder. You have my permission.”

I saw the gleam in either black eye of him as he spoke, watching her
sidelong. She lifted the cup to her lips with a hand that shook so that
it rattled against her teeth, though she struggled to command herself.

“No, do not drink, royal daughter. It is stale,” he said, still standing
and smiling coldly. And the Princess answered with quivering lips:

“Will not the Mirror of God be seated and partake of refreshment offered
by the hand of his slave?”

“Not of that cup and not until I have observed your embroideries and
manuscripts, daughter of high dignity,” the Padshah replied, and
followed by my Princess, Imami still kneeling by the door, and I by the
latticed marble window he walked about the hall and into the chambers
beyond, talking pleasantly to the Princess at his shoulder, and so
returning took his seat on the divan, and she served sherbets and fruits
on a golden dish to his Majesty.

He was later to attend the Am-Khas, the Hall of Audience, and was
attired kingly. His vest was of white and delicately flowered satin,
with heavy silk and gold embroidery. His cloth-of-gold turban was
aigretted with diamonds great as stars, with a topaz at the base that
shone like the sun. A chain of great pearls hung to his knees, and above
all these jewels was his cold repelling dignity as of a King too great
to be approached even by the favourite child of his pride, and all the
time he sat she knelt before him.

At length he spoke as if in meditation.

“Glory of Women, you have grown into beauty like that of the Maids of
Paradise. Your long lashes need no antimony, your eyes are winter stars,
and in that robe of gulnar (pomegranate blossom) you appear like that
princess who bewildered the senses of the mighty Suleiman. [I saw a
quiver pass over her features as she bowed her head beneath the weight
of praise.] Does not the rose long for the nightingale? Does not your
heart, exalted daughter, turn to love?”

And with her eyes on the ground, she answered.

“Exhibitor of Perfection, my heart is set on far other matters. If in
this land of good fortune I be remembered as a poet, I ask no more of
destiny save that the rank of the daughter of Emperors be attached to my
name for ever.”

And he.

“It is well. Yet marriage must be considered. Fortunate daughter, have
you bathed to-day?”

And she, deadly pale.

“Shadow of the benignity of the Creator, no.”

And with set lips he called to Imami by the door.

“Hasten, lady, and light the fire beneath the great vessel of water in
the bathing room of the Begam, and I will remain in discourse with her
until it is ready.”

And Imami casting a fearful glance on the kneeling Princess moved slowly
to the inner chamber, and it is the truth that my soul sickened within
me, for though I knew the young man worthless, and the son of a
dangerous father, yet who could bear this without terror of spirit? And
the Emperor, laying aside his awful Majesty, made his presence sweet as
sunshine in the great chamber of marble, saying:

“Exalted daughter, it is but seldom we have leisure to relax, and yet
the olfactory of my soul inhales with delight the ambergris-perfumed
breezes of affection and concord, and daily if it were possible would I
enjoy them. Yes, even when absent—

      “‘I sit beside thee in thought, and my heart is at ease,
      For that is a union not followed by separation’s pain.’

“It is in my mind to move with my ladies and the living family of
dignity and glory to reside for a time at Lahore, and we shall then be
more together, partaking of the irrigation of the rivers of affection.”

“Great father, you promise me a joy to increase health and exalt
happiness.”

She swayed as she knelt, and leaned against the divan with closed eyes.

“Exalted father, the perfume of flowers and of the rose-water fountain
have given me a faintness. May I retire for a moment with the hakim Abul
Qasim to my inner chamber lest I fall at your feet?”

“It is granted, Glory of Women, and the lady Imami shall recite to me
your latest verses until you return.”

I came forward making the salutation, and helped the Princess to rise,
she leaning on my aged arm, and the lady Imami took her place unrolling
a manuscript of verses splendid with Persian illuminations in blue and
gold. The Emperor composed himself to listen with pleasure, for it is
well known that all the sovereigns of that mighty line were skilled in
versifying and just critics of _ghazal_ and _suja_.

And as we moved forward, I supporting her, the Princess breathed in my
ear:

“I meant his death, but Allah knowing my heart knows I am innocent of
this hideous thing. O Abul Qasim, father of my soul, is there aid in
earth or heaven?”

But what could I say? Only the Great Physician of the Hidden Dispensary
could assist that unfortunate. And meanwhile the sweet voice of the lady
Imami read aloud the verses of the Princess.

               “O love, I am thy thrall.
               As on the tulip’s burning petal glows
               A spot yet more intense, of deeper dye,
               So in my heart a flower of passion blows,
               See the dark stain of its intensity
                 Deeper than all.”

And then we lost the words as we moved into the inner chamber.

Now this inner chamber was all of pearl-pure marble, and in the midst a
deeply sunk bath of marble long and wide and with its walls decorated
with lotuses and their leaves, and a silver pipe led the water to this
from a mighty silver vessel six feet and more in height and of great
capacity, supported on a tripod of sculptured silver, and below it a
place for fire, enclosed and fed with sweet-scented woods and balls of
perfume made of rare gums. And, O Allah most Merciful, there the lady
Imami had kindled fire by command of the Emperor, and within might be
seen the brilliant blue flame licking up the perfumes and crawling like
snakes about the cedar wood below the vessel. And certainly I looked
that the Princess should do some desperate deed for the enlargement of
the man most miserable hidden within the vessel, and releasing her I
stood like a graven image of terror, expecting what she would do.

She laid her hand on the silver, and amid the crackling of the flames
she said in a clear small voice:

“You came unsought. You violated the secrecy of the Hidden One. What
then is your duty, exalted cousin?”

And from within he spoke in a voice—O Allah, most compassionate, grant
that I may never hear such again!—the one word:

“Silence.”

And she:

“It is true. Keep silence if you are my true lover, for the sake of my
honour. For if your voice is heard I am a dead woman. But I too will be
faithful to death.”

And he answered:

“On my head and eyes.”

And by her command I gave her water to drink and applied an essence to
her nostrils, and we left the room, pulling the heavy curtains before
it, and we returned to where the Padshah sat with the pale lady Imami
reading aloud and he smiling in calm content. Seeing us return, he
motioned my Princess to a seat on the divan saying:

“I would hear your verses of ‘The Lover.’

“What is the fate of a lover? It is to be crucified for the world’s
pleasure.”

And taking the manuscript from the hands of Imami she read aloud:

           “Dust falls within the cup of Kaikobad
           And King Jamshid,
           Nor recks the world if they were sad or glad,
           Or what they did.

           “How many hearts, O Love, thy sword hath slain
           And yet will slay!
           They bless thee, nor to Allah they complain
           At Judgment Day.”

And so read on steadfastly for the space of an hour, until the Padshah,
replete with the sweetness of the melody, rose from the divan, and said
graciously:

“May the tree of hereditary affection watered by this hour of converse
grow in leaf and fruit and overshadow us both in peace. Go now, exalted
daughter, and bathe your angelic person and rest with a soul sunned in
the favour of the Emperor.”

And he went, we attending him to the door of the secluded chambers, and
when we returned, the Princess lay in a dead faint on the divan, and the
fire beneath the great vessel of silver was red and silent, and within
was silence also.

The courage of Babar the gallant and Akbar the greatly dreaming was not
dead in their descendant and thus in a great self-sacrifice he became a
traveller on the road of non-existence, and I wept for him.

So the Court moved to Lahore.

But after this on my Princess came a change hard to be told.

She had despised the Prince alive. For his death she loved him, and with
a poet’s passion and tenderness mingled with a woman’s. Her sole relief
was in solitude, pouring forth the burning thoughts wherein the phoenix
of her soul was consumed in perfumed flame which will forever kindle the
heart of man to like ecstasies.

Great Princes sought her, among them Akil Khan, a most beautiful young
man, aglow with courage and splendour. He had seen her, dreaming on the
roof of her pavilion in the dawn, pensive and lovely, clothed in
dawn-colour, her long hair braided with pearls falling about her, and
mad with love, he sent her this one line, awaiting completion:

“A vision in crimson appears on the roof of the Palace.”

Kneeling, I implored her to give him some solace,

“For O, Light of my soul,” said I, “the years drift by like leaves, and
shall this miracle of beauty and of intelligence clear as diamonds lead
its graces to the grave and leave the world no copy? My Princess, my
Princess, have pity on your youth! True, the high Prince died a hero for
the sake of a lady’s honour, yet remember that until then the soul of
him was at home in Devilsville, and not in the rose-gardens of Allah.
You have mourned him long enough: awake now to joy.”

But she put it gently aside, saying:

“The soul washed in the lustration of death is pure. What is Shaitanpur
to him now? He has forgotten it. And shall I who accepted the sacrifice,
forget? O, that I had not failed in courage—that I had died with him!
Give me the paper of Akil Khan.”

And considering the line he had written—

“A vision in crimson appears on the roof of the Palace,” she wrote
beneath it this line completing the couplet:

“Neither supplications nor force nor gold can win her.” And so returned
it.

Yet, gallant man as he was, this did not stifle his hope, and knowing
that in her garden at Lahore she was building a noble marble pavilion,
he entered the garden one day disguising his princeliness under the
garment of a mason, carrying his hod on his shoulder, and passed where
she stood apart watching her girls who were playing at chausar.

And as he drew near he whispered,

“In my longing for thee I have become as dust wandering round the
earth,” and she whose soul was fixed as a lonely star, responded
immediately,

“If thou hadst become as the wind yet shouldst thou not touch a tress of
my hair.”

So it was always. An embassage was sent from the Shah Abbas of Persia
entreating her hand for Mirza Farukh his son, and the Prince came with
it, a gallant wooer. She dared not at once refuse the insistence of her
father Aurungzib Padshah, and consented that he should come to Delhi
that she might judge of his worthiness. And with a glorious retinue
resembling a galaxy of stars he came, and she feasted the prince in the
pleasure-pavilion in her own garden, and in its marble colonnade with
her own fair hand offered him wine and sweetmeats, but veiled in gold
gauze, so that not one glimpse had he of the hidden eyes. And exalted
with wine and folly he asked for a certain sweetmeat in words which by a
laughing play on words signify—a kiss!

This, to the proudest of women! One moment she paused and then
haughtily,

“Ask for what you desire from the slaves of our kitchen,” and so went
straight to her royal father and told him that though face and jewels
were well enough, the man had the soul of a groom under his turban of
honour, and she would have none of him. She had her royal way.

Raging with foiled pride and desire he sent her this verse,

       “I am determined never to leave this temple.
       Here will I bow my head, here will I prostrate myself.
       Here will I serve, and here alone is happiness.”

But he beat against marble, for she returned this answer only:

“Child, how lightly dost thou esteem this game of love!
Nothing dost thou know of the fever of longing and the fire of separation,
  and the burning flame of love!”

Alas, her heart knew them too well!

So he went away despairing and that was the last of her suitors.

Very sad grew my Princess. The dead have more power than the living, and
the clutch of a dead hand chills the blood. She had the soul of a mystic
and in her poems desire for the Eternal Beloved was mingled with love of
him who was now also behind the Veil of non-existence, and I know not
which was more in her thoughts when she wrote with tears that fall and
falling gather,

              “O idle arms,
              Never the lost Beloved have ye caressed:
              Better that ye were broken than like this
              Empty and cold eternally to rest.

              “O useless eyes,
              Never the lost Beloved for all these years
              Have ye beheld: better that ye were blind
              Than dimmed thus by my unavailing tears.

              “O fading rose,
              Dying unseen as hidden thou wert born:
              So my heart’s blossom fallen in the dust
              Was ne’er ordained his turban to adorn.”

Very strange is the heart of a woman! I, remembering her scorn for this
very Prince and her will to slay him with her own hand, could not at all
commend nor comprehend her passion for him dead whom living she trod as
the dust beneath her feet. She permitted my speech gently, but would
reply only,

“He loved me and gave his life for me.” And I venturing to rejoin,

“But O exalted Lady, men will give their lives for a little thing, a
jewel, a worthless intrigue, the slaying of a tiger, and is his
sacrifice worth such a return as yours?” she replied with calm; “Greater
love hath no man than in silence to lay down his life uncheered by
commendation or the joy of battle, and to him I swore fidelity. Should I
change? In his death was the high heart that in life would have grown to
glory—and I broke it.”

And I said:

“It is greater love to live for a woman than to die for her and this he
could never have done, for his profligacy and selfishness would have
swept all love to ruin,”—and she, smiling, put this by, as one who has
attained in her own heart to behold the innermost secrets of love. And
which of us was right I cannot now tell.

But as love rose about her like a tide her thoughts turned more and more
to the Supreme, the Self-Existent,—and this love also consumed her for
He wounded her heart with the august secrets of His beauty, and
perceiving in vision wafts of His sweetness she sank into a deep
melancholy, desiring that to which no earthly passion may attain. So in
this poem she beheld Him as the Hunter of the Soul:

        “I have no peace, the quarry I, a Hunter chases me,
          It is Thy memory.
        I turn to flee but fall: for over me He casts His snare,
          His perfumed hair,
        Who can escape Thy chain? no heart is free
          From love of Thee.”

So passioning for the Divine she spent her days in longing, and a great
wisdom came upon her, for even as her mighty father narrowed in vision,
persecuting the Hindus, and breaking the very Empire against the rock of
their tortured faith, so she like the sun at setting illumined all
beliefs, even the lowliest, with her level rays, declaring that where
any prayer is made that place is the mosque and the Kiblah.

Had that lady been Emperor it is not too much to say she had saved the
Empire. Would to Allah that she had been. But He knows all.

Yet a better fate was decreed for her for she lived, exhaling love as
the lily its perfume, and departed in a white peace, a gently fading
light like the cresset that for a little illumines the quiet of a tomb,
and this she said in dying,

“I am the daughter of a King but I have taken the path of renunciation,
and this shall be my glory, as my title signifies that I am the Glory of
Women.”

This she is, for in India she is remembered by all who burn in the fire
of love, human or divine.

Yet, since she was a woman and therefore a creature of unreason, must I
condemn her passion for the worthless prince to whom her royal life was
dedicate.

And here I set down the last words that Makhfi—the Hidden One—wrote
with her dying hand, and they were these—

               “Yet, Makhfi, unveiled is thy secret,
               Abroad all thy passion be told,
               Who saw not the beauty of Yusuf
               When he in the market was sold.”

and as she lived she died, lamenting that too late she had known his
hidden heart.

When she was departed a poet of Persia made these verses of her:
concerning the serenity of her spirit:

 “Love sings to himself of love and the worlds dance to that music,
 As wise snakes dance to the Charmer playing upon his pipe,
 Love gazes on deep waters for ever dreaming his face.
 Slay all my senses but hearing that I may immortally listen.
 Calm every wave of my soul that it may mirror the Dream.”

And her father the Emperor, grieving, made her a glorious tomb of marble
domed and pinnacled with gold and the tower and minars roofed with
turquoise tiles. Nay, the very sand of the paths was dust of turquoises,
and about it a glorious garden where her sweet spirit might gladden to
dream in the moonlight, her griefs forgotten, her joys completed in the
ecstasy of union with the One, the Alone.

And yet—yet—thus wrote my Princess:

              “If on the Day of Reckoning
              God saith, ‘In due proportion I will pay
              And recompense thee for thy suffering.’

              “Lo, all the joys of heaven it would outweigh.
              Were all God’s gladness poured upon me, yet
                He would be in my debt.”

May the lights of Allah be her testimony and make bright her tomb.

For I loved her, and pray that her memory may be fragrant when I am
dust.

And very strange and secret is the heart of a woman.



                      THE MARRIAGE OF THE PRINCESS



                      THE MARRIAGE OF THE PRINCESS


(Salutation to the Elephant-Headed God, who is the Remover of Obstacles
and the Giver of discretion, and may he enable his worshipper the Pandit
Gurdit Singh to relate this story with well-chosen words and harmonious
periods that so it may enchain the hearts of all.)

Of all the lands that smile upon their lover the sun, surely the land of
Kashmir is the loveliest. All round that Valley of Beauty the mountains
stand like the guardians of a great Queen. No harsh winds may ruffle the
lakes, darkly blue as the eyes of the goddess Shri, where the lotuses
dream above their mirrored images in amazement at their own divinity,
for the shields of the eternal snows piercing even the heavens turn
aside all tempests and only a sweet and calm sunshine makes the air
milk-warm.

And because the beauty that surrounds them is absorbed by the princesses
of Kashmir until they become like the slender-waisted beauties of the
ancient poems and stories of India, radiant as the sun, fair as the full
moon mirrored in a lake dreaming of her own beauty, so are they eagerly
sought by all the Kings from North to South, and great dowries are given
for them with jewels piled high like grain in harvest, and elephants and
garments with beaten gold laid on them such as would dazzle the eyes of
the Queens of other countries. And nothing is too much to give for their
seductive beauties.

Now, at one time the King of Kashmir had a daughter, his only one,—more
exquisite than dawn blushing on the snows. She had stolen the hue of her
eyes from the blue of the lotus of the hidden lakes, and the delicate
shaping of her face was high craftsmanship of high Gods at the work they
love best. And down to the ankle rolled her midnight hair, braided and
jewelled, and Love’s own honey made her mouth a world’s wonder of rose
and pearl,—and the curves of her sweet body were rounded as the
snowdrifts of Mount Haramoukh and as pure. And even this was not all,
for what is a flower without scent and beauty without charm? But grace
went beside her like an attendant, and attraction that none could resist
was in her glance, and whoso escaped the lure of her eyes would
assuredly fall a victim to the seduction of her sweet laughter so that
only in the protection of the Gods was there safety, and it is known
that even the Gods cease their vigilance where a beautiful woman is
concerned and forget their divinity.

Now this Princess Amra loved above all things the gardens of her royal
father, and it was her custom, forsaking the Palace, to come for days
with her women to the gardens by the lake, dwelling in the Pavilion of
the Painted Flowers and passing the days in singing and feasting,
wandering beneath the shade of the mighty chinar trees and breathing the
perfume of flowers and the coolness of the high snows.

So on a certain day she and her ladies wandered through the roses in
beauty so exquisite that the flowers swayed to behold them and the very
waters of the cascades delayed to kiss their feet, and as they did this
there came a message from the King her father that he had betrothed her
to marry the King of Jamu, and the marriage would take place in the
marriage month according to the auspicious calculations of the
astrologers. And hearing this, the Princess stopped in terror beside the
water that falls over the ripple of cut marble, and she said to her
women:

“O sorrowful day! O fears that beset my heart! I who have never seen any
man save my auspicious father and brothers and the old grey-beard, the
Pundit Ram Lal,—what a fate is this! What do I know of men? How shall I
learn? O, my misery!”—and she sat herself beneath the shade of a great
chinar tree, and became inconsolable, weeping bitterly, and her women
wept with her.

So passed an hour, and at last her confidante, Lailela, a girl from
Bokhara, having dried her eyes began to look about her, and she saw that
with the written command of the King had come a small object folded in
rose silk and bound with threads of gold, and with the insatiable
curiosity of a woman she said to the weeping Princess:

“Great Lady, here is a something—I do not know what, but I guess it to
be a bridal gift from his Majesty.” And the Princess took it in her
hands and her ladies gathered about her as stars surround the moon, and
with her slender fingers and nails like little pearls she unthreaded the
knots of gold and the inner treasure was disclosed, and it was a frame
of gold filagreed and set with rubies and diamond sparks, and within it
the portrait of a young man, and written on the back of it: “The King of
Jamu.” The artist, whose skill resembled that of the Creator, had
depicted him seated on his throne of ivory inlaid with gold, and in his
turban blazed that great jewel known as the Sea of Splendour, but these
did not for one moment detain the eye, for he was himself the jewel of
Kings, young, noble, dark of hair and eyes, with amorous lips, proud yet
gentle, and a throat like the column that upholds the world, and limbs
shaped for height and strength and speed. And surely had he been a
water-carrier, men had said, “This is the son of a King.”

And as the Princess Amra looked she sighed and changed colour, and the
last tear fell from her long lashes upon the portrait, and she dried it
with her gold-bordered veil, and looked and sighed again, and lost in
thought she fell into a deep silence.

And Lailela said with sympathy:

“Surely a terrible doom, O Princess! Now had the King been an old man,
kind and paternal, it would but have been passing from the arms of one
father to another. But a young man— O, there is much to fear, and who
shall sound the deeps of their hearts?”

And the Princess slowly shook her head, not knowing what she did, still
gazing at the portrait, and Lailela continued:

“Little do we all know men. But I have been told it is safer to
adventure in a jungle of tigers than to take a husband knowing nothing
of their wiles and tyrannies, and it is now my counsel that we should
all declare before the Princess any small knowledge that has reached us,
that she may not go forth utterly unarmed.”

And all the ladies looked doubtfully at one another, and the Princess
smiled faintly as a moon in clouds, and said:

“Sisters, it is my command that you do as Lailela has said, for her
counsel is good, and she herself shall begin, for I perceive there is
knowledge behind her lips. Let all now prepare to listen, for we speak
of love.”

And she laid the portrait on her knees, and Lailela with laughter in her
long eyes but a great gravity of speech, told this story:

“Now, Princess, this is one of the parables that the Sheikh Ibrahim
related to his daughter, the Lady Budoor, that she might be admonished.
For the damsel was the temptation of the Age, with heavy hips, and brows
like the new moon, and a mouth like the seal of Suleiman, so that the
reason of whoso saw her was captivated by her elegance. But she spoke
little, or of trivial matters, and smiled not at all, relying on her
beauty, which, indeed, was the perfection of the Creator’s handiwork.
May his name be exalted! And her father accosted her, saying:

“‘Know, O daughter, that Shah Salim had five thousand wives and
concubines of perfect loveliness, with languishing looks, high-bosomed,
and of equal age, a delight to beholders such as astonished the mind.
But the King was wearied because of the dullness of their society and it
so befell that he yawned repeatedly and his jaw became fixed with the
violence of his yawns, nor could the art of the _hakims_ unloose it. And
the Queens and the concubines slapped their faces for grief, and the
Emirs trembled because of the case of the King.

“‘Now it chanced that the King of Seljuk sent unto Shah Salim a slave
girl from Tabriz, and the merchant who conducted her bore this message,
written on ivory, bound with floss silk, and perfumed with ambergris:
“Know, O King of the Age, that the perfume is not to be judged by the
jar, nor the jewel by its weight, for the perfume is the soul of the
rose, and the secret of the jewel is its fire. Receive, therefore this
gift according to the measure of thy wisdom.”

“‘But the Shah-in-Shah, speaking with difficulty, for his jaw was held
as in a vise, commanded, saying; “Enclose her with the Queens and the
concubines, for they have brought me to this, and the sum of my wisdom
and experience is that they are all alike, and whoso knows one, knows
all. Yet, first let me behold her, since she is the gift of a King.”

“‘And they unveiled the damsel, and behold! she was slender as a willow
branch, low-bosomed, green-eyed, and her hair was like beaten bronze,
nor could she for beauty compare with the wives of the King, so that the
beholders marvelled at the gift of the King of Seljuk.

“‘And she looked upon the King, and, seeing his case, she closed her
eyes until they shone like slits of emerald and laughed aloud until the
Hall of Requests echoed with her laughter, and her voice was like the
flute and such as would bewilder the reason of the sages and cause the
ascetic to stumble in his righteousness, and she could narrate stories
like those of the Sultana Shahrazad (upon whom be the Peace!), and her
effrontery was as the effrontery of the donkey-boys of Damascus. For
there is none greater. Nor did she fear the Shah-in-Shah before whom all
abased themselves.

“‘So she seated herself before the Wonder of the Age, and, casting down
her eyes, the damsel related to him the true story of the Adventure of
the Lady Amine and the Sage El Kooz. And the heart of the Shah was
dilated and he laughed until there was no strength left in him, and the
_hakims_ thumped his back, fearing that life itself would depart from
him in the violence of his laughter. And his jaw instantly relaxed. So
being recovered, he commanded saying: “Bring hither the artificers of
gold and let them make a chain that shall bind the waist of this slave
to my wrist, for where I go she shall go, that my soul may be comforted
by her narratives and the sweetness of her laughter. For this truly is a
gift worthy of a king. But place guards at the doors of the others.”

“‘And after consideration and counsel with his Wazir he bestowed upon
the Queens great gifts and returned them to their parents. And there was
a great calm. And he became distracted with love for this slave and they
continued in prosperity and affection until visited by the Terminator of
Delights and Separator of Companions.

“‘Extolled be He whom the vicissitudes of time change not and who is
alone distinguished by the attributes of Perfection!

“‘Now this is a parable, my daughter, of the secrets of the hearts of
men, and I will relate others that thou mayest be admonished.’

“And the Lady Budoor answered modestly: ‘Speak on, my father, I
listen.’”

And when Lailela had finished this story she resumed her seat, and the
ladies reflected deeply, and the Princess said:

“This must undoubtedly be true. As a man no longer observes an object
which he sees daily, so must it be with a man and the beauty of his
wife. Clearly it is not enough to be beautiful even as a Dancer of
Heaven. It is also needful to be a provoker of laughter. Would that I
knew the stories of this slave . . . Sisters, have they been heard by
any of you? What is beauty, when the beautiful are forsaken or die? But
tell me.”

And now Vasuki, a lady of the Rajputs, stepped forward in all the
insolence of beauty, swaying her hips, and rearing her head like a Queen
as she came, and she began thus:

“Princess, of my heart, let none tempt you to undervalue the gift of
loveliness by which even the greatest of the Gods are subjected as my
story will declare. And let it be remembered that if even a man weary of
his wife’s beauty—there are yet other men in the world, and what though
our faith forbid marriage there are other faiths. And, if this be
impossible, a woman can always be captured if so she will! And I would
have you recall the story of the Rani of Mundore who being left a widow
was captured by a great King and ruled him and his Kingdom. But hear my
story of why Brahma, a high God of my people, has four faces in his
temple.

“In the ancient days in India two evil and terrible brothers rose to
kingly power. They were inseparable as the Twin Stars, the Aswins, and
together they did evil mightily and in their union was their strength.
Finally they formed plans to storm the lower heavens and expel the Gods
and there was every reason to believe they would carry out this
determination. So the Gods held a great Panchayet (council) and some
said one thing, some another, and at last Brahma the Creator spoke as
follows:

“‘Great Gods and Heavenly Ladies, in the union of these wretches is
their power, because where two perfectly agree their wisdom is
unconquerable. It is only because this has never been the case on earth
that we are able to keep any sort of order. Now of all influences the
most powerful is love. True it is their palaces are full to over-flowing
with handsome women but we are still the Gods, the makers of men. Let us
take for our model the Goddess of Beauty herself, and send some
exquisite one on earth to distract and divide the evil kings.’

“So the flowers of heaven were brought, and the Goddess of Beauty stood
unveiled and divine before them, and from the ivory of the lotus blossom
they made a sweet body, and from the dark blue lotus they made two
dreaming eyes, and they took the storm cloud for the glooms of her heavy
lashes, and the midnight deeps for the lengths of her silken hair, and
for her smile they took the sunshine and for her blush the dawn, and for
her coquetry the playfulness of the kitten, and for her seductions the
wiles of the serpent, and for her fidelity—but all their materials were
exhausted before the necessity for this was remembered. And Lakshimi
gave her instead what is invisible but omnipotent, her own charm which
none has ever seen but all the Universe has felt. And when all was done
great Brahma breathed life into the fair image and she arose and looked
down upon her own beauty with astonishment and in a voice of crystal
music she said:

“‘I am Tillotama.’

“And all the Gods stood confounded at their own handiwork but the
Goddesses turned angrily away.

“So they commanded her to go to earth and instructed her, each mighty
heart beating with agony that she should go. And she passed before the
Throne of Brahma making a _pradakshina_, a reverential threefold
circuit, about him keeping him always to the right. And he gazed
passionately upon her and she made a turn to the left, and for pride he
would not turn his head, but from the energy of his soul’s longing
another face sprang out on the left side of his head and the eyes still
followed her, and as she made her circuit this again happened at the
back and still he regarded her, and at the right side also, so that
wherever that loveliness went his eyes fed upon her with more passion
than the moon-bird who steadfastly regards the moon all night. And,
Princess, this is the undoubted reason why the image of Brahma has ever
since had four faces. So she went to earth with ruin for her dower, and
the two evil kings desired her and slew one another for her possession.
And Saraswati, the wife of Brahma, immediately demanded that their work
should be undone and the fair creature resolved again into the elements
of nature lest the peace of heaven should be broken. So it was done, but
Brahma retains forever his four faces.

“Therefore, Princess, if beauty thus subjugates the greatest of the
Gods, what will be the effect of such beauty as your own upon the heart
of the King of Jamu?”

And Amra clasping her hands, replied:

“But this is a terrible story! For if the greatest of the Gods, who has
a glorious Goddess for his wife, be not faithful, what hope is in men? I
grow so terrified that death itself seems preferable to marriage. Is
there no comfort in any of you?”

And now, treading delicately on little bound feet, came Ying-ning, the
fair Chinese maiden from Liang, who had been presented to the Princess
because of her skill in embroidery and cosmetics. And she saluted
humbly, and requested permission to speak:

“Princess, a great lady has last spoken and who am I? Yet because I
tremble to hear her speak of any other than a husband in the love of a
woman, hear me, for of all dangers the greatest is the jealousy of a
husband. And this is a true story of my country.

“There was a very great artificer long, long years ago and he made an
image exactly resembling a man. It was composed of wood and glue and
leather, and sinews of catgut, and so great was his skill that he made
even a heart that beat and set it in the breast, and the features were
exquisitely painted and it resembled a great Chinese lord, noble and
handsome and able to sing, move, and talk. Finally he showed it to the
King of Liang who was struck dumb at such handiwork, for it was like the
power of the Immortals. And he said; ‘My Household must certainly view
this marvel, and there can be no objection to this course of conduct
since I have satisfied myself it is but a thing of springs and leather.’

“So, on the following day, the artificer brought his image to the Pepper
Chambers, being himself an aged man and in circumstances which permitted
his entry. Being introduced to the presence of the King, the Queen and
the ladies who rejoiced in the King’s favour, these ladies all stared
with the utmost bewilderment at the handsome young man thus represented.
The artificer touched its chin and it burst into a love-song most
delicately sung in a mellow and manly voice. It recited a passage from
the poets in praise of wine. It kow-towed before the King. But
unluckily, encouraged by success, the artificer touched its heart, and
with the utmost audacity it gazed upon the ladies and winking one eye,
seized the hand of the loveliest, and placed a sacrilegious arm about
her person, she smiling. A frenzy of passion swept over the King on
seeing this. He shouted for the death of the artificer, and though the
aged man in a terror instantly rent the image apart into a heap of wood
and leather, he could not be appeased and the unfortunate was led out
and beheaded. Furthermore, he ordered the lady who had been thus
polluted to be instantly strangled because she had not shrieked on the
instant as (he asserted) any virtuous woman, a stranger to such a
contact, must have done. And in spite of her piteous entreaties she was
slaughtered. Was this reasonable, O my Princess? But be it known to you
that in love and in possession also there is no reason, and that this is
the manner in which all men would act. And moreover it is their right,
and it is entirely just that even the looks or dreams of a woman should
be faithful to her husband and to him only.”

And Ying-ning retreated to the circle, and the Princess wrung her hands
and cried:

“What then is to become of women if they are thus surrendered to the
mercy of the merciless! I will entreat at my father’s feet that I may
live and die a maid. And I will——”

But she could not continue for the beating of her heart, and now the
little lovely gesang, Pak, from Phyong-yang in the Land of the Morning
Calm, whence come all the fairest singing girls, moved trembling forward
and spoke in a voice of silver, but so low that the Princess called upon
her to stand at her feet that she might hear. Enclosed in a great lotus
blossom she had been presented to the Princess that she might cheer her
with strange dances from the Korean land, and she had clapped her hands
for joy when the ivory petals fell apart disclosing the small dancer
crouched within. But the women of the Morning Calm have few words and
all now leaned forward to hear what this silent one might say.

“Great Lady, near my home by the Green Duck River lived long ago a
Yang-ban (noble) who had a beautiful daughter named Ha. She had a
slender throat on which was set a face most delicately painted and of
exquisite charm, the lips resembling ripe cherries and the eyes of
liquid brilliance. Many marriage enquiries were made, but her father
finally made the choice of a young Yang-ban of good position named Won
Kiun, and on a day of favourable omens she was borne to his house and
became his wife. For five years they lived together in harmony nor did
he spend his time without the screened apartments, for she could even
play chess and he could converse with her. But alas! she bore no child
and daily did her anguish increase, for she could hear his sighs because
he had no son to perform the rites for him when his time should come.
Still hoping, she delayed, but this could not last, and on a certain day
she approached him saying:

“‘Lord of my Life, may your worthless wife speak?’

“He gave permission.

“‘Five years,’ said Ha, ‘have gone by and I have not fulfilled my duty.
It is certainly the evil destiny of your worthless wife which has caused
this. Therefore I say thus:—I will sell my pins of jade and buy a
concubine for you. Accede to my humble request.’

“Won Kiun could scarcely hide his astonishment, for though this was but
fulfilling a duty, still it is not common for a wife to make this offer.
But he agreed instantly for he earnestly desired a son, and after so
many years naturally desired also a change of companionship. Ha
therefore made search and found a girl named A-pao of as much beauty as
the price she could pay would fetch.

“It was then that Ha’s sorrows began. She was neglected by Won Kiun,
tormented by A-pao, but enduring in silence as a wife should, she went
about her work with a smile. But A-pao also failed in her duty for there
was no child, and presently Won Kiun whose health had always been frail,
departed to the ancestral spirits, A-pao shamelessly took her place in
the house of a rich man, and Ha was left a desolate widow, and the more
so because her parents and her husband’s justly despised her as a barren
wife.

“But, Princess, mark what followed!

“She had placed her husband’s spirit tablet, which contained his third
soul, beside her bed, and before this made her offerings of bread and
wine and prayers for pardon, and one night when she had wept herself to
sleep a strange thing happened. The tablet moved,—a human figure slowly
emerged from it and stood on the floor, and Ha, with eyes distended with
terror, saw her husband. In the well-remembered voice he said:

“‘I have permission from the Junior Board of the Gods of Hades to visit
you as a reward for my filial merit on earth, and this in spite of your
conduct in that very mistaken business of A-pao. Had _I_ been consulted
she was by no means the person I should have chosen. Yet I am come to
visit you and shall do so nightly for a month.’

“The faithful Ha laid her head on his feet and sobbed for joy. What a
reward! How small now did all her many sacrifices appear!

“For a month the spirit tablet nightly became her husband, and on the
last day of the month he bid her an eternal farewell, and the tablet
fell to the ground and broke into two pieces. With tender care she
mended it, and set herself to await the birth of her son.

“In due time he was born and her cup of joy would have run over but that
the most shocking rumours were spread by A-pao and her mother-in-law,
and it was believed that she had grossly dishonoured the fragrant memory
of her husband. Vainly she explained the facts. The only result was that
the magistrate, fearing lest he might possibly destroy a child of
miracle, would not himself put it to death, but commanded it should be
flung to the swine. Marvellous to tell, the swine, instead of devouring
it, kept the child alive by breathing warmth upon it, and it was then
that, starving for food, and broken-hearted, Ha demanded a test before
the assembled people. It is well known that the children of the spirits
cast no shadow, and the child, before an immense crowd, with his
miserable mother watching from behind a curtain, was brought into the
full sunshine and held up. To the amazement and fear of all, no shadow
was cast on the earth. To set the matter forever at rest the spirit
tablet was then brought out and a little blood drawn from the tender arm
of the child. This was spread on the tablet inhabited by the father’s
spirit and it instantly sank in and disappeared, though when spread on
another, it rolled off, leaving no mark. Amid loud shouts the child was
pronounced the true heir of the family. Ha was immediately pardoned by
the parents of Won Kiun and taken into their favour, being permitted to
serve them to the end of their days, which she did with perfect
devotion.

“My Princess will see from this true story the great reward that
humility and patience bring to a good wife. It is not every husband who
returns from the Land of the Dead to bring joy to one in such a lowly
position. And though it is easy to be seen that it was his own
transcendent merits which occasioned this joyful result, without the
patience of Ha the nobility of her husband and his parents could
scarcely have been rewarded. Therefore the duty of a woman is submission
and where this exists all her follies and faults may be covered as a
rich brocade covers a poor divan.”

The ladies were silent and the Princess again shook her head with tears
in her eyes.

“This is a difficult case,” she said, “and in truth each seems more
alarming than the last. It appears that marriage is a sea of perils
great and terrible, and to escape shipwreck all but impossible. Possibly
if Ha had not bought the concubine—but have none of my ladies a story
of man’s fidelity? Is such a thing unknown?”

And even as she spoke a woman with a face like the dusk of the evening
and eyes as its stars in clouds, broke in upon her words unmannerly but
with such power that all turned to listen, forgetting even the Presence.

“My Princess, my beloved, hear now this last story, for these women have
spoken of little things, but I will speak of great.

“It is known to you that when the King Rama ruled in Kosala and was
thence driven for awhile into the wild woods, there went with him of her
own choice and in utter devotion, his wife, young and lovely and noble,
the Queen Sita. And when he entreated her to leave him because of the
horror of the great woods and the wild beasts, and the evil spirits and
hunger and poverty, she replied only: ‘How should I stay in the glorious
city when my husband is gone? I count all evils as blessings when I am
with him. Without him life is death. And if my prayer is refused I will
enter the fire and await him in the Paradise to be.’

“So she followed Rama, clothed in poverty and in the wood she served
him, unfaltering in piety and all wifely duty. And as the result of this
nobility her beauty so grew that the very Gods, passing on their high
errands would pause for joy to see her perfections.

“But on a certain day when the King was absent, the evil King of Lanka
stole this Pearl, hoping to set it in his crown.

“Princess, it is not needful to tell the sorrows of Sita, the
temptations she resisted nor the cruelties that could not break her pure
will. Flawless in strength and brightness as the very spirit of the
diamond was her faith. And when Rama at last, by the aid of the Gods,
conquered the evil-doer, she sat beneath a tree, in poor array,
trembling for joy to think that her head should lie once more upon her
husband’s breast and her ear be gladdened with his praise for the fight
she had fought alone in sorrow.

“So she stood before him and he sat upon his victorious throne and thus
he spoke:

“‘Lady, my work is done. I have avenged my honour and the insult put
upon me and my foe is broken. But mistake me not. It was for no love to
you that I fought, but to uphold the dignity of my race. Your presence
now hurts me as light hurts a diseased eye. Another man has seen your
face unveiled. His hand has touched you. You have dwelt in his palace.
You are no wife of mine. Go where you will. Do what you will. We are
parted.’”

[And the Princess and all the ladies stared with great eyes to hear what
the woman told.]

“And this before a great assembly. So, at first the Queen wept silently,
because this shaft pierced her very heart. Then, drying her tears, she
raised her fair head and answered:

“‘Is all my faithful love forgotten? It was hard for a weak woman to
resist supernatural strength. Yet in all perils of death and shame I
have been utterly chaste in soul and body, and no evil came near me, for
in me there was none to meet it.’

“She paused and the King made no answer. And she said:

“‘If man deserts me the High Gods are faithful. Make ready the funeral
pile. I will not live in this shame.’

“And it was done;—none daring to look in the King’s face, and he still
silent. . . . So, circling her husband thrice in farewell reverence, the
Queen entered the fire. And even as the flame lapped her feet, the Great
Gods descended in radiant chariots plumed for the untrodden ways of the
air, and the God of the Fire, who is the Purifier, took her by the hand
and presented her to Rama, saying,

“‘Even as is my white flame purity, so is the purity of this Queen.’

“And he accepted her from the God’s hand.

“Princess, would not all the world believe that after this coming of the
Gods this King would have honoured his Queen? Yet no.

“He knew her pure, but, since others whispered that another had seen her
face, and who could tell?—again he dismissed her for in him as in all
men, pride was mightier than love.

“And once more, Sita, standing before him and knowing this the end, made
declaration of her chastity that all might hear. And suddenly
transported beyond the weakness of a woman, she stood as one divine,
perfect in high soul and nobility, and she said:

“‘Never has any thought that was not pure and chaste entered my heart,
and as my heart so is my body. This have I said. And now, I beseech of
the Earth, the Great Goddess, Mother of us all, that she will grant me a
refuge, for I have none other.’

“And as she spoke these words, a very soft air, laden with coolness and
sacred perfumes, stirred among them, and in the silence there arose from
the earth a Throne and upon it the Mighty Mother of men and Gods, and
she raised the Queen in her arms and set her upon the Throne that all
might see her throned and glorious. And lo! for a moment she sat
majestic, and the assembly hid their faces, and when they again raised
them all was gone and only the common day was about them.

“But the King wept uncomforted knowing that never again by city or
forest might he see that fair face, which being his own he had cast from
him.”

And the woman paused, and all the ladies cried that this was the
cruellest story of all, demanding that she be dismissed from the
Presence as an offender. But the Princess sat submerged in thought, and
the woman said softly:

“My Princess—my beloved,—the Gods rule. In all life is sorrow, whether
in Kashmir or Jamu. But the Gods abide. In the hollow of Their hand lay
this Queen, and in the darkness the King’s eyes could not pierce They
smiled. Certainly she leaned on Their might and so walked content and
what could man do to her? Fear not, my Princess. The Gods abide—whether
in Kashmir or Jamu, and the earth is Their footstool. And this being so
the life of a woman is her own, go where she will.”

And there fell a great silence and she who said this glided away and was
gone. And presently the Princess rose in the midst of the women like a
Queen, and she spoke:

“This is the truth. Fate is fate and love is love, and what we do is our
own, and not the deeds of another. For that Queen I do not weep, but for
the King who was blind to her glory. It is the valour of men that sends
them forth to war, and it is the valour of women that puts their hearts
in the hand of their husbands. And to me, since I have seen this
portrait all other things are empty, and if he slay me still will I love
him. For it is the High God, who is worshipped by many names, who has
made the woman for the man and the man for the woman, and He abides
unchanging in Unity and what He does is better than well.”

And as she spoke the colours faded on the mountains and on the lake the
evening came with quiet feet.



                        THE WISDOM OF THE ORIENT
                         A DIALOGUE AND A STORY



                        THE WISDOM OF THE ORIENT

                         A DIALOGUE AND A STORY


                                   I

“I believe you take as long to dress as I do,” she said pettishly; “I
call it neither more nor less than poaching when a man looks so well
turned out. And a Poet, too! Well—you can sit down; I have twenty
minutes free.”

She was dressed for a bridge party. Dressed—oh, the tilt of the hat
over her delicate little nose; the shadow it cast over the liquid eyes,
ambushing them, as it were, for the flash and spring upon the victim!
But I was no victim—not I! I knew my young friend too well. She endured
me more or less gladly. I sat at her feet and learned the ways of the
sex, and turned them into verse, or didn’t, according to the mood of the
minute. I had versified her more than once. She was a rondeau, a
triolet, a trill—nothing more.

“Why mayn’t a poet look respectable as well as another?” I asked,
dropping into a chair.

“Because it isn’t in the picture. You were much more effective, you
folks, when you went about with long hair, and scowled, with a finger on
your brows. But never mind—you’ve given us up and we’ve given you up,
so it doesn’t matter what women think of you any more.”

“You never said a truer word!” I replied, lighting my cigarette at hers.
“The connection between women and poetry is clean-cut for the time. As
for the future—God knows! You’re not poetic any more. And it’s deuced
hard, for we made you.”

“Nonsense. God made us, they say—or Adam—I never quite made out
which.”

“It’s a divided responsibility, anyhow. For the Serpent dressed you. He
knew his business there—he knew that beauty unadorned may do well
enough in a walled garden and with only one to see and no one else to
look at. But in the great world, and with competition—no! And you—you
little fools, you’re undoing all his charitable work and undressing
yourselves again. When I was at the dance the other night I thirsted for
the Serpent to take the floor and hiss you a lecture on your
stupidities.”

She pouted: “Stupidities? I’m sure the frocks were perfectly lovely.”

“As far as they went, but they didn’t go nearly far enough for the
Serpent. And believe me, he knows all the tricks of the trade. He wants
mystery—he wants the tremble in the lips when a man feels—‘I can’t
see—I can only guess, and I guess the Immaculate, the Exquisite—the
silent silver lights and darks undreamed of.’ And you—you go and strip
your backs to the waist and your legs to the knees. No, believe me, the
Dark Continent isn’t large enough; and when there is nothing left to
explore, naturally the explorer ceases to exist.”

“I think you’re very impertinent. Look at Inez. Wasn’t she perfectly
lovely? She can wear less than any of us, and wear it well.”

“I couldn’t keep my eyes off her, if you mean that. But not along the
Serpent line of thought. It was mathematical. I was calculating the
chances for and against, all the time—whether that indiscreet rose-leaf
in front would hold on. Whether the leaf at the back would give. At last
I got to counting. She’s laughing—will it last till I get to
five-and-twenty? thirty? And I held on to the switches to switch off the
light if it gave. The suspense was terrific. Did she hold together after
midnight? I left then.”

“I won’t tell you. You don’t deserve to hear,” she said with dignity.

A brief silence.

“What do you mean by saying you poets made us?” she began again, pushing
the ash-tray toward me.

“Well, you know, as a matter of fact people long ago didn’t believe you
had any souls.”

“Rot!”

“I shouldn’t think of contradicting you, my dear Joan, but it’s a fact.”

“Oh, the Turks, and heathen like that.”

“Well, no—the Church. The Fathers of the Church, met in solemn council,
remarked you had no souls. It was a long time ago, however.”

“They didn’t!”

“They did. They treated you as pretty dangerous little animals, with
snake’s blood in you. Listen to this: ‘Chrysostom’—a very distinguished
saint—‘only interpreted the general sentiment of the Fathers when he
pronounced woman to be a necessary evil, a natural temptation, a
desirable calamity, a domestic peril, a deadly fascination, a painted
ill.’ You see you had found the way to the rouge-box even then.”

“I shouldn’t wonder if they were right,” she said, incredibly. “I’ve
often doubted whether I’ve a soul myself. And I’m sure Inez hasn’t.”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“At all events, the poets thought you were not as pretty without one. We
disagreed with the Church. We always have. So we took you in hand. Your
soul was born, my dear Joan, in Provence, about the year 1100.”

She began to be a little interested, but looked at her tiny watch—grey
platinum with a frosty twinkle of diamonds.

“Go on. I’ve ten minutes more.”

“Well—we were sorry for you. We were the Troubadours of Provence, and
we found you kicked into the mud by the Church, flung out into the world
to earn your bread in various disreputable ways—by marriage, and
otherwise. You simply didn’t exist. We found your beautiful dead body in
the snow and mud. And we picked you up and warmed you and set you on a
throne all gold and jewels. Virtually, you never breathed until we wrote
poems about you.”

“Jewels! We have always liked jewels,” she sighed.

“We gave you a wonderful crown first, all white and shining. We made you
Queen of Heaven, and then even the Church had to eat humble pie and
worship you, for you were Mary. We did that—we only. But that wasn’t
enough. You opened your eyes, and grew proud and spoiled, and heaven was
by no means enough. You wanted more. You would be Queen of Earth, too.
And we did it! We gave you a crown of red jewels,—red like heart’s
blood,—and we put a sceptre in your hand, and we fell down and
worshipped you. And you were Venus. And you have been Queen of Europe
and the New World ever since.”

“Of Europe only? Not of Asia? Why not?”

“Oh, they are much too old and wise in Asia. They are much wiser than
we. Wiser than the Church. Wiser than the poets—than any of us.”

“What do they say?”

“Well—let’s think. That you have your uses—_uses_. That you are
valuable in so far as you bear children and are obedient to your
husbands. That, outside that, your beauty has its uses also within
limits that are rather strictly marked. That in many rebirths you will
develop your soul and be immortal; if you behave, that is! If not—then
who shall say? But you have your chance all the time. With them you are
neither goddess or fiend. You are just women. Not even Woman.”

“What ghastly materialism!”

“No, no! The happy mean. The perfect wisdom. Meanwhile, you yourselves
are all hunting after the ideals of the market-place, the platform, the
pulpit. I wonder how many extra rebirths it will cost you! Never mind.
Time is long. The gods are never in a hurry, and you will arrive even if
you only catch the last train.”

“But this is all fault-finding, and unfair at that. Will you have the
goodness to advise? If we stick on our pedestals, you all run off to the
frivolers. If we frivol, you weep for the pedestal. What is it you
really want? If we knew, we’d try to deliver the goods, I’m sure.”

“I’m not!” I said, and reflected. Then, gathering resolution, “Have you
the patience to listen to a story?”

“If it’s a good one. How long will it take?”

“Ten minutes. The author is the Serpent.”

“Then I’ll certainly put off Inez for fifteen minutes. Who’s it
about?”—running to the telephone.

“Eve, Lilith, Adam.”

“Who was Lilith?”

“Adam’s first love.”

She sat down, her eyes dancing, her lips demure; the prettiest
combination!

“I didn’t know he had one. But I might have guessed. They always have.
Go on!”

I went on, and this is the story.

                                   II

“You were speaking of the pedestal. That, of course, was invented in
Eden; for Adam early recognized the convenience of knowing where to
leave your women and be certain of finding them on your return. So he
made the pedestal, decorated it, burned incense before it, and went away
upon his own occasions; and when Eve had finished her housekeeping (you
may remember, Milton tells us what good little dinners she provided for
Adam), she would look bored, climb upon the pedestal obediently, and
stand there all day, yawning and wondering what kept him away so long.

“Now, on a memorable day, the Serpent came by, and stopped and looked up
at the Lady of the Garden,—who naturally assumed a statuesque
pose,—and there was joy in his bright little eyes. But all he said was,
‘May I ask if you find this amusing?’

“And Eve replied, ‘No, not at all. But it is the proper place for a
lady.’

“And the Serpent rejoined: ‘Why?’

“And Eve reflected and answered: ‘Because Adam says so.’

“So the Serpent drew near and whispered in his soft sibilant voice:
‘Have you ever heard of Lilith? _She_ does not stand on a pedestal. She
gardens with Adam. To be frank, she is a cousin of my own.’

“And this made Eve extremely angry, and she replied sharply: ‘I don’t
know what you mean. He and I are alone in Eden. There’s no such person
as Lilith. You are only a serpent when all’s said and done. What can you
know?’

“And the Serpent replied very gently,—and his voice was as soothing as
the murmur of a distant hive of bees,—‘I am only a Serpent, true! But I
have had unusual opportunities of observation. Come and eat of the Tree
of Knowledge of Good and Evil. Long ages ago I tasted the Fruit. The
savour of my teeth is sweet on it still.’

“Eve hesitated, and she who hesitates is lost.

“‘I own I should like to know about this Lilith,’ she said. ‘But we were
told that fruit is unripe, and I don’t like bitter things. Is it
bitter?’

“And the Serpent narrowed his eyes until they shone like slits of
emerald.

“‘Sweet!’ he said; ‘come.’

“So she descended from the pedestal, and, guided by the Serpent, stood
before that wondrous Tree where every apple shines like a star among its
cloudy leaves. And she plucked one, and, tasting it, flung the rest
angrily at the Serpent, because it was still a little unripe; and having
tasted the Fruit Forbidden, she returned to the pedestal, pondering,
with the strangest new thoughts quickening in her brain.

“If Adam noticed anything when he came back that evening, it was only
that Eve was a little more silent than usual, and forgot to ask if the
thornless roses were striking root. She was thinking deeply, but there
were serious gaps in her knowledge.

“The first result of her partial enlightenment was that, though she now
only used the pedestal as a clothes-peg and spent all her spare time in
stalking Adam and Lilith, she always scrambled up in hot haste when he
returned. He could be certain of finding her there when he expected to,
and he made a point of that because, as he said,—

“‘No truly nice woman would ever want to leave it and go wandering about
the Garden. It does not do for a respectable woman to be seen speaking
even to an Archangel nowadays, so often does the Devil assume the form
of an Angel of Light. You never can tell. And besides, there is always
the Serpent, who, in my opinion, should never have been admitted.’

“Eve said nothing, which was becoming a habit. She only folded her
little hands meekly and accepted the homage paid to the pedestal with
perfect gravity and decorum. He never suspected until much later that
she knew what a comparatively interesting time Lilith was having, and
had indeed called on that lady at the other end of the Garden, with
friendly results. She was well aware that Lilith’s footing on the garden
paths was much more slippery and unsafe than her own on the pedestal.
Still, there were particulars which she felt would be useful.

“When Adam realized the facts, he realized also that he was face to face
with a political crisis of the first magnitude. If they fraternized,
those two, of such different characters and antecedents, there was
nothing they could not know—nothing they might not do! The pedestal was
rocking to its very foundation. The gardening with Lilith must end. She
would demand recognition; Eve would demand freedom. It might mean a
conspiracy—a boycott. What was there it might not mean? He scarcely
dared to think. Eden was crumbling about him.

“It was a desperate emergency, and as he sat with a racking head,
wishing them both in—Paradise, the Serpent happened along.

“‘Surely you look a little harassed,’ he said, stopping.

“Adam groaned.

“‘Is it as bad as all that?’ the Serpent asked, sympathetically.

“‘Worse.’

“‘What have they been at?’ asked the Serpent.

“‘They each know too much, and they will soon know more,’ he rejoined
gloomily. ‘Knowledge is as infectious as potato blight.’

“The Serpent replied with alacrity: ‘In this dreadful situation you must
know most. It is the only remedy. Come and eat at once of the Fruit of
the Tree. I have never understood why you did not do that the moment the
Rib took shape.’

“And Adam, like Eve asked: ‘Is it sweet?’

“So the Serpent narrowed his eyes till they shone like slits of ruby,
and said, ‘Bitter, but appetizing. Come.’

“And Adam replied: ‘I like bitters before dinner.’

“We all know what happened then; with the one exception that, as a
matter of fact, he found the apple a little overripe, too sweet, even
cloying; and not even swallowing what he had tasted, he threw the rest
away.

“It is just as well to have this version, for it must have been always
perfectly clear that Eve, having tasted the apple and thus acquired a
certain amount of wisdom, could never have desired to share it with
Adam. [“I have thought that myself,” murmured Joan.] No, it was the
Serpent’s doing in both cases; though naturally Adam blamed Eve when the
question was raised, for she had begun it.

“But what was the result? Well, there were several. It has, of course,
been a trial of wits between Adam, Eve, and Lilith ever since. But, in
tasting, he had learned one maxim which the Romans thought they invented
thousands of years later. It flashed into his mind one day, when he saw
the two gathering roses together and found his dinner was half an hour
late in consequence. It was simply this: Divide and Rule. Combined, he
could never manage them; the sceptre was daily slipping from his hand.
Divided, he could. So he put the maxim in practice and sowed division
and distrust between Eve and Lilith. They ceased to visit each other,
and were cuts when they met. And, naturally, after the Eviction the
meetings ceased entirely.

“You will have understood before this, my dear Joan, that Adam was the
first mortal to realize the value of competition. He now became the
object of spirited competition between the two. Each in her own way
outbid the other to secure his regard. Eve’s domestic virtues grew
oppressive; Lilith’s recklessness alarming. And it will readily be seen
why women have pursued men, rather than the other way over, as we see it
in the lower walks of creation.”

“Don’t prose,” said Joan. “What happened?”

“Well, in the last few years, the Serpent, who is always upsetting
things, happened along again, and found Eve balancing in extreme
discomfort on the pedestal, and Lilith resting, exhausted, after a
particularly hard day’s pursuit of Adam. And between them was a wall of
icy silence.

“He paused and said with his usual courtesy, ‘Ladies, you both seem
fatigued. Is it permitted to ask the reason?’ And his voice had all the
murmuring of all the doves of Arcady.

“And Lilith replied angrily: ‘I’m sick of hunting Adam. I always catch
him and always know I shall. And he wants to be caught, and yet insists
on being hunted before he gives me the rewards. Who can keep up any
interest in a game like that? If it were not for Eve, who would take up
the running if I dropped it, he might go to Gehenna for me!’”

“Oh, how true! I like Lilith best!” whispered Joan. She was not smoking
now.

“‘Strong, but pardonable,’ said the Serpent. ‘And you, dear Lady?’

“And Eve, casting a jealous scowl at Lilith, replied: ‘I’m weary of this
abominable pedestal. If you had stood on it off and on for five thousand
years, you would realize the cramp it means in the knees. But I daren’t
get off, for Adam says no truly nice woman ever would leave it, and it
pleases him. If it were not for Lilith, who would be upon it in two
seconds, I should be off it in less. And then where should I be? She
_will_ go on hunting him, and of course he must have quiet at home.’

“‘And you _will_ go on standing on your imbecile pedestal, and of course
such boredom makes him restless abroad,’ retorted the other.

“In the momentary silence that ensued, the Serpent looked up at Lilith
and narrowed his eyes till they shone like slits of amethyst.

“‘My cousin,’ he said, ‘our family was old when Adam was created. He is
poor game.’

“‘Nobody knows that better than I,’ said Lilith tartly. ‘What do you
suppose I hunt him for?’

“‘What, indeed!’ said the Serpent, hissing softly.

“‘Because of Eve—that only!’ she flashed at him. ‘She never shall
triumph over me. And what there is to give, he has.’

“He turned to Eve, narrowing his eyes till they shone like slits of
fire.

“‘And you stand cramped on this pedestal, beloved Lady?’

“‘Because of Lilith—that only! She, at all events, shall not have him.
And think of his morals!’”

(“Aha!” said Joan, with intense conviction.)

“The Serpent mused and curved his shining head toward Eve.

“‘If you will allow me to say so, I have always regretted that you never
finished that apple, and that my cousin Lilith has never tasted it at
all,’ he murmured. ‘A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, as certain
also of your own poets have said.’

“‘I have sometimes thought so, too,’ Eve replied mournfully; ‘and there
is a word that now and then flashes across my brain like an echo from
the past, but I can never quite recall it. It might explain matters.
Still, it is no use talking. That apple rotted long ago, and if the Tree
is still growing, which I doubt, there is always a guard of flying
infantry at the Gate. It is easier to get out than in where Eden is
concerned.’

“The Serpent smiled blandly.

“‘You have evidently forgotten that, by arrangement with the Governing
Body, I have always free ingress and egress. Look here!’

“He unfolded his iridescent coils, and there lay within them—shining,
mystic, wonderful, against his velvet bloom—two Apples.

“There was no hesitation, for each was equally weary of Adam’s
requirements; and, snatching each an Apple, they ate.

“But the Fruit has grown bitter since the days of the Garden. There is
nothing so bitter as knowledge. Their lips were wried, and the tears
came, and still they ate until not an atom remained. The Serpent
watched. For a moment each stared upon the other, trembling like a
snared bird, wild thoughts coming and going in the eyes of the Barren
Woman and the Mother of all Living. Then Eve stretched out her arms, and
Lilith flung herself into them, and they clung together, weeping.

“And the Serpent opened his eyes until they shone like sun, moon, and
stars all melted into one; and he said, ‘Ladies, the word you are
seeking is, I think, _Combination_.’ And smiling subtly, he went away.

“So Eve descended from her pedestal and trampled it; and Lilith broke
the rod of her evil enchantments; and they walked hand in hand, blessing
the world.

“Adam meanwhile was shooting,—big game, little game,—and, amid the
pressure of such important matters, never paid any attention to this
trifle. But this was the beginning of what will be the biggest
trade-union the world will ever see. All the women who matter will be
within it, and the black-legs outside will be the women who don’t count.
So now you see why men will not much longer have a run (literally) for
their money. Adam may have to put up with it, for he never ate the Apple
as Eve and Lilith have done, and therefore does not know so much about
the things of real importance. Unless indeed the Serpent— But we won’t
think of that until it happens.

“Now, my dear Joan, whether all this is a good or a bad thing, who can
tell? The Serpent undoubtedly shuffled the cards; and who the Serpent is
and what are his intentions, are certainly open questions. Some believe
him to be the Devil, but the minority think his true name is Wisdom. All
one really can say is that the future lies on the knees of the gods, and
that among all men the Snake is the symbol of Knowledge, and is
therefore surrounded with fear and hatred.

“Now that’s the story, and don’t you think there’s a kind of moral?”

I waited for a comment. Joan was in deep meditation.

“Do you know,” she said slowly, “it’s the truest thing I ever heard.
It’s as true as taxes. But where do _you_ come in?”

“I wasn’t thinking of us,” I said hurriedly. “I merely meant—if you
wished to be more attractive——”

“Attractive!”—with her little nose in the air. “I guess it’s you that
will have to worry about your attractions, if that comes along. I won’t
waste any more time on you to-day. I’ve got to think this out, and talk
it out, too, with Inez and Janet.”

She rose and began to pull on her gloves, but absently.

I felt exactly like a man who has set a time-fuse in a powder magazine.
The Serpent himself must have possessed me when I introduced his wisdom
to a head cram-full of it already.

“It’s the merest nonsense, Joan. It isn’t in the Talmud. The Serpent
never thought of it. I made it all up.”

“You couldn’t. It isn’t in you. Or, if you did, it was an inspiration
from on high.”

“From below,” I said weakly.

She smiled to herself—a dangerous smile.

“I must go. And you really were a little less dull than usual. Come
again on Tuesday. The moral of it all is, so far, that the poets are
really worth cultivating. I will begin with you!”

She flashed away like a humming bird, and I retired, to read my
Schopenhauer. But the serious question is—shall I go on Tuesday?



                             STATELY JULIA
                        A STORY OF ENCHANTMENTS



                             STATELY JULIA

                         A STORY OF ENCHANTMENTS


(A letter from Mr. Amyand Tylliol to his friend, Mr. Endymion Porter at
the Court of his Majesty, King Charles the First.)

To my kind and constant friend, that lover of the Muses, Mr. Endymion
Porter, to whose understanding heart all confidences may be carried,
these presents to bring my news.

Since you marvel at the delay of your humble servant needs must I tell
you of a singular hap which hath befallen. Yet no hurt, therefore be not
distrest, for all is well. And truth it is that I have met a most
ingenious gentleman, and this is the marrow of what I would say.

For, prospering in my journey, I did reach Exeter, and there in the
shadow of the Cathedral Church, transacted my affair with Mr. Delander
as foreseen. And a right fair and noble church it is, rich beyond
imagining with images of kings and bishops, queens and holy martyrs.

From Mr. Stephen Delander (who quarters the arms of Tylliol with his own
from an alliance in the days of Queen Elizabeth of blessed memory, and
therefore calls cousin with me) have I received most hospitable
entertainment, and noble conversation enriched with such sparkling gems
of poesy and rhetoric as cannot be told in words. And hence is he become
my singular good friend and as such to be remembered and cherished. His
house lies in the Cathedral precincts and is by all the city known as
Domus Domini, the Lord’s House, since it belonged to the foundation of
the Cathedral in days now like to be forgot.

And ’tis a house delightful to the fancy, in a very small garden set
with a few sombre trees, enlightened with clove-gilly flowers and roses,
and box hedges with winding walks among the turf. Within, deep-windowed,
with grave and handsome plenishing and great store of books clothing the
walls, and all of a sober discretion that bespeaks a gentleman of
lineage and parts. And over it towers the cathedral church the which
(looking upward) appears to swim in the blue as though native to the
skies, and sheds from its mighty bells a voice of warning over the
clustering city with every passing hour, for a _memento mori_.

A place indeed for the feeding of pensive musing and the relishing of
the fair-zoned Muses even as in the groves of Academe.

So, business concluded, ’twas the habit of Mr. Delander and myself to
sit in the oriel commanding the cathedral and to hold sweet discourse,
with a flagon of right Canary between us, and from one of these
exchanges sprang my delay.

For he, talking of the writing of the rare Master Ben Jonson, spoke as
follows:

“A poet indeed, but sure Mr. Tylliol, being a lover of verse and a
trafficker in its niceties, knows we have here in this rude Devonshire a
poet—nay, what say I?—_the_ poet of women and flowers and elves that
skip by moonlight, with like delights of the phantasy, such as rare Ben
or even the rarer Master Shakespeare cannot excel?”

“Lord, sir!” says I. “I stand amazed. I knew it not. Who may the
gentleman be?”

“I would not have you think,” he responded, “that this gentleman hath
the choir note of our young Milton, nor yet the plenteous invention of
Will Shakespeare. ’Tis a country Muse, but exquisite. A muse withal that
hath been to town and drest her lovely limbs in lawns and silks, and
wears pomander beads in her bosom. A Muse whose blush is claret and
cream commingled. And as I said, exquisite. A voice of Castaly.”

“And what does the gentleman in the wilds and what is he?” asked I,
a-tip-toe with curiosity, for well you know my passion for these
rarities. And hastily I added:

“Hath your honour any taste or relish of his verse at hand to whet my
appetite? For with poetry as with manners—from one can all be told.”

He mused a moment smiling, then recited thus:

                     “TO A LADY SINGING

           “So smooth, so sweet, so silvery is thy voice
           As, could they hear, the damned would make no noise,
           But listen to thee walking in thy chamber,
           Melting melodious words to lutes of amber.”

“O rare!” cried I, clapping my hands. “A right music, like drops of
honey distilling from the comb. Was this a happy chance, or may the
gentleman summon the delicate Ariel when he will?”

He smiled, indulgent:

“Since you compare the lines with honey, hear yet again.” I sat elate.

               “As Julia once a-sleeping lay
               It chanced a bee did fly that way.
               For some rich flower he took the lip
               Of Julia, and began to sip.
               But when he felt he sucked from thence
               Honey (and in the quintessence)
               He drank so much he scarce could stir
               And Julia took the pilferer!

               “Sweet Lady-flower, I never brought
               Hither the least one thieving thought.
               But taking those rare lips of yours
               For some fresh fragrant luscious flowers,
               I thought I there might take a taste
               Where so much sirop ran to waste.
               Besides, know this,—‘I never sting
               The flower that gives me nourishing.’
               This said, he laid his little scrip
               Of honey ’fore her Ladyship,
               And told her (as some tears did fall)
               That this he took and that was all.
               At which she smiled and bade him go
               And take his bag; but this much know
               When next he came a-pilfering so,
               He should from her full lips derive
               Honey enough to fill his hive.”

“’Tis a pure seed-pearl,” said I. “Small but Orient. And now, Mr.
Delander my worthy friend, tell me where hides this shepherd of the
enchanted pipe, for if, as you say, in Devon, then Devon I will not quit
till with these tickling ears have I listened to his sweet pipings. And
if Julia be his neighbour, as we may suppose— O, sir, speak by the
cards and tell me true!”

“There is,” he responded, “in this His Majesty’s shire of Devon, a very
savage forest, yet with no trees,—known as the Forest of Dartmoor. And
well may I call it savage, for there do savages harbour that would make
as little to slit a man’s throat and cast him in a slough as I to toss
this nut-shell. Of the roads to these parts, least said soonest
mended—sooner indeed than they. But know that around this execrable
miscreant of a Dartmoor lie little lovely villages full of a sweet
civility of flowers and hives of bees, and kine and pretty maids to milk
’em. And above all there is one called Dean Prior and of this the
spiritual shepherd is Mr. Robert Herrick.”

“Sure his crook is wreathed with roses and the pretty lambs of the flock
have nought to fear from their shepherd,” says I.

“I take your meaning, Mr. Tylliol, and yet—[he paused here with a
peculiar sweet smile]—though you might decipher much from his verses of
Julias, Dianemes, Perillas, and other charming ladies, and he is much
accused as a loose liver, ’tis possible to read his riddle wrong. Go
therefore and see him. I have known another who did this and returned
surprised. Yet cross not Dartmoor on your life, but go softly below it
where honest folk live. Also, a coach goes down two days hence within
two miles of the village and with it a riding guard. Take your stout
nag, and so God bless you and send you a happy meeting with a man not
commonly to be accosted.”

’Twas in vain for me to beshrew and becall myself for the veriest ass
between this and London, and doubtless I had flinched from so great an
enterprise but that Mr. Delander poured verses more and more mellifluous
into mine ears until at last I was as Ulysses, drunk with the fierce
wine of the Sirens’ voices, and there being no mast whereto to bind me
and Mr. Delander full of laughing incitements, I set forth to follow the
track of music as a bee the track of the unseen rose’s perfume.

Of the roads I forbear to speak, and the harbourage by the way would
willingly forget, but the air was sweet and fragrant with earliest
summer and the fields yet gilt with cowslips and I spied a few late
primroses lingering about the roots of trees in the shy copses. Also, an
exceeding delicate flower like a silver star, that made sweet
constellation in the lush grass. And could the courtesies of London be
imported I know not where a man might better fleet the hours than in
this warm and languid shire of Devon.

So, on the fourth day we observed a wild mountain stream, browner than
October ale, that rushing danced to meet us, breaking in a thousand
showers, spray, and rillets among its rocks—a lovely thing to see and
hear—the youngest surely of the bright nymphs of the hills.

“And this,” says the guard of the coach, “is the Dean Burn, and not far
off the Vicarage, and the few houses of the village are far down the
road where we shall presently come. So here, worshipful sir, we leave
you.”

Then, being arrived and the coach still standing to discharge certain
packets for the parson I spied a comely man in middle age coming to meet
us.

He was drest in hodden grey, clean but simple, his head bare and the
sunshine on it, and his eyes smiled with his mouth. And in that first
sight I gave my liking to Mr. Herrick, and so has it continued.

I presented my letter from Mr. Delander, and of the cordial of my
welcome need I not to speak.

“Nay, what favour?” said he. “Sure to a rustic that once knew London,
pinioned here to rude rocks and trees, ’tis like a scent of the kindly
civil streets to see an accomplished gentleman. Blush not, sir, for so I
have it under Mr. Delander’s hands and seal, and I know no better judge.
’Tis little I can give, but my pleasant maid, Prudence Baldwin, hath a
bed with sun-bleacht sheets in waiting for the traveller, and my roof is
weather-proof, and my little creeking hen, foreseeing a friend, hath
made shift to lay her long white egg, and this rascally riveret that I
have abused in verse, yet love, hath provided fresh-dewed cresses for
our meat. If with these and a very little more, my guest’s hunger can be
satiate, then welcome again—thrice welcome to Dean Prior.”

With gladness I accepted, for the welcome was as much in his eye as on
his lip, and so we came to the low house seated in a small garden gay
with gilliflowers, culver-keys, sops-in-wine, lad’s love, and all the
outspread courtiers that pay homage to the rose. And roses he had, great
store, both damask and white, and the party-coloured York and
Lancaster—to the which he drew my notice.

Lord, what a little house, and poor though neat, and yet with sparkles
of money here and there in a rich picture or two, and a settle and chest
carved by no ’prentice hand, and a worn but costly velvet cloak thrown
over the back. And a clock, grave as Time himself, with a dial curiously
illustrated with mottoes and cherubims. And before entering I took
notice that a sun-dial stood in the garden, with this verse engraved[2]
so as the gnomon should point the lesson:

[2] The inscription on the sun-dial is my own. L. Adams Beck.

-----

        “Shine, Sun of Righteousness, with beam more bright
        Than this great dawn my dial doth invite,
        And as the gnomon’s shadow doth incline
        To tread his steps, let my sprite follow thine.”

Which methought a devout reflection pleasing to Christian ears, and so I
said, but he smiling put it by.

And now with a handsome curtsey Mrs. Prue met us, coming from her
kitchen, a kindly buxom woman with flowered skirt pulled up through her
pockets, and a cap white as the foam on Dean Burn, and in her hospitable
hand a little server, she pressing us to drink a cup of ale before our
dinner served. And so showed me to my little cell with lavender stuck in
the windows, and sheets that might have wrapt the smooth limbs of the
divine Julia, though I dare to say they never did. And since the bed was
spread with down pulled from the Vicar’s own geese it invited a pure and
honest slumber.

But, marry! when we came to dine, that I thought should have been on
eggs and cresses at the best, here was a surprise.

For before Master Vicar were laid two smoking trouts, broiled to a turn
over sea-coals.

“And of these,” says mine host, “you may eat fearless, for they were
caught in Dean Burn, and of all clean livers commend me to the trout
that is indeed a dainty monsieur; and these inhabit in water clear as
crystal beams, unlike those degenerate fish that scavenge in Thames. And
moreover, these hands took them this morning, for I am a brother of the
rod, and love to sit a-angling and a-musing.”

And needs must I say that these trout with Mrs. Prue’s sauce, the rich
droppings of the fish mixed with fresh sweet butter and the yolk of an
egg, was a dish for feasting Gods.

’Twas followed by a bird trapt on the moor, of a reddish flesh and _haut
gout_ very delicious, and what should come after that but a junket with
nutmegs grated and clouted cream—so yellow, thick and mellow that I
praised and commended and Mr. Herrick heapt my platter until I cried
quarter.

“Cream of cowslips,” says he, “for the meadows whence it was drawn are
gilt with their fragrant blossoms and the leisurely cows lie among them
and crush their sweetness as well as devour it. And if you condescend
later to taste it with a crust of Mrs. Prue’s bread and her marmalet of
crab-apples, you shall say it is good honest country fare if simple.”

I rose content from a meal excelling all the varieties of rich men’s
tables, and on his proposal we sat a while under his honey-suckle bower
to look upon the prospect and digest our meat seemly, while Mrs. Prue
moved softly about the house clearing and cleansing.

And seeing the moment favourable, I adventured a question much in my
mind.

“Sir, in your divine and honey-golden verse, recited to me by our common
friend, Mr. Delander, you speak with opprobrium of this rude Devonshire.
Yet here I come and find you set amid delights of soul and body such as
a king might envy. Is it true that you, looking on these sweet hills and
meadows, this singing riveret and the hues and scents of your garden,
can wish yourself in the noise and foulness of towns? Resolve me this
doubt, for, trust me, it perplexes me.”

He smiled a little.

“Why, sir, is a poet wiser than another that he should not long for the
rainbow a field away? You are to take notice that when I lived in London
I abused the smells and sights and craved for country quiet. And now I
have it ’tis the other way about. But in all good soberness this is the
better life and I know it. Here is the eye enlarged to beauty, the ear
attuned to music celestial, and the company, though not choicely good,
is innocent, and if evil, hath no tinsel to hide its native ugliness.”

He paused a moment as though to digest his thoughts and added:

“Here we rise with Chanticleer and make the lamb our curfew, and the
day’s small cares ended and our souls committed to the Keeper who sleeps
not, we slumber discharged of griefs. And if our food be plain the
seasoning is thanks.

                  “God, to my little meal and oil
                  Add but a bit of flesh to boil,
                  And Thou my pipkinet shalt see
                  Give a wave-offering unto Thee.”

He smiled so cheerfully that I enquired:

“Your own verse, reverend sir?”

“My own. My Muse is not always concerned with ladies’ eyes nor with the
revels of Mab and Oberon whereof I have also delighted to write. She
kneels sometimes, face veiled. And these I call my Noble Numbers.”

There was a moment’s silence, so great that through the singing of the
water I might hear the cropping of Clover-lips, his red cow. ’Twas not
long however before I resumed.

“Then, sir, the country is now your choice preferred?”

“I said not so. Nay, I long sometimes for the town. But I know and
scarce know how, that my lot will be cast there again for some sad
years, and then I shall return here to lay my bones in peace among my
people.”

“Was this revealed to you in dream, sir? But this question is overbold.
Few men reveal their dreams.”

“Mine,” says he, “are so chaste as I dare tell them. Yes, in a dream.
Doubtless induced by the present discontents which will wreck our good
King Charles and many lesser with him.”

We discoursed of these, and with each word I liked mine host the better,
until his gentleness emboldened me so much that at the last I said;

“And where, worthy sir, are the houses of the lovely and wealthy ladies
who keep you good company in summer sunshine and winter snow? Where
dwells the stately Mistress Julia, bright and straight as a garden
tulip, a flower which I confess the Roman name of Julia calls always to
my sight. Where the sparkling-eyed lady Dianeme, the shy Anthea, the
delicate Perilla light as a woodland anemone, and all this shining
garden of sweets that your muse commends to our worship? Let me own nor
blush for’t, that my journey, though undertaken to their poet, was
seasoned also with the hope to kiss their feet.”

“Sir, you did well. The Hesperides are worth even a journey to Devon.
And doubtless you shall see the stately Julia, and the bright Anthea and
all the fair choir, but not yet. And now will I repeat you my latest
homage to one of these ladies, and then I must needs visit my sick while
you sit in the meadow and watch the milkmaid at her fragrant labour.

                “THE CURIOUS COVENANT

            “Mine eyes like clouds were drizzling rain,
            And as they thus did entertain
            The gentle beams from Julia’s light
            To mine eyes levelled opposite,
            O thing admired!—there did appear
            A curious rainbow smiling there,
            Which was the covenant that she
            No more would drown mine eyes or me.”

“O exquisite felicity!” cried I with delight. “And did it not move your
empress to mercy?”

“It moved her, sir!” he answered with a subdued laughter. “And now must
I forth. Entertain yourself, I pray you.”

He went toward the village, bearing in his hand a well-stored panier
brought forth by Mrs. Prue, in the which I might espy little pots and
pipkins clearly bespeaking a charitable heart. And when he disappeared I
took in hand the rod he commended to me and did go a-angling in the Dean
Burn.

But the sun was bright and the water like dancing diamonds and its song
so dulcet that even with my good will I would fain leave the silly trout
in their crystal house, and so I e’en turned over in the short
sweet-smelling grass and there fell asleep and dreamed of Julia with her
smooth rubious lips and velvet cheek, and of the banquets of elves and
their midnight rejoicings, but dimly and with the sound of water in it
all, until I fell in the very deeps of slumber and dreamed no more.

Suddenly and soon as it seemed, but was not, I heard a voice soft as a
cushat’s call me, and looking up drowsily beheld a pretty milkmaid
summon Clover-lips and Pretty Primrose, and they responded slow but
obedient.

O charming sight, though the maiden wore but a homespun gown of blue and
had on her head nothing but a straw hat bought at the fair. For her skin
was cream with here and there a cowslip freckle, and she was
cherry-cheeked and had withal a soft black eye and two clear-marked
arches of brows, and lips that you would not have smile lest the perfect
bow unbend, nor smiling would have grave lest the quarrelet of pearls be
hidden. And about her neck and bosom was folded very modestly a
handkerchief tucked into her bodice.

So I rose to my feet and made my bow, for beauty, though but in a
milk-maiden, is native to the skies and enforces homage, and the pretty
maid blushing dropt so deep a curtsey that I thought she must take root
in the grass like a flower, so long was it before she lifted the stars
of her eyes to mine.

“I was bid by his Reverence, sir, to stroke you a syllabub,” says she.
“And will your Honour have it here and now, for I have the verjuice of
crab-apple and all needful?”

“Here and now if you’ll favour me,” says I enchanted, and sat down to
watch the lovely sight. Nor could I have departed if even she had bid
me;

                  “For in vain she did conjure him
                  To depart her presence so,
                  With a thousand tongues to allure him
                  And but one to bid him go.
                  When lips delight and eyes invite,
                  And cheeks as fresh as rose in June
                  Persuade delay, what boots she say:
                  ‘Forego me now; come to me soon.’”

But indeed the lass was pleased I stayed, and dulcet her voice as she
rounded a song to coax the cows let down their milk.

“For ’tis known they always milk best to music,” says she, “and often I
would have Jan Holdsworthy to bring his pipe and please ’em.”

And thus I heard a Devon ballad, whereof a verse sticks in my head:

           “So Robin put on his Sunday clothes,
           Which were neither tattered nor torn,
           With a bright yellow rose as well as his shoes
           He looked like a gentleman born, he did!
           Ay, he did! Sure he did!
           He looked like a gentleman born, he did.”

           “And—”

“Nay, but I won’t sing the next bit,” says she with her head against the
cow’s warm silken side, and one bright black eye regardant.

“And why, my pretty lass?”

“Because Robin went for to be uncivil and kiss the maid in the song. But
she would have none of it and serve him right, for—

            “She gave him a smack in the face, she did!
            Ay, she did! Sure she did!
            She gave him a smack in the face, she did!”

She trilled it out, defiant as a thrush at dawn, and I could have
committed Robin’s crime but for respect to her innocence and Mr.
Herrick’s hospitality. And sure never was a syllabub so delicate and
warm as this, strained from the balm-breathing kine through sunburnt
hands fresh rinsed with sparkling water from Dean Burn.

I drank that wine of Nature’s brewing nor could be satisfied. And when
her pails foamed to the brim and Clover-lips and Pretty Primrose
returned disburdened to their cropping, says I:

“Tell me, my pretty one, where are the great houses about these parts
where dwell the fair and splendid ladies who excel you in nothing but
their wealth? And do they come to the church o’ Sundays?”

“Anan, sir?” says she, bewildered.

“The ladies in silks and lawns and jewels,” I insisted. “Of whom I have
read as shedding the lustre of their graces even on these wild and
solitary meads.”

Methinks my talk was too fine for her. She laught like one amazed.

“Ladies, your honour, I know of none, nor never saw silk nor lawn nor
lady, nor heard of such but in the ballads the chapmen bring to the
fair.”

“But sure there are great squires and lords in these parts and will have
their hunting and sports and their ladies to ride with them, and come to
church in coaches and on pillions a-Sundays?”

“No, your honour, no,” says she. “I would it were so. ’Twere fine to see
the young madams, gay as kingfishers on Dean Burn, but never saw I one,
nor look to. And now I must be going, with your leave, for I must sit at
my wheel or our dame will know the reason.”

And with another curtsey the fair pretty maid departed to her innocent
labour, and ’twas as though the sun went with her, so clear and lucid a
beam was she of youth and beauty.

But she left me musing, for where and how should Mr. Herrick meet with
his fair ladies unless indeed he took horse and rode abroad, and I
perpended and resolved to watch, being sharp-set to see his peerless
beauties if I died for it.

To grace our supper on Mr. Herrick’s return were the cresses from the
Dean Burn and little young radishes from the garden with a cream cheese
dewy in green leaves and a dish of eggs dressed in an amulet by Mrs.
Prue (and savoury meat they were) and a tansy pudding to follow. And if
I be charged with gluttony in thus citing I crave pardon, for I know not
how but the mind sat down with the body to the feast and both were
nourished.

Mrs. Prue, the prudent, brought us after a very little glass each of
surfeit-water and of such comfort that I would needs have her recipe,
the which she imparted very gravely:

“We take of red corn poppies a peck and put them in a dish with another
for cover, and so into the oven several times after the household bread
is drawn. We lay them in a quart of aqua vitæ [“And this,” interrupted
Mr. Herrick, “comes very good from the sea-covers by Plymouth, and is
brought to us on moor ponies.”] and thereto we add a race of ginger
sliced, nutmeg, cinnamon, mace, a handful of figs, raisins-of-the-sun,
aniseed, cardamom and fennel seeds, with a taste of lickorish. And so
lay some poppies in a great vessel and then the other ingredients and
more poppies and so continue till the vessel’s full. We then pour in our
aqua vitæ and let it so continue until very red with the poppies and
strong of the spice. We take from it what we need, adding more aqua
vitæ. And much good may it do your Honour for ’tis a known cordial.”

“It is so!” says I sipping, “and trust me, I am beholden to you, good
Mrs. Prudence, and will benefit.”

We left our glasses empty and betook ourselves to the bower in the
garden so twined and wreathed with the gold and amber horns of
honey-suckle spilling their fragrance that my soul was ravisht, and Mr.
Herrick fetching his lute saluted mine ears with strains celestial,
adding his voice thereto at moments, yet not loud but as if thinking
melodiously to himself in serene reverie in the deepening twilight.

                 “Hear, ye virgins, and I’ll teach
                 What the times of old did preach.
                 Rosamund was in a bower
                 Kept, as Danae in a tower.
                 But yet Love who subtle is,
                 Crept to that, and came to this!
                 Be ye lockèd up like these
                 Or the rich Hesperides,
                 Or those babies in your eyes
                 In their crystal nunneries,
                 Notwithstanding Love will win
                 Or else force a passage in.”

He plucked a few notes and was silent, for Philomel in a thorn beside
the Dean broke forth, amazing the night with harmony, and holding breath
we listened to the sweet delirium that hath enchanted the ages.

She stopt as suddenly as she began and flew to some more distant groves
to duel with another songster as lovely, the moon herself in rising
seeming to pause and listen ere she ascended her silver throne.

“Exquisite!” says he sighing. “How have I the rude audacity to match my
numbers with hers? Yet I too have my breast on a thorn and must sing or
die. And you assert that they please, Mr. Tylliol?”

“They enchant,” cried I eagerly. “But, O, Mr. Herrick, my good host and
worthy friend, I beseech you reveal to me where hide the Hesperides you
celebrate in verse that will not die like Philomel’s. Few are my days
here. Let me not return empty. With the most awful reverence will I
stand at a distance to admire, nor with a thought smirch the crystalline
lawn that veils the bosom of Madam Julia or the silks that rustle in
Dianeme’s going. What—what are the earthly names of these admired
ladies?”

“In one hour, when the moon is up and at full, then you shall meet
them,” says he. “For then they do use to give me gracious tryst beyond
Dean Burn at a certain place known to me and to them. And if their
beauty is not correspondent to your expectation, blame not them, but
consider rather the teaching of Plotinus his book wherein he writes:
‘That which sees must be kindred and similar to its object before it can
see it. Every man must partake of the divine nature before he can see
Divinity.’ So then, if they appear not lovely the fault is in the eye
that sees.”

“But, sir,” says I bewildered; “is this so also with the perishable
beauty of women which leads man into ways unallied indeed with
Divinity?”

He touched a few soft notes on the pensive strings, responding gravely:

“That man hath never beheld the beauty of woman whom it leads downward,
but only a shadow and simulacrum, as it were; the false Duessa, whereas
the true Una (the One) is crowned with stars and in its nature
heavenly.”

I have conversed, as is known to my friend, with many men counted high,
but, trust me, here with the world charmed by moonlight and the quiet
running of water, the voice of this man took on a quality unearthly and
you are to know that it moved me exceedingly as with something latent
and not to be exprest. Nor would I answer but sat attentive while he
pursued his thoughts aloud.

“For so says also the wisest man that ever wore flesh (setting aside
only the Bright and Orient Star) and these are his words: ‘Such a man
uses the beauties of earth as steps whereon he mounts, going from fair
forms to fair deeds, and from fair deeds to fair thoughts, and from fair
thoughts attains to the Idea of Absolute Beauty. And if a man have eyes
to see this true Beauty he becomes the friend of God and immortal.’”

And after this we both observed such a silence as when sweet music dies
and leaves the air ravisht and in ecstasy, and so sate I know not how
long until at last the moon glided over the trees and threw her light on
the Dean Burn. He then arose, still holding his lute.

“You would see my beauties, Mr. Tylliol, and that you shall! Come with
me now.”

And so led the way to a part where the water spread wide, glittering and
very shallow, and here great flat stepping-stones used by generations,
as he told me, and on these we crost and went on and up (our path clear
as day) until, it might be half a mile or more, we came to a singular
little amphitheatre (so I may call it) of turf, short and cropt and soft
as kings’ carpets, with thick bushes and trees and some rocks
surrounding it, very secret and secluded, enclosing it into a fair
pleasance but not large.

“And here I often sit,” he whispered. “But go very softly.”

And indeed a natural awe, of I know not what, fell on me and constrained
me into a breathless quiet, following him.

So presently we seated ourselves on a low rock cushioned with moss, and
then taking his lute he began to play gently, but with such a
penetrating sweetness as Orpheus himself, who with his music melted the
hearts of trees and rocks, could scarce, I think exceed, yet most simple
withal.

And the melody was singular, and with a delicate continuity like the
ceaseless running of rain or water, and after awhile it appeared to me
as if, like a revolving spinning wheel, it cast abroad silver threads
which mingling with the moonlight did dance and whirl and shape
themselves into changing forms (but I know not what) dissolving and
returning and re-shaping in a labyrinth that mazed me. And whether it
was my own brain that spun them (as in dream) I cannot tell, nor whether
they were real or imagined.

But presently a sweetly lovely face peeped from the boughs, finger on
lips, the pointed chin elfish as though the cap should be a flower, a
truant indeed from Fairyland. And “Silvia!” he whispered, continuing to
play. She, if she it were, listened, archly smiling, a face and no more,
and suddenly the leaves closed about her, and nothing there.

My breath stumbled in my throat, and I closed my eyes an instant, and
when again they opened, at the further end of the pleasance, but dim in
the moonlight as though in a mist of lawn and cobweb lace, I saw a lady
pace from one covert to the other. And myself this time, but whether
aloud I know not, said: “Madam Julia.”

For she moved imperial, but her beauty I cannot itemize, nor know now
whether I saw or dreamed her lips—

                “Which rubies, corals, scarlets all
                For tincture wonder at,—”

nor the black splendour of her hair, and the proud dark glance she cast
about her in passing, nor the splendid sweeping of her gown.

And even as she parted the boughs and Dian-like was hid among them, came
another following, but stepping lightly from behind a rock whereon a
tree laid leafy fingers of lucent green,—a creature of soft and
flower-wafting breezes, white and sunbeam-haired, and I dare swear the
ray of her eyes was blue, though see them I did not.

And Mr. Herrick, speaking as in time to his lute, seemed to say:

                “Smooth Anthea for a skin
                White and heaven-like crystalline,”—

and she waved a moonbeam hand as he whispered and, springing as lightly
between the rocks and boughs as a leaping stream, was gone.

Then suddenly his lute ceased as though to give place to a better and a
lady, robed in white, came cradling a lute to her bosom and singing—O
words melodious, melting into heavenly numbers—I believe I knew at the
blessed moment what they were but now have they slipt my gross
understanding. For ’twas indeed the choice Myrrha—O Music, O maid
divine, walking soundless as flowing water and bathing in her own sweet
harmonies as a Naiad in her native crystal.

And even as she past, unheeding her worshipper, Mr. Herrick’s lute
resumed the strain.

And now past two fair ladies, close entwined as Hermia and Helena,
whispering each in the other’s ear and casting oblique and tender looks
upon their poet, the one in a yellow robe like a spring daffodil and the
other in a most pure violet, perfume-breathing as the hue she wore. And
the first was crowned with may, white as ivory exprest in blossom, and
my heart said for me, “Corinna, who will go a-maying while the world
lasts.

       “She that puts forth her foliage to be seen,
       And comes forth like the spring-time fresh and green,
       And sweet as Flora.”

And indeed she past me so near that I caught the almond-sweet breath of
her wreath.

And the other sure was the lady Dianeme, for I knew her by her dancing
shining eyes and the bough of blossomed laylock in her hand.

             “Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes.”—

Yet what could she be but proud of what the world counts among its
jewels? And after them came running the delicate Perilla to join herself
to their garland, and so smoothly did she glide that I looked to see her
shod with the winged sandals of Hermes, for not a blade bent as she
past, and so she slipt across the moonlight.

And then a little crowd of sweet shadows—Perenna the lovely, Sappho
(but not she of the Leucadian rock), the Delaying Lady with handsome
sullen brows, and lips pouted in half disdain, the beloved Electra,
graceful as a harebell on a breeze, the reluctant Oenone and many
others, fair and Orient gems set in a carcanet for the Muse’s wearing.
And after them a young Cupid, kitten-eyed and mischievous with his bow
braced.

And at this the air filled suddenly with nimble laughters and little
cries flipt with merry breath in the trees above us, and small shapes
drunk with dew and moonlight dropt from the boughs like spiders sliding
down their threads, so many that they pelted quick as rain-drops on the
turf. And, lo you! ’twas a rabble of Oberon’s courtiers tripping across
to set their mushroom tables in the shade retired from the moon of
night, and indeed, methought the Lady Moon leaned her golden chin on a
bar of cloud to watch the silly shower and laugh at their follies.

But the voice of Mr. Herrick’s lute waxed faster and faster till it spun
a labyrinth of music wherein the fairies did flout and spin and stagger,
singing, and these words reached me but no more:

              “Through the forest, through the forest
              I will track my fairy Queen,
              Of her foot the flying footprint,
              Of her locks the flying sheen.”

And whether this was sung or danced I know not, for the moon dipt behind
a cloud, and all shapes from distinct became confused into a swift
murmur whether of sound or sight or the ripple of the Dean Burn I can
tell neither to myself nor others, only that presently there was
darkness and silence. Nor can I say whether hours or minutes had past
when Mr. Herrick laid his hand upon my arm and roused me from what I
took to be a deep meditation.

“Dear guest,” says he, “you have slept long, and every leaf is pearled
in dew, and the Night would be secret with her subjects. We intrude.
Therefore rouse yourself, for Mrs. Prue will think us strayed sheep if
she wake, and indeed I will bespeak your soft treading for she is but a
crazy sleeper and hath of late been sick, almost to be lunatic, with a
pain in her teeth.”

But I was stumbling as if heavy with sleep and could say naught, and so
we crost the shining water on the stones and returned wordless, and that
night I slept like a happy spirit in the dewy meads of heaven.

Not a word said the next day and Mr. Herrick almost distraught with
busyness for the riding post brought him letters from his rich London
kin and the news of growing troubles between King and Parliament very
piercing to his honest heart.

And on the day following my nag was saddled, and the coach returning on
its way to Exeter I was to ride with it for security, but still not a
word said on the matter nearest my soul.

Then as we waited for the wheels,—I having bid Mrs. Prue a kindly
farewell with a vail which but ill compensated her hospitable services,
Mr. Herrick said musingly:

“Once, Mr. Tylliol, I made a verse on Dreams, in the which this was
writ:

          “‘Here are we all by day; by night we are hurled
          By dreams, each one into a several world.’

“And I have read in ancient books that it is not impossible but a man
may be hurled into another man’s world or House of Dreams—not often
indeed but once in a great while. And if this be so and it seems to that
visitant a house of lunacies or moonstruck madness (as well it may),
shall there be pardon for his dream-host therein?”

And I:

“Sir, not a house of lunacies, but a house of enchantments whereof I
would I had the freehold! And if you had any part in unlocking the door
(whereof I know not what to think) take my loving and humble thanks and
again make me welcome when leagues lie between us. For dreams ask
neither wheels nor hoofs to carry them.”

And he smiling said:

“Come!”

So, lovingly we parted and the enchanted place grew small and dim,
receding behind me, and with fleshly eyes never again shall I see the
clear running of Dean Burn and the lush meadows where fair Margery
stroked me a syllabub of cowslip cream. But Mr. Herrick shall I see, for
his dreams are not as other men’s and he comes, I know, sooner or later,
to London.

Now what all this means, I cannot know but may guess, and on that I say
no more. Let each man read it as he can. But never again tell me that
Mr. Herrick is a loose liver because his Muse dwells like a dove in the
warmth of ladies’ bosoms, for I know better.

“Jocund his Muse was, but his life was chaste,” is the self-chosen Finis
to his book, and well it may.

And for a last gift he slipt into my hand at parting his latest verses
or effusion to Madam Julia, whose stately pacing haunts me yet and ever
will.

                “This day, my Julia, thou must make
                For Mistress Bride the wedding cake.
                Knead but the dough and it will be
                To paste of almonds turned by thee.
                Or kiss it thou but once or twice
                And for the bride-cake there’ll be spice.”

And to me those words will ever bring the scents and fragrance and the
dreams of Dean Prior, and as for the cake, ’twill be eat beyond Dean
Burn on the little mushroom tables of fay and ouphe and elf, and the
drink shall be a pearl of dew for each, served in the purple of a
pregnant violet.

And so ends my letter but much more and stranger things shall I tell
when I come to my friend.



                          THE ISLAND OF PEARLS
                       THE HIDDEN HEART OF CEYLON



                          THE ISLAND OF PEARLS

                       THE HIDDEN HEART OF CEYLON


The Island of Pearls, shaped like a dewdrop hanging from the lotus petal
of India, is loveliest of the Oceanides, a Nereid floating on blue
tropic seas. She is a voluptuous beauty, jewelled, languid, fanned by
spiced airs, crowned with flowers, dusky, sultry, with strange romances
in her past as she went from lover to lover, faithful only to one, the
eternal sea. Colombo flames on you in the sun, hidden in trees so deep,
so green that if you climb a hill the town is lost like a bird’s nest in
the tangle of vegetation. And what trees!—unlike the pensive elm and
poplar, the ribbed oak of the West, these burst into flowers and a
spendthrift fire of life. There is a giant covered with clusters of
mauve blossoms like the rhododendron—I could not leave it—I was caught
like a bee by its huge glory towering up into the sunshine. It bathed
every sense in delight to stand beneath and see the larkspur blue of the
sky through the crowded bloom. Others more austerely beautiful with
faint rose and white crocus flowers springing from the grey stem and
loading the air with perfume, and for the background the grace and
grandeur of the palms balancing their frondure in the blue. There are no
words to describe these things. Only in colour or music can their
splendour be told.

And the lavish fruit! Mangosteens, mangoes, papayas, oranges,—Aladdin’s
jewels of wizard gardens. And the jewels themselves, for Ratnapura, the
City of Gems, is near at hand. Moonstones heaped in great pearl-shells,
like silvery blue moonlight touched with swimming gleams of gold, great
cats’ eyes with oblique pupils, aqua-marines of purest sparkling green,
sea water dipped up from the secrecies of deepest depths, wine-dark
jargoons, tourmalines many-hued as spring flowers, sapphires ranging
from pale azure to ocean blue, carbuncles that flame in ancient legends
as sacred jewels, all these and many more Ceylon displays like the Queen
she is. And the sea is as the jewels—all light and glitter and the
broken glories of rolling surf. It is these things which have made her
the desire of men’s eyes from time immemorial—the Island of the blue
horizon, scarcely believable for beauty and wonder. Hear Abdulla, called
Wassaf, the poet of Siraf in Persia, when he wrote of her long centuries
ago:

“When Adam was driven forth from Paradise God made a mountain of Ceylon
the place of his descent, to break the force of change and so assuage
his fall. The charms of this fair country, the softness of the air, are
beyond all telling. White amber is the dregs of its sea, and its indigo
and red bakam are cosmetics for beauty. The leaves, the barks, and the
sweating of its trees are cloves, spikenard, aloe wood, camphor and
fragrant mandel. Its icy water is a ball of muneya for the fractures of
the world. The boundaries of its fields refresh the heart like the
influence of the stars. The margins of its regions are the bedfellows of
loveliness. Its myrobalums impart the blackness of youthful hair, and
its peppercorns put the mole on the face of beauty on the fire of envy.
Its rubies and carnelians are like the lips and cheeks of charming
girls, and its treasures are as oceans full of polished gems. Indeed the
various birds are sweet singing parrots and the pheasants of its gardens
are graceful peacocks.”

So they told of her, and merchants came from the end of the earth to
trade in the wonders of Serendib, bringing and taking riches, and not
only riches but tales of wildest wonder and romance. They said the
people were descended from a royal lion and hence their name
Singhalese—Singha, a lion. They said she breathed her sweetness for
miles out to sea and that before the shore rose from the horizon the air
was languid with her spices and perfumes. Was this true or hyperbole? It
is at least certain that in many parts of the island the wild lemon
grass is almost overwhelming in its odour and many of the flowers scent
all the world about them. The tropical sun and hot dewy moisture
stimulate plant life into a passionate luxuriance of fragrant beauty.
Horror too, for there are blossoms whose name of Stercula foetida tells
all that need be told of their loathsomeness.

In this strange land the sands of some of the rivers are minute rubies
and garnets, and it is of Serendib the story was told of serpents that
guarded the precious jacinths, and the stratagem of the merchants in
flinging pieces of meat into deep valleys where they lay, that hovering
eagles might strike their talons in the meat encrusted with jewels and
carry it to their nests in the rocks, where ready hands could seize it.
The jacinths have become diamonds in the Arabian Nights, but we all know
the story in the mouth of Sindbad the sailor of perilous seas.

And the merchants had terrible tales to tell of the women of the island.
They were sirens as dangerous as ever sought to beguile Ulysses. Some of
them dwelt in a great city of iron on the coast with fluttering signals
on their towers to lure sea-farers, and when the eager boats made for
the shore women of the most alluring loveliness, perfumed and garlanded,
ran to meet them, stretching passionate arms, wooing them to enter the
city. There they caressed them until every sense was drowned in delight,
when bound and helpless, they flung them into iron cages and devoured
them one by one.

The merchants were the great romancers of the ancient world—the singers
of songs, the tellers of tales, and surely they had the right, for is
there more romance in any word than in their own name? It calls up
mirage after mirage of wearied camel caravans toiling through deserts of
sand to cities that were old when Balkh and Damascus were young; where
the blue and glittering domes of porcelain rise against intenser skies
in sunsets sonorous as a gong with deep light and colour. It is the
merchants always who carry romance and adventure in their corded bales.
In robe and turban they yearn for the caravanserais and the men coming
by many ways to the meeting place. They hunger for the flat hot cakes
seed-sprinkled, and the savoury smells of the kous-kous bubbling in oil,
but most of all for the excitements and lusts of the bazaar and the
dangerous winding ways of forbidden palaces. See them unroll the gold
and flowered stuffs of Bokhara, the silks from Cos as transparent as
running water that gave the fair Pamphila the glory of having invented a
dress “in which women were naked though clothed.” See the muslins of
Dacca unloosed from the swaying camel-packs;—the merchants can scarcely
handle them lest a faint breeze blow them from their hold, for of these
it is told that the Emperor, Akbar, the Truth-Seeker, rebuked a woman
who appeared before him robed in woven air, saying, “Little does it
become a daughter of the Prophet to show herself arrayed in one dress
only and that, as it were, nothing, being but the illusion of a
garment.” And she replied audaciously: “Majesty, Light of the Age, I am
more modest than modesty’s self, for I wear at this moment _Nine_.”

Through all the stories of Ceylon the merchants go, tempting the
perilous seas in frail dromonds and crank high-decked galleons, tempted
in turn by princesses, more perilous than the seas, shooting dangerous
glances through rose-coloured veils. Sometimes their historic quests
were wild as any dream. It was rumoured over Asia that the lost Tree of
Life grew in the jungles of this fortunate Island and a King of Persia
and Emperor of China sent their merchants with huge wealth to buy its
precious leaves—more than ever precious in the intrigues of Oriental
Courts—but only to find it grows in a Paradise more far away than even
the famed Serendib, and that no merchants, young and ardent, grave and
bearded, could lay that merchandise before the throne.

Ceylon figures in one of the most ancient epics of the world—the
Ramayana, for it was Ravana the demon King of Ceylon (Lanka) who seized
the lovely Sita, wife of the God-King Rama as she wandered in the
forest, and bore her through the air to his island kingdom. The writer
of the poem was a mighty poem maker: Valmiki,—let his name be fragrant
for all time! And like all his divine brotherhood he was first taught by
sorrow. For sitting one day in the heart of the woods, Valmiki beheld
two herons singing for joy and love as they wandered together by air and
water, and as he gladdened to their gladness, an archer shot the male
bird and he fell bathed in blood, never again to sweep the wing-ways of
the sky, and his mate fluttered about him in agony. So Valmiki, with the
wrath and power of a poet, cursed the man who had done this black deed,
and, as he spoke, suddenly he knew that his words were a measured music
and that a new and wonderful thing had befallen in the world. And so it
was, for Brahma appeared in the cloud, four-faced, majestic, and
commanded him to write the history of Rama and the storming of Ceylon in
this same mysterious music. “And it shall be true in every word,” said
the God, “and so long as the world lasts shall this story be known among
men.” And that was the beginning of poetry in India.

Perhaps this is the chief fame of Ceylon, for the God spoke not in vain.
There is no city now so lovely as that of which Valmiki tells—the city
of jewelled pavements and windows of glimmering crystal and the cloudy
palaces where the cruel King dwelt and where Sita was a captive.
For—“Here dwelt the fair princesses torn by him from vanquished Kings.
Now it was night and they lay overpowered with wine and sleep. One had
her head thrown backward; some had their garlands crushed; some lay in
each other’s bosoms, or with arms interlaced, others in slumber deep as
death. The King Ravana lay on a dais apart made of crystal and adorned
with jewels. Here lay he overcome with wine, with glittering rings in
his ears and robed in gold, breathing like a hissing serpent. Around him
lay his sleeping Queens, and nearest him the dearest, the golden-hued
Mandodari.”

So the story runs through all its epic wonder of love and war, and
yearly in India is celebrated the harrying of Ravana—I have seen his
ten-headed image go up in flames amid the rejoicing of a multitude. Yet,
as I think, the ancient city, Anaradhapura, now a ruin in the jungle,
could not have fallen so far behind the splendours of Valmiki. Many who
have visited it have written of it as it is in death—the broken
fragments of palaces and temples, a few preserved here and there like
rocks that are the survival of some lost Atlantis in the drowning ocean
of the forest. How few recall it as it was in its pride and power! I
stood in the green dimness of the glades where are the sculptured tanks
where the queens bathed in days long dead, and read the words of one who
knew it well—Fa Hien, the Chinese Buddhist pilgrim of the fourth
century A. D. For this was the Anaradhapura of the Ceylon he visited in
search of the words of the Lord Buddha; of himself he speaks in the
third person:

“To the north of the royal city is erected a great tower in height 470
feet,—it is adorned with gold and silver and perfected with every
precious substance. There is by the side of it a monastery containing
5000 priests. They also have built here a hall of the Lord which is
covered with gold and silver engraved work. In the midst of this hall is
a jasper figure (of the Buddha) in height about 22 feet. The entire body
glitters and sparkles with the seven precious substances. In the right
hand he holds a pearl of inestimable value. Fa Hien had been absent many
years from China; the manners and customs of these people were entirely
strange to him, moreover his fellow travellers were now separated from
him, for some had remained behind and some were dead. All at once as he
stood by this jasper figure, he beheld a merchant present to it as a
religious offering a fan of white silk of Chinese manufacture.
Unwittingly Fa Hien gave way to his sorrowful feelings and the tears
flowed from his eyes.”

Those tears, dried so long since, gave to this Western pilgrim, standing
in the same place, the true Virgilian sense of tears in mortal things,
and still they move the world.

Ceylon is a land of the Gods. They have left their footprints very plain
upon this radiant loveliness as they came and went. She has known many
generations of them. All who would understand her should read Valmiki’s
semi-divine poem of the great battles of Rama, God-King of India, as he
fought here his wars of the Gods and Titans to rescue his wife, the
lovely Sita, the heart’s love and worship to this day of his dominion.

Here, when the Demon King held her in captivity, the army of Rama strode
across the bridge of scattered rocks between Ceylon and India. Still may
be seen the gap that no strength, human or divine, could pass, where the
mighty host was stayed, until a little tree squirrel, for love of Rama,
laid his small body in the hollow, and because love is the bridge
eternal between the two worlds, the rescuing host passed triumphant over
it. But Rama, stooping from his Godhead, Incarnation as he was in human
flesh of Vishnu the Preserver, lifted the crushed body tenderly and
touched the dead fur, and to this day, the tree squirrels bear the marks
of the divine fingers upon their coats of grey.

There is no demarcation in Asia between the so-called animal and human
lives. Rama himself had passed through the animal experience on the
upward way and knew well what beats in the little heart beneath fur and
feather.

In those wonderful parables, the Birth Stories of the Lord Buddha, are
recorded his supposed memories of the incarnations of bird, animal and
other lives through which a steadfast evolution led him to the Ten
Perfections. How should he not know, and knowing love? Is it not written
by a great Buddhist saint: “It may well be that to the eye of flesh,
plants and trees appear to be gross matter; but to the eye of the Buddha
they are composed of minute spiritual particles; grass, trees, countries
the earth itself, shall enter wholly into Buddhahood”? And does not
science, faltering far behind the wisdom of the mighty, adumbrate these
truths in its later revelations?

We know too little of the wisdom of the East. The Magi still journey to
Bethlehem, but only those who have the heart of the Child may receive
their gold, myrrh, and frankincense.

Yet, for mere beauty’s sake, these stories of the East should be read.
Men thrill to the mighty thunder-roll of Homer’s verse, but the two
supreme epics of India are little known. If the West would gather about
the story-teller as the East gathers, in bazaar or temple court, the
stories should be told from these and other sources, until Rama stands
beside the knightly Hector, and Sita’s star is set in the same heaven
where shines the lonely splendour of Antigone.

When the rapturous peace of the Lord Buddha could no longer be contained
within the heart of India, it overflowed, and like a rising tide
submerged Ceylon. And now, although India has forgotten and has returned
to the more ancient faiths, Ceylon remembers. The Lotus of the Good Law
blossoms in every forest pool. The invocation to the Jewel in the Lotus
is daily heard from every monastery of the Faith, where the yellow-robed
Brethren still follow the way marked for them by the Blessed One who in
Uruvela attained to that supernal enlightenment of which he said, “And
that deep knowledge have I made my own—that knowledge, hard to
perceive, hard to understand, peace-giving, not to be gained by mere
reason, which is deeper than the depths, and accessible only to the
wise.

“Yet, among living men are some whose eyes are but a little darkened
with dust. To them shall the truth be manifest.”

If it be an aim of travel to see what is beautiful and strange, it may
be also an aim to seek that spiritual beauty where it sits enthroned in
its own high places; and my hope in Ceylon was to visit the land where
that strait and narrow way of Buddhism is held which is known as the
Hinayana—or the Lesser Vehicle. In Tibet, China, and Japan, I had known
the efflorescence of the Buddhist Faith where, recognizing the mystic
emanations of the Buddhas, it becomes the Greater Vehicle and breaks
into gorgeous ritual and symbolism, extraordinarily beautiful in
themselves, and yet more so in their teaching. Buddhism, in those
countries, like the Bride of the Canticles, goes beautifully in jewels
of gold and raiment of fine needlework, within her ivory palaces. In
Ceylon, like the Lady Poverty of Saint Francis of Assisi, she walks with
bared feet, bowed head, her begging-bowl in hand, simple and austere in
the yellow robe of the Master—her rock-temples and shrines as he
himself might have blessed them in their stern humility. Save at the
Temple of the Tooth, the splendours she heaps upon his altars are those
of her flowers. With these she may be lavish because his life was
wreathed with their beauty. He was born in a garden, beneath a Tree he
attained Wisdom, in a garden he died. A faith that is held by nearly
every tenth living man or woman is surely worthy of reverence and study,
even in these hurrying days when gold, not wisdom, is the measure of
attainment.

So I came to Ceylon for the first time but not for the last.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Near a little town in the hills stands a Wihara—a monastery—dreaming
in the silent sunshine. The palms are grouped close about the simple
roofs—so close that the passing tourist could never guess that the Head
of the Buddhist Faith in Ceylon, a great saint, a great ruler of seven
thousand priests, dwelt there in so secret, so complete an austerity.

He was a very old man when I came, but his ninety-two years sat lightly
on him and each year had laid its tribute of love and honour at his
feet. He was known as the Maha Nayaka Thero; and in religion, for the
love of the Master, he had taken the Master’s human name of Siddartha.
It was strange indeed to see the simplicity of his surroundings;—to me
it appeared singularly beautiful: it breathed the spiritual purity that
had made him beloved throughout the island.

A great scholar, deeply learned in Sanskrit and Pali and in the abtruse
philosophy that is for the elders of the Law, he was yet the gentlest of
men, and his very learning and strength were all fused into a benignant
radiance that sunned the griefs of the world he had cast so far behind
him.

I was glad to wander about in the quiet monastery—the little
one-storied quadrangle on the side of the hill. It offered—it
invited—the life of meditation, of clear thought, of delicate
austerity. The noise of great events (so-called) was like the dim murmur
of a shell when they reached the Wihara and the ear of Sri Siddartha.
But he heard, he noted the progress of science, even to the
possibilities of aviation, because to a Buddhist saint all spheres of
knowledge are one, and all nothing, in the Ocean of Omniscience.

So the people brought their grievances and troubles to the aged
Archbishop. You were in the presence of a very great gentleman when you
entered and found him seated, his scribe cross-legged at his feet to
record what passed. The people would approach him softly and with the
deepest reverence, and with permission would seat themselves on the
ground at a due distance.

“Venerable Sir, we are in trouble. We seek your counsel.” That was the
cry. And always, in spite of his many years, he listened and counselled
and comforted.

Soon after my arrival his birthday was celebrated with much rejoicing.
The Bhikkus (monks) had put up little festive bamboo arches, fluttering
with split palm-leaves like ribbons, all about the Wihara, and troops of
Bhikkus came to lay their homage at his feet. The roads were sunshiny
with their yellow robes as they flocked in from remote places—jungle,
cave-temples, and far mountains. The laity came also, crowding to see
the Venerable One. He received them all with serene joy, and pursued his
quiet way, thinking, reading, meditating on the Three Jewels—the Lord,
the Law, and the Communion of Saints. And the Bhikkus departed,
believing that he might be among them for many days.

But it was not to be; for, a few days later, while he was sweeping the
garden walks, a duty he had made his own, he felt a sudden loss of
strength, and lying down, in two hours he passed painlessly away.

I was permitted to visit Sri Siddartha as he lay in death. The room was
very simple and bare. Many of his Bhikkus stood about him, and there
were flowers, flowers, everywhere. Beside him burned a perfumed gum,
sending up its thin blue spirals of fragrance.

I was received with perfect kindness, and especially by his favourite
disciple and pupil—a young monk with a worn ascetic face, who stood in
deep meditation at the head of his Master. He looked up and smiled, and
raised the face-cloth that I might see, and looked down again at the
brown face, calm as a mask of Wisdom with its closed lips and eyes. Even
closed, they looked old—old. A Bhikku, standing by, told me that all
had loved him and were bereaved in his going. “But for him—he is in the
Nirvana of Paradise.”

The strange phrase awoke in my mind the words of the Blessed One, and I
repeated them as I stood beside that quiet sleep.

“But this, O Bhikkus, is the highest, this is the holiest wisdom—to
know that all suffering has vanished away. He has found the true
deliverance that lies beyond the reach of change.”

And I remembered the symbolic fresco in Colombo, representing the Lord
Buddha borne dead on a chariot in a garden. The gardener digs his grave,
but the Lord awakes from death, and bids the man know he is not dead but
living. The Buddha stands majestic by the open grave—the gardener
recoils in fear. Death has no more dominion.

So I left Sri Siddartha lying in the mystery where all the wisdoms are
one.

In the garden, in the riot of tropical blossom and beauty, a Bhikku was
standing in the perfect stillness that is a part of the discipline. He
greeted me, and we spoke of my quest.

“Go,” he said, “to Mihintale, where the Law first came to this island by
the hands of Mahinda. Seek also the great Dagoba where stand the images
of the Buddhas that have been and of Him who is to come. And under the
Tree which is a part of that Tree beneath which the Blessed One received
illumination, meditate on Truth.”

I delayed only that I might see the flames receive the discarded body of
the Venerable One; and the ceremony took place next day, amid a vast
gathering of the people and the great companies of the Bhikkus. They
flooded the ways with sunshine in every shade of yellow, from deep
primrose to a tawny orange. The roads were strewn, with rice like
snowflakes, stamped into star-shapes. A strange melancholy music went
with us. So, climbing a steep hill, we came to the pyre, heaped with the
scented and aromatic woods of the jungle, and closed from human view by
a high scaffolding draped with bright colours. On this pyre he was laid,
and one of his own blood, holding a torch, applied the pure element to
the wood: and, as he did so, the assembly raised a cry of “Sadhu,
Sadhu!” and with that ascription of holiness a sheet of flame swept up
into the crowns of the palms, and the scent of spices filled the air.
And even as the body of the Blessed One passed into grey ash, passed
also the worn-out dwelling of Sri Siddartha.

I made my way next day to a temple hollowed in the rock, the ceiling of
which is frescoed with gods and heroes. It is taught that here the Canon
of the Buddhist Scriptures was first committed to writing about 450 B.C.
Here five hundred, priests, learned in the Faith, assembled, and
collating the Scriptures, chanted every word, while the scribes recorded
them with stylus and palm-leaf as they heard. Burmese, Tibetans,
Indians, all were present, that so the Law might be carried over Asia,
and the Peace of the Blessed One be made known to men.

Here, too, the discipline was fixed. The Bhikku must not be touched by a
woman’s hand. He must eat but twice a day, and not after noon. He must
keep the rule of the Lady Poverty as did Saint Francis. He must sleep
nowhere but in Wiharas and other appointed places. And these are but a
few of the commands. Yet, if the rule is too hard for him, the Bhikku
may relinquish it at his will, and return to the world a free man—a
fettered man, as the Master would have said, but free according to the
rule of the Transient World. It is said that few accept this permission.

It took little imagination to people the silent temple with the
Assembly—the keen intellectual Indian faces, the yellow robe and the
bared shoulder, seated in close ranks in the twilight of the temple. Now
it was silent and empty, but a mysterious aura filled it. The buildings
of men’s hands pass away, but the rock, worn not at all, save where feet
come and go, preserves the aspect of its great day, when it was the
fountain-head of Truth.

A solemn gladness filled the air. Surely the West is waking to the
message of the East—that message, flowing through the marvellous art of
China and Japan, through the deep philosophies of India, the great
Scriptures of the Buddhist Faith, and many more such channels. And we
who have entered the many mansions through another gate may share and
rejoice in the truths that are a world-heritage.

It was time now that I should visit the holy places, and I took the road
through the jungle, intending to stay at the little rest-houses which
exist to shelter travellers. The way is green with grass in the middle;
there are two tracks for wheels—narrow and little used. Even the native
huts may sometimes be forty miles apart. And on either side runs the
huge wall of the jungle, holding its secret well.

Great trees, knotted with vines and dark with heavy undergrowth, shut me
in. Sometimes a troop of silver-grey monkeys swept chattering overhead;
sometimes a few red deer would cross the road, or a blue shrike flutter
radiantly from one shelter to another. Mostly, the jungle was silent as
the grave, but living, breathing, a vast and terrible personality; an
ocean, and with the same illimitable might and majesty. Travelling
through it, I was as a fish that swims through the green depths of
water.

So I journeyed in a little bullock cart—and suddenly, abruptly, as if
dropped from heaven, sprang out of the ocean of the jungle that bathed
its feet a huge cube of rock nearly five hundred feet high, with lesser
rocks spilt about it that would have been gigantic were it not for the
first—the famous Sigurya.

An ancient people, led by a parricide king, took this strange place and
made of it a mighty fortress. They cut galleries in the living rock
that, like ants, they might pass up and down unharmed from below; and on
the head of the rock—a space four acres in extent—they set a king’s
palace and pleasance, with a bathing-tank to cool the torrid air. Then,
still desiring beauty, this people frescoed the sheer planes of this
precipitous rock of Sigurya with pictures that modern Singhalese art
cannot rival. These vast pictures represent a procession of ladies to a
shrine, with attendants bearing offerings. Only from the waist upward
are the figures visible; they rise from clouds as if floating in the
sky. The faces have an archaic beauty and dignity. One, a queen, crowned
and bare-bosomed, followed by attendants bearing stiff lotus blooms, is
beautiful indeed, but in no Singhalese or Indian fashion—a face dark,
exotic, and heavy-lidded, like a pale orchid. It is believed the whole
rock was thus frescoed into a picture-gallery, but time and weather have
taken toll of the rest.

The Government has put steps and climbing rails, that the height may be
reached. Half-way up is a natural level, and above it soars the
remainder of the citadel, to be climbed only by notches cut in the rock,
and hand-rails as a safeguard from the sheer fall below. And here this
dead people had done a wonderful thing. They had built a lion of brick,
so colossal that the head towered to the full height of the ascent. It
has fallen into ruin, but the great cat-paws that remain indicate a
beast some two hundred feet high. There is a gate between the paws, and
in the old days they clambered up through the body of the lion and
finally through his throat, into the daylight of the top. Only the paws
are left, complete even to the little cat-claw at the back of each.
Surely one of the strangest approaches in the world! Here and there the
shelving of the rock overhangs the ascent, and drops of water fall in a
bright crystal rain perpetually over the jungle so far below.

Standing upon the height, it was weirdly lovely to see the eternal
jungle monotonously swaying and waving beneath. I thought of the strange
feet that had followed these ways, with hopes and fears so like our own.
And now their fortress is but a sunny day’s amusement for travellers
from lands unknown, and the city sitteth desolate, and the strength of
their building is resumed into the heart of nature. But the places where
men have worshipped and lifted their hands to the Infinite are never
dead. The Spirit that is Life Eternal hovers about them, and the green
that binds their broken pillars is the green of an immortal hope.

The evening was now at hand, and, after the sun-steeped day, the jungle
gave out its good smells, beautiful earth-warm smells like a
Nature-Goddess, rising from the vast tangle of life in the mysterious
depths. You may gather the flowers on their edge and wonder what the
inmost flowers are like that you will never see—rich, labyrinthine,
beyond all thought to paint.

The jungle is terrible as an army with banners. Sleeping in the little
rest-house when the night has fallen, it comes close up to you,
creeping, leaning over you, calling, whispering, vibrating with secret
life. A word more,—only one,—a movement, and you would know the
meaning and be gathered into the heart of it; but always there is
something fine, impalpable, between, and you catch but a breath of the
whisper.

Very wonderful is the jungle! In the moonlight of a small clearing I saw
the huge bulk of three wild elephants feeding. They vanished like
wraiths into the depths. The fireflies were hosting in the air like
flitting diamonds. Stealthy life and movement were about me: the jungle,
wide-awake and aware, moving on its own occasions.

A few days later I was at Anaradhapura. Once a million people dwelt in
the teeming city. Here or near was the site visited by the famous
Chinese pilgrim already mentioned, Fa Hien. But it is in ruins; the
jasper image is gone. The tower is in the dust. A few priests watch by
the scene of so much dead greatness and receive the pilgrims who still
come with bowed heads to the Holy Places. But Fa Hien has reached the
home of all the pilgrimages—the City of God dear and desirable in the
sight of Plato and Saint Augustine, and all the warriors of all the
faiths, and the inexorable years that have devoured the splendours of
the Kings leave untouched his tears and his hope, for both are rooted in
immortality.

He writes:

“The houses of the merchants are very beautifully adorned. The streets
are smooth and level. At this time the King, being an earnest believer
in the Law, desired to build a new monastery for this congregation. He
chose a pair of strong oxen and adorned their horns with gold, silver
and precious things. Then providing himself with a beautiful gilded
plough, the King himself ploughed round the four sides of the allotted
space, after which, ceding all personal rights, he presented the whole
to the priests.”

This must be the monastery described by a later pilgrim, Hieuen Tsang,
who journeyed from China to India about the year 630 A.D. In visiting
Ceylon, he writes of its magnificence and especially of an upright pole
on the roof “on which is fixed a mighty ruby. This gem constantly sheds
a brilliant light which is visible day and night for a long distance and
afar off appears like a bright star.”

That too is quenched in the dust. Where do the great jewels of antiquity
hide? But one is left at Anaradhapura more precious than rubies—the
famous image of the Buddha seated alone in a forest glade, the true
presentment of a God, to whom beneath his closed eyes eternity is
visible and time the shadow of a dream. Around him surged once the
clamour of a great city, around him now the growth of the forest, both
to his vision alike—and nothing. Some wayfarer had laid a flower at his
feet when I stood there, and a white tassel of the areca palm. The sun
and moon circle before him in this lonely place and the centuries pass
like seasons.

              “Forgetful is green earth; the God alone
              Remember everlastingly.”

The place is a village lost in the woods, but inexpressibly holy because
it contains in its own temple the sacred Bodhi Tree which is an offshoot
of that very Tree beneath which the Lord Buddha received the Perfect
Wisdom. Ceylon desired this treasure, and they tried to break a branch
from the Tree, but dared not, for it resisted the sacrilege. But the
Princess Sanghamitta, in great awe and with trembling hand, drew a line
of vermilion about the bough, and at that line it separated from the
Tree, and the Princess planted it in perfumed earth in a golden vase,
and so brought it, attended by honours human and superhuman, to
Ceylon—to this place, where it still stands. It is believed to be 2230
years old.

With infinite reverence I was given two leaves, collected as they fell;
and it is difficult to look on them unmoved if indeed this Tree be
directly descended from the other, which sheltered the triumphant
conflict with evil.

The city itself is drowned in the jungle. In the green twilight you meet
a queen’s palace, with reeling pillars and fallen capitals, beautiful
with carved moonstones, for so are called the steps of ascent. Or lost
in tangle, a manger fifty feet long for the royal elephants, or a nobly
planned bath for the queens, where it is but to close the eyes and dream
that dead loveliness floating in the waters once so jealously guarded,
now mirroring the wild woodways. A little creeper is stronger than all
our strength, and our armies are as nothing before the silent legions of
the grass.

Later, I stood before the image of that Buddha who is to come—who in
the Unchanging awaits his hour; Maitreya, the Buddha of Love. A majestic
figure, robed like a king, for he will be royal. In his face, calm as
the Sphinx, must the world decipher its hope, if it may. Strangely
enough, in most of his images this Saviour who shall come is seated like
a man of the West, and many learned in the faith believe that this
Morning Star shall rise in the West. May he come quickly!

I set out one day for Mihintale, in a world of dewy, virginal
loveliness, washed with morning gold, the sun shooting bright arrows
into the green shade of the trees, a cloud of butterflies radiant as
little flower angels going with me. One splendour, rose-red,
velvet-black, alighted with quivering wings on the mouse-grey shoulder
of the meek little bull who drew my cart and so went with us.

I was glad that my companion should be a devout Buddhist, for his
reverence and delight in the beauty of his faith taught me many things.
We climbed up through trees so still that the rustling of their shadows
on the ground might have been audible, and as we went he told me a very
ancient Buddhist story which must have reached the Island with the
Apostle Mahinda, son of the high Emperor Ashoka, who brought the faith
from his father’s court in India. Ashoka is one of the great
world-rulers, the Constantine of the Buddhist teaching and himself a
devout disciple. This story is a Jataka or Birth Story of the Lord, one
of those to which I have already alluded, as conveying moral teaching
(and often much folk lore), and this is called “The Dancing Peacock.”

“Thus have I heard. In the old days the Blessed Buddha sat at Jetavana,
and they told him of a monk who had become drowned in luxury, eating,
drinking and adorning his person with magnificence, so that he cared
nothing for the faith. And at last they brought him before the Lord that
he might be admonished. And the Perfect One said:

“‘Is it true, monk, that despising all nobility you have surrendered
yourself to idle luxury?’

“And without waiting to hear a word more the monk flew into a violent
anger, and tearing off his magnificent robe he stood naked before the
Master, crying:

“‘Then, if you like not my robes, this is the way I will go about!’

“So the bystanding monks cried out: ‘Shame, Shame!’ and in a fury he
rushed from the hall and returned to the condition of a layman. And the
Lord said:

“‘Not only now, O monks, has this man lost the Jewel of the faith by
immodesty but it was also with him in a former life. Hear the story of
the Dancing Peacock.

“‘Very long ago in the first age of the world, the birds chose the
Golden Bird to be their King. Now the Golden Bird had a daughter, most
beautiful to see, and he gave her her choice of a husband, after the
ancient manner of India, calling together all the birds of the Himalaya.
And he sent for his daughter, saying: “Now come and choose!” And looking
she saw the Peacock with a neck of gold and emeralds and a train of
spread jewels, and instantly she said: “Let this be my husband!”

“So all the birds approached the Peacock, saying:

“‘Noble Peacock, the Princess has set her heart upon you. Therefore
rejoice with humility.’

“But the Peacock, walking arrogantly, replied:

“‘Up to this day none of you would recognize the greatness that was in
me. Now instantly do homage to my majesty!’

“And so intoxicated was he with pride that he began to dance, spreading
his wings and swaying his head, and altogether conducting himself like a
drunken man who cares not at all for decency. And horror seized the
Golden Bird and he said:

“‘This fellow has broken loose from all sense of shame—how could it be
that I should give my Princess to such as he?’ And he uttered this:

“‘Pleasant is your cry. Jewelled is your back. The feathers of your tail
are glorious, but, Sir, to such a dancer, I can give no daughter of
mine!’

“And he bestowed his Princess immediately upon a bird of modest
behaviour, and the Peacock, covered with shame, fled away.

“Therefore, brethren, this monk has now lost the Jewel of the faith as
he once lost a fair wife. For in a former birth, the Peacock was this
shameless monk, but I myself was the Golden Bird.”

And this is a lesson also upon the stately calm which marks the
gentleman according to Oriental opinion. It is the low-born only who may
hurry and storm. Other stories I heard, for my friend was a student of
ancient things, and this belief in lives past and to come is the
spiritual life blood of the Orient. It is the mete-yard of justice. He
asked me whether the Christian faith explicitly denied it, and I could
only reply—No; quoting that strange passage of the Blind Man, when
disciples questioning the Christ—

“Did this man sin or his parents, that he was born blind?”—pass
unrebuked for the implication.

The Hill of Mihintale rises abruptly as Sigurya from the forests, and
the very air about it is holy, for it was on this great hill that
Mahinda, mysteriously transported from India, alighted bewildered as one
waking from a dream. Here the King, Tissa, seeing the saint seated
beneath a tree, heard a voice he could not gainsay that called his name
three times; and so, approaching with his nobles, he received the
Teaching of the Blessed One.

The hill is climbed by wonderful carved shallow steps, broken now, and
most beautiful with an overgrowth of green. At the sides are beds of the
Sensitive Plant, with its frail pink flowers. They would faint and fall
if touched, and here you would not even breathe roughly upon them, for
Buddhists regard the shrinking creatures as living and hold it sinful to
cause such evident suffering.

Descending the grey steps, the shade and sunshine dappling his yellow
robe and bared shoulder with noble colour, came a priest, on his way to
visit the sick of the little village. He stopped and spoke. I told him I
had come from visiting the shrines of Burma, and he desired me to give
him a description of some matters I had seen there. I did so, and we
talked for some time, and it was then mentioned that my food, like his
own, necessitated no taking of life. Instantly his whole face softened
as he said that was glad news to hear. It was the fulfilling of a high
commandment. Would I receive his blessing, and his prayer that the truth
might enlighten me in all things? He bestowed both, and, having made his
gift, went upon his way with the dignity of perfect serenity. That
little circumstance of food (as some would call it) has opened many a
closed door to me in Asia.

At the top of the hill is a deep shadowy rock-pool, with a brow of cliff
overhanging it; and this is named the Cobra’s Bath, for it is believed
that in the past there was a cobra who used, with his outspread hood, to
shelter the saint, Mahinda, from the torrid sun, and who was also so
much a little servant of the Law that none feared and all mourned him
when he passed upon his upward way in the chain of existences. Here,
above the pool where he loved to lie in the clear cool, they sculptured
a great cobra, with three hooded heads, rising, as it were, from the
water. It was most sinuously beautiful and looked like the work of a
great and ancient people, gathering the very emblem of Fear into the
great Peace. On the topmost height was the _stupa_, or shrine, of
Mahinda, incasing its holy relic, and the caves where his priests dwelt
and still dwell. I entered one, at the invitation of a Bhikku, an old
man with singularly beautiful eyes, set in a face of wistful delicacy.
He touched my engraved ring and asked what it might mean. Little enough
to such as he, whose minds are winged things and flutter in the blue
tranquillities far above the earth!

The caves are many, with a rock-roof so low that one cannot stand
upright—a strange, dim life, it would seem, but this Bhikku spoke only
of the peace of it, the calm that falls with sunset and that each dawn
renews. _I_ could not doubt this—it was written upon his every gesture.
He gave me his blessing, and his prayer that I might walk forever in the
Way of Peace. With such friends as these the soul is at home. Peace. It
is indeed the salutation of Asia, which does not greet you with a desire
for health or prosperity as in the West, but only—Peace.

I would willingly tell more of my seekings and findings in Ceylon, for
they were many and great. But I pass on to the little drowsy hill town
of Badulla, where the small bungalows nest in their gardens of glorious
flowers and vines. I sat in the churchyard, where the quiet graves of
English and Singhalese are sinking peacefully into oblivion. It was
Sunday, with a Sabbath calm upon the world. A winding path led up to the
open door of the little English church, a sweet breeze swayed the boughs
and ruffled the long grass of the graves; the butterflies, small Psyches
fluttered their parable in the air about me. A clear voice from the
church repeated the Lord’s Prayer, and many young voices followed. It
was a service for the Singhalese children who have been baptized into
the Christian Faith. They sang of how they had been brought out of
darkness and the shadow of death and their feet set upon the Way of
Peace.

Surely it is so. When was that Way closed to any who sought? But because
man must follow his own categorical imperative, I repeated to myself,
when they were silent, the words of the poet Abdul Fazl, which he wrote
at the command of the Emperor Akbar as an inscription for a Temple in
Kashmir:—

    “O God, in every temple I see people that see Thee, and in every
    language they praise Thee.

    If it be a mosque, men murmur the holy prayer, and if it be a
    Christian church they ring the bell from love to Thee.

    Sometimes I frequent the Christian cloister, and sometimes the
    mosque, but it is Thou whom I seek from temple to temple.

    Thine elect have no dealings with heresy or orthodoxy, for
    neither of these stands behind the screen of thy Truth.

    Heresy to the heretic and religion to the orthodox!

    But the dust of the rose-petal belongs to the heart of the
    perfume-seller!”

Yes,—and an ancient Japanese poet, going yet deeper, says this thing:
“So long as the mind of a man is in accord with the Truth, the Gods will
hear him though he do not pray.”

I passed the night at a little rest-house and next day set out on the
long journey to Polonnarewa, and beyond that to Trincomali, through a
wild part of Ceylon, stopping each night at the rest-houses which mark
the way. Jungle in India is often mere scrub; this is thousands of acres
of mighty forest. A small road has been driven through it, and on either
side rises the dark and secret wall of trees, impenetrable for miles,
knitted with creepers and blind with undergrowth—a dangerous mystery.

                  “Thousand eyeballs under hoods,
                  Have you by the hair.”

It seems that every movement is watched, that strained ears listen to
every breath from the secrecy that can never be pierced.

Much farther on the forest opens into the ancient tank of Minneri, for
these great artificial lakes of the bygone Kings here and in India are
called tanks. It is a glorious lake twenty miles in circumference and I
saw it first with the mountains, exquisite in form and colour, rising
behind it in the rose and gold of a great sunset. Some forgotten King
made it to water the country, and there are still the very sluices
unbroken though choked by masses of fallen masonry. It is the work of
great engineers. No place could be more lovely—the silver fish leaping
in translucent water, and one pouched pelican with its ax-like beak
drifting lazily in a glory so dazzling, that one could only glimpse it a
moment in the dipping sparkles of the reflected sun. The way, like the
ascent to Mihintale, was banked with masses of the Sensitive Plant,
lovely with its fragile pink flowers and delicately folding and dropping
leaves, fainting as you brush them in passing.

But the lake—the wide expanse, calm as heaven and a shimmer of rose and
blue and gold! I lingered to watch it—the strange beautiful grotesque
of the great bird floating above its own perfect image. It was evening
and the jungle was sweet with all the scents drawn out of it during the
long sun-steeped day—heavenly scents that come from the teeming life in
the mysterious forests, fresh forests germinating on the ruins of the
old—murmuring, calling, vibrating with life and wonder and strange
existences, and their endless chain of blossom and decay.

It grew dark soon after Minneri, and the fireflies were glittering about
us and the moonlight white on the narrow way. A whispering silence
filled the air with unseen presences as of the feet that long, long
centuries ago trod this way on their errands of pleasure or pain to the
dead city of my goal. I could almost see its spectral towers and palaces
down the moon-blanched glades. Illusion—nothing more.

The driver missed the track to Polonnarewa, but that mattered little, so
wonderful was the night in the lonely place and the great dark where
once a mighty people moved, and now but the moon and stars circle before
a dead majesty.

But at the long last we found our way and the little rest-house which
stands where stood the royal city, near a dim glimmer of water. The only
accommodation was a chair, but that was welcome, and when I woke in the
grey dawn she came gliding with silver feet over the loveliest lake
rippling up to the steps of the fairy house in the woods, and peopled by
the glorious rose lotus, grown by the ancient people for the service of
the Temples. And the traveller whom I met there went out before
breakfast and brought in for provender a pea-hen, a wood pigeon, and a
great grey fish from the lake. For myself, I eat like a Buddhist priest
and am content,—living foods were not for me.

The ruins at Polonnarewa are wonderful indeed, much more perfect than
those of the better known Anaradhapura, though it does not offer, like
the latter, the marvellous row of the Buddhas who have fulfilled their
mission and that Buddha of Love who is yet to come. All about are
temples with colossal Buddhas, palaces, the strangely sculptured stone
rails which are so distinctively Buddhist surrounding richly carved
shrines. Hinduism mingled with Buddhism also. Some of these beautiful
relics have been dug out of the jungle strata, some reclaimed from the
invading growths which are so all-obliterating in a tropic country, and
no doubt there is as much more to be discovered. The carved work is
exquisitely lovely. How strong is the passion for beauty—in the very
ends of the earth it is found, and surely it confirms the Platonic
teaching that it is a reflection of that passion of joy in which the
Creator beheld his work on the seventh day and knew that it was good.

I cannot describe the wonder of passing through these glades and lawns
and seeing the great dagobas, those mighty buildings of brick, but now
waving with greenery, enshrining each its holy relic. Would that it were
possible to imagine the city which dwelt under their shadow! But the
homes of men pass very swiftly away. It is only the homes of their souls
which abide. Yet the jungle is more wonderful than what it buries. The
sunlit walls of green guard the road jealously. The sun-flecks only
struggle a few inches within that line, and then—trackless secrecy. A
bird flew out, jewelled, gorgeous, “Half angel and half bird.” Are there
greater wonders within? Who can tell? It is sometimes death to attempt
to lift the veil of Isis. I saw the gravestone of a young man who for
all his strength and youth was lost in the jungle—caught in the
poisoned sweetness of her embrace and so died. It may have been a lonely
and fearful death, and yet again—who knows! There are compensations of
which we know nothing.

I stayed at the little rest-house of Kantelai on its lake with the
jungle creeping and whispering about it— “Dark mother ever gliding near
with soft feet.” Days to be remembered—unspeakably beautiful—they
leave some precious deposit in the memory almost more lovely than the
sight itself, as in the world of thought the spirit is more than the
body.

And for the end to my journey the great and noble harbour of Trincomali!
I wonder why tourists so seldom go there, but the ways of the tourist
pass understanding. It winds about in lakes of sea blue among palms and
coral bights and glittering beaches. Long ago, the people drifting over
from India built a temple where the old fort now stands, and though thus
polluted the site is still holy and you may see the Brahman priest cast
offerings into the sea from a ledge high up the cliff, with the
worshipping people about him. Then the Portuguese swept down upon Ceylon
in their great naval days when they were the Sweepers of the Sea, and
they destroyed the temple and built their fort. And the Dutch followed,
and the Portuguese vanished, and the French conquered the Dutch, and
again the Dutch the French, and then the English, hawking over the Seven
Seas, pounced like the osprey, and the Dutch sovereignty passed into
their keeping. Did I not say the Island had many masters?

So the English made this a great fortified place, humming with naval and
military activity; men-of-war lying in the bay, guns bristling in the
beautiful old fort that guards the cliff. And now all that too is
gone—blown away like a wreath of mist, and the only soldiers and
sailors are those who will stay forever in the little grave-place under
the palms, and if it so continues I daresay the jungle will take
Trincomali as it has taken the City of Kings.

A beautiful place. I wandered on the beach among the shells one
marvelled to see as a child, when sailor friends gave them into eager
hands—deep brown freckled polished things, leopard-spotted and
ivory-lipped, and so smooth that the hand slips off the perfect surface.
Delicate frailties of opal and pearl shimmering with mystic colour,
spiny grotesques with long thorned stems—there they all lay for the
gathering. And at last I went up into the old fort.

It covers many acres on the cliff and the jungle is steadily conquering
the empty bungalows and fortifications. It is very old, for the Dutch
built it in 1650. Now in the thickets the forsaken guns make an empty
bravado like toothless lions. I saw a deer and her fawn come peering
shyly through the bushes, and they fled before me. The casements are
empty and a flagless flagstaff looks over the heavenly calm of the sea.

Almost lost in the shade I found some old Dutch graves, very square and
formal—a something of the rigidity of the burgomaster about them still,
as of stiff-ruffed men and women. “Here sleeps in God—” said one mossy
inscription (but in Dutch)—and then a break, and then “Johanna” and
another break, and only a word here and there and a long obliterated
date. And the Dutch were masters and Johanna slept in the ground of her
people as securely as if it had been The Hague itself. So it must then
have seemed. And now it is English, and whose next? Truly the fashion of
this world passeth away! They were touching, those old tombs, with
inscriptions that once were watered with tears, that no one now cares to
decipher. And there they lie forgotten in the sighing trees, and the
world goes by. The dominion of oblivion is secure, whatever that of
death may be.

I climbed down to a casement in the cliff, half-way to the sea, a little
shelf overlooking the blue transparence that met the blue horizon, and
wondered what the grave God-fearing talk of the Dutchmen had been as
they leaned over the parapet, discussing the ways of the heathen and the
encroachments of the British. And from there I made my way to the rocks
below with the brilliant water heaving about them. Some large fish of
the most perfect forget-me-not blue shading into periwinkle mauve on the
fins were playing before me, and as they rolled over, or a ripple took
them they displayed the underside, a faint rose pink. Such beautiful
happy creatures in the wash of the wandering water clear and liquid as
light! Sometimes they wavered like moons under a ripple, a blot of
heavenliest blue, submerged and quivering, sometimes a shoal of black
fish barred with gold swam in among them, beautiful to see. I could have
stayed all day, for it was heavenly cool, with a soft sea breeze blowing
through the rocks, but even as I watched a great brown monster came
wallowing through the water, and my beauties fled like swallows.

The touch of tragedy was not wanting, for high on the cliff was a little
pillar to the memory of a Dutch girl who fell in love long ago with an
Englishman—a false lover, who sailed away and left her heartbroken.
Here she watched his sails lessening along the sky, and as they dipped
below the horizon, she threw herself over the cliff in unendurable
anguish.

A tragic story, but it is all so long ago that it has fallen back into
the beauty of nature and is now no more sad than a sunset that casts its
melancholy glory before it fades. Yet I wonder whether in all the hide
and seek of rebirth she has caught up somewhere with her Englishman! She
knows all about Psyche’s wings by this time, and he too must have gained
a dear-bought wisdom through “the great mercy of the gift of departing,”
as the Buddhists call it . . . they to whom death is so small an episode
in so long a story.

I sat by the pillar and watched the dying torch of the sunset
extinguished in the sea—a sea of glass mingled with fire. And very
quietly the stars appeared one by one in a violet sky and it was night.



                  THE WONDERFUL PILGRIMAGE TO AMARNATH



                  THE WONDERFUL PILGRIMAGE TO AMARNATH


In all India there is nothing more wonderful than the pilgrimages of
millions, which set like tidal waves at certain seasons to certain
sacrosanct places—the throngs that flock to holy Benares, to Hardwar,
and to that meeting of the waters at Prayag, where the lustral rites
purify soul and body, and the pilgrims return shriven and glad. But of
all the pilgrimages in India the most touching, the most marvellous, is
that to Amarnath, nearly twelve thousand feet up in the Himalayas. The
cruel difficulties to be surmounted, the august heights to be climbed
(for a part of the way is much higher than the height at which the Cave
stands), the wild and terrible beauty of the journey, and the glorious
close when the Cave is reached, make this pilgrimage the experience of a
lifetime even for a European. What must it not be for a true believer?
Yet, in the deepest sense, I should advise none to make it who is not a
true believer—who cannot sympathize to the uttermost with the wave of
faith and devotion that sends these poor pilgrims climbing on torn and
wearied feet to the great Himalayan heights, where they not infrequently
lay down their lives before reaching the silver pinnacles that hold
their hearts’ desire.

I have myself made the pilgrimage, and it was one of the deepest
experiences of my life; while, as for the beauty and wonder of the
journey, all words break down under the effort to express them.

But first for a few words about the God who is the object of devotion.
The Cave is sacred to Siva—the Third Person of the Hindu Trinity; that
Destroyer who, in his other aspects, is the Creator and Preserver. He is
the God especially of the Himalayas—the Blue-Throated God, from the
blue mists of the mountains that veil him. The Crescent in his hair is
the young moon, resting on the peak that is neighbour to the stars. The
Ganges wanders in the matted forests of his hair before the maddening
torrents fling their riches to the Indian plains, even as the
snow-rivers wander in the mountain pine forests. He is also
Nataraja—Lord of the Cosmic Dance; and one of the strangest and
deepest-wrought parables in the world is that famous image where, in a
wild ecstasy, arms flung out, head flung back in a passion of motion, he
dances the Tandavan, the whole wild joy of the figure signifying the
cosmic activities of Creation, Maintenance and Destruction. “For,” says
a Tamil text, “our Lord is a Dancer, who like the heat latent in
firewood, diffuses his power in mind and matter, and makes them dance in
their turn.”

The strange affinity of this conception with the discoveries of science
relating to the eternal dance of the atom and electron gives it the
deepest interest. I would choose this aspect of the God as that which
should fill the mind of the Amarnath pilgrim. Let him see the Great God
Mahadeo (Magnus Deus), with the drum in one hand which symbolizes
creative sound—the world built, as it were, to rhythm and music.
Another hand is upraised bidding the worshipper, “Fear not!” A third
hand points to his foot, the refuge where the soul may cling. The right
foot rests lightly on a demon—to his strength, what is it? A nothing,
the mere illusion of reality! In his hair, crowned with the crescent
moon, sits the Ganges, a nymph entangled in its forest. This is the
aspect of Mahadeo which I carried in my own mind as I made the
pilgrimage, for thus is embodied a very high mysticism, common to all
the faiths.

Of all the deities of India Maheshwara is the most complex and
bewildering in his many aspects. He is the Great Ascetic, but he is also
Lord of the beautiful daughter of the Himalaya,—Uma, Parwati, Gauri,
Girija, the Snowy One, the Inaccessible, the Virgin, the Mystic Mother
of India, to give but a few of her many and lovely names. She too has
her differing aspects. As Kali, she is the goddess of death and
destruction; as Parwati, the very incarnation of the charm and sweetness
of the Eternal Femine. As Uma she is especially Himalayan.

In the freezing mountain lake of Manasarovar she did age-long penance
for her attempt to win the heart of the Great Ascetic, the Supreme
Yogi,—her lovely body floating like a lily upon its icy deeps, and so,
at long last, winning him for ever. She is the seeker of mountains, the
Dweller in the Windhya Hills, the complement of her terrible Lord and
Lover, whose throne is Mount Kailasa. Yet in some of his moods she must
be completely absorbed and subjugated to ensure his companionship, for
he is the archetype of the perfected human yogi of whom says the ancient
Song Celestial that “he abides alone in a secret place without desire
and without possessions, upon a firm seat, with the working of the mind
and senses held in check, with body, head and neck in perfect equipoise,
meditating in order that he may reach the boundless Abyss; he who knows
the infinite joy that lies beyond the senses and so becomes like an
unflickering lamp in a lonely place.”

This union is possible to Parwati and her Lord. So dear are they each to
the other that they are often represented as a single image of which one
half is male, the other female, the dual nature in perfect harmony in
the Divine.

Thus then is the Great God to be visited in the high-uplifted secret
shrine of the mountains, which are themselves the Lotus flower of
creation. At dawn, suffused through all their snows with glowing rose
they dominate Indian thought as the crimson lotus of Brahma the Creator.
At noon, blue in the radiant unveiled blue of the sky they are the blue
Lotus of Vishnu the Preserver, the Pillar of Cosmic Law. At night, when
all the earth is rapt in _samadhi_, the mystic ecstasy, they are the
snowy Lotus, throne of Siva, Maheshwara the Great God, the Supreme Yogi
when he dreams worlds beneath the dreaming moon upon his brow.

And India is herself a petal of the World Lotus of Asia as the Asiatic
mind conceives it. Look at Asia of the maps and reverence the Flower
which thrones all the Gods of Asia.

The Cave at Amarnath is sacred because a spring, eternally frozen, has
in its rush taken the shape of the holy Lingam, which is the symbol of
reproduction and therefore of Life. This is also the Pillar of the
Universe—that Pillar which the Gods sought to measure, the one flying
upward, the other downward, for aeons, seeking the beginning and the
end, and finding none. Yet again, it is the Tree of Life, which has its
roots in Eternity, and branches through the mythology of many peoples.
And if there are degenerated forms of this worship, surely the same may
be said of many others. And it is needful to know these things in order
to realize the significance of the worship.

The pilgrimage can be made only in July and August. Before and after, a
barrier of snow and ice closes the way, and makes the Cave a desolation.

The start is made from Pahlgam, a tiny village on the banks of the Lidar
River in Kashmir, where it leaps from the great glacier of Kolahoi to
join the Jhelum River in the Happy Valley. Pahlgam itself stands at a
height of about eight thousand feet.

The day before we started there was a great thunderstorm, the grandest I
have ever known. The mountains were so close on each side that they
tossed the thunder backwards and forwards to each other, and the
shattering and roaring of the echoes was like the battles of the Gods or
the rolling of Maheshwara’s mighty drum in the mountain hollows, while
the continuous blue glare of the lightning was almost appalling. It was
strange to feel only a little web of canvas between ourselves and that
elemental strife when the rain followed as if the fountains of the great
deep were broken up—cold as snow, stinging like hail, and so steady
that it looked like crystal harpstrings as it fell. Yet next day we
waked to a silver rain-washed world, sparkling with prisms of rain and
dew; fresh snow on the mountains, and delicate webs of soft blue mist
caught like smoke in the pines.

So we set forth from Pahlgam, with our cavalcade of rough hill ponies
carrying the tents and provisions and all our substance, and began our
march by climbing up the river that flows from those eternal heights
into the Pahlgam valley. Much of the way can be ridden if one rides very
slowly and carefully for these wonderful animals are sure-footed as
cats; but the track is often terrifying—broken boulders and the like.
If the ponies were not marvels, it could not be done; and if one were
not a safe rider, one certainly could not stick on. The pony gives a
strong hoist of his fore-legs, and you are up one rock and hanging on by
his withers; then a strong hoist of the hind legs and you are nearly
over his neck; and this goes on for hours; and when it is beyond the
pony you climb on your feet, and ford the torrents as best you may.

Up and up the steep banks of the river we climbed, among the pines and
mighty tumbled boulders. Up by the cliffs, where the path hangs and
trembles over the water roaring beneath. On the opposite side the
mountains soared above the birches and pines, and the torrents hung down
them like mist, falling, falling from crag to crag, and shattering like
spray-dust as they fell. Once a mighty eagle soared above us, balancing
on the wind, and then floated away without a single motion of his
wings—wonderful to see; and the spread of his wings was greater than
the height of the tallest man.

We had long passed the last few huts, and the track wound steadily
higher, when suddenly growing on us, I heard a deep musical roar like
the underlying bass of an orchestra—the full-chorded voice of many
waters. And as we turned a corner where the trail hung like a line round
the cliff, behold, a mighty gorge of pines and uplifted hills, and the
river pouring down in a tremendous waterfall, boiling and foaming white
as it fell into the raging pit beneath.

What a sight! We stopped and looked, every sense steeped in the wonder
of it. For the air was cool with the coolness that comes like breath off
a river; our ears were full of the soft thunder; the smell of pines was
like the taste of a young world in one’s mouth; yet it was all
phantasmal, in a way, as if it could not be real. I watched the lovely
phantom, for it hung like a thing unreal between heaven and earth, until
it grew dreamlike to me and dyed my brain with sound and colour, and it
was hard indeed to pass on.

That night we camped in a mountain valley some two thousand feet above
Pahlgam. It was like climbing from story to story in a House of Wonder.
The river was rushing by our tents when they were pitched, pale green
and curling back upon itself, as if it were loath to leave these pure
heights, and the mountains stood about us like a prison, almost as if we
might go no farther. And when I stood outside my tent just before
turning in, a tremulous star was poised on one of the peaks, like the
topmost light on a Christmas tree, and the Great Bear which in India is
the constellation of the Seven Rishis, or Sages, lay across the sky
glittering frostily in the blue-blackness.

I had a narrow escape that day; for, as I was leading the cavalcade, I
met a wild hill-rider in the trail between two great rocks, and his
unbroken pony kicked out at me savagely with his foreleg and caught me
above the ankle. Luckily, they do not shoe their horses here; but it was
pretty bad for a bit, and I was glad of the night’s rest.

Next day we started and rounded out of the tiny valley; and lo! on the
other side another river, flowing apparently out of a great arch in the
mountainside. Out it poured, rejoicing to be free; and when I looked, it
was flowing, not from the mountain but from a snow-bridge. Mighty falls
of snow had piled up at the foot of the mountain, as they slipped from
its steeps; and then the snow, melting above, had come down as a torrent
and eaten its way through the wide arch of this cave. Often one must
cross a river on these snow-bridges, and at a certain stage of melting
they are most dangerous; for, if the snow should give, there may be
frightful depths beneath.

Here first I noticed how beautiful were the flowers of the heights. The
men gathered and brought me tremulous white and blue columbines, and
wild wallflowers, orange-coloured and so deeply scented that I could
close my eyes and call up a cottage garden, and the beehives standing in
sedate rows under the thatched eaves. And there was a glorious thistle,
new to me, as tall as a man, well armed and girded with blue and silver
spears and a head of spiky rays. Bushes, also, like great laurels, but
loaded with rosy berries that the Kashmiris love.

We turned then round a huge fallen rock, green and moist with hanging
ferns, and shining with the spray of the river, and before us was a
mountain, and an incredible little trail winding up it, and that was our
way. I looked and doubted. It is called the Pisu, or Flea Ascent, on the
dubious ground that it takes a flea’s activity to negotiate it. Of
course, it was beyond the ponies, except here and there, on what I
called breathers, and so we dismounted. The men advised us to clutch the
ponies’ tails, and but for that help it would have been difficult to
manage. My heart was pumping in my throat, and I could feel the little
pulses beating in my eyes, before I had gone far, and every few minutes
we had to stop; for even the guides were speechless from the climb, and
I could see the ponies’ hearts beating hard and fast under the smooth
coats.

But still we held on, and now beside us were blooming the flower-gardens
of the brief and brilliant Himalayan summer—beds of delicate purple
anemones, gorgeous golden ranunculus holding its golden shields to the
sun, orange poppies, masses of forget-me-nots of a deep, glowing blue—a
_burning_ blue, not like the fair azure of the Western flower, but like
the royal blue of the Virgin’s robe in a Flemish missal. And above these
swayed the bells of the columbines on their slender stems, ranging from
purest white, through a faint, misty blue, to a deep, glooming purple.
We could hardly go on for joy of the flowers. It was a marvel to see all
these lovely things growing wild and uncared for, flinging their
sweetness on the pure air, and clothing the ways with beauty. And at
each turn fresh snow-peaks emerged against the infinite blue of the
sky—some with frail wisps of white cloud caught in the spires, and some
bold and clear as giants ranged for battle—the lotus petals of the
Infinite Flower.

And so we climbed up and reached another story, and lay down to rest and
breathe before we went farther up into wonderland.

The top was a grassy “marg,” or meadow, cloven down to the heart of the
earth by a fierce river. Around it was a vast amphitheatre of wild crags
and peaks; and beneath these, but ever upward, lay our trail. But the
meadow was like the field in Sicily where Persephone was gathering
flowers when she was snatched away by Dis to reign in the Underworld. I
remembered Leighton’s picture of her, floating up from the dead dark,
like a withered flower, and stretching her hands to the blossoms of the
earth once more. I never saw such flowers; they could scarcely be seen
elsewhere.

                  And here the myriad blossoms lay
                  In shattered rainbows on the grass.
                  Exulting in their little day
                  They laughed aloud to see us pass.

                  We left them in their merriment,—
                  The singing angels of the snows,—
                  And still we climbed the steep ascent
                  Along the sunward way it knows.

The snow had slipped off the meadow,—was rushing away in the thundering
river far below,—and the flowers were crowding each other, rejoicing in
the brief gladness of summer before they should be shrouded again under
the chilly whiteness. But their colour took revenge on it now. They
glowed, they sang and shouted for joy—such was the vibration of their
radiance! I have never dreamed of such a thing before.

And then came our next bad climb, up the bed of a ragged mountain
torrent and across it, with the water lashing at us like a whip. I do
not know how the ponies did it. They were clutched and dragged by the
ears and tails, and a man seized me by the arms and hauled me up and
round the face of a precipice, where to miss one step on the loose
stones would have been to plunge into depths I preferred not to look at.
Then another ascent like the Flea, but shorter, and we were a story
higher, in another wild marg, all frosted silver with edelweiss, and
glorious with the flowers of another zone—flowers that cling to the
bare and lichened rock and ask no foothold of earth.

That was a wild way. We climbed and climbed steadfastly, sometimes
riding, sometimes walking, and round us were rocks clothed with rose-red
saxifrage, shaded into pink, and myriads of snowy stars, each with a
star of ruby in its heart. Clouds still of the wonderful forget-me-not
climbed with us. Such rock gardens! No earthly hand could plant those
glowing masses and set them against the warm russets and golds of the
lower crags, lifted up into this mighty sky world. The tenderness of the
soft form and radiant colour of these little flowers in the cruel grasp
of the rocks, yet softening them into grace with the short summer of
their lives, is exquisitely touching. It has the pathos of all fragility
and brief beauty.

Later we climbed a great horn of rock, and rounded a slender trail, and
before was another camping-place—the Shisha-Nag Lake among the peaks.
We saw its green river first, bursting through a rocky gateway, and
then, far below, the lake itself,—

                 We passed the frozen sea of glass
                 Where never human foot has trod,
                 Green as a clouded chrysoprase
                 And lonely as a dream of God.—

reflecting the snowy pinnacles above. The splintered peaks stand about
it. Until July it is polished ice, and out of one side opens a solemn
ante-chapel blocked with snow. The lake itself is swept clear and empty.
The moon climbs the peaks and looks down, and the constellations swing
above it. A terrible, lonely place, peopled only by shadows. It was
awful to think of the pomps of sunrise, noon, and sunset passing
overhead, and leaving it to the night and dream which are its only true
companions. It should never be day there—always black, immovable Night,
crouching among the snows and staring down with all her starlight eyes
into that polished icy mirror.

               For days we went. We left their mirth
               For where the springs of light arise,
               And dawns lean over to the earth,
               And stars are split to lower skies
               White, white the wastes around us lay,
               The wild peaks gathered round to see
               Our fires affront the awful day,
               Our speech the torrents’ giant glee.

We camped above the lake, and it was cold—cold! A bitter wind blew
through the rocks—a wind shrilling in a waste land. Now and then it
shifted a little and brought the hoarse roar of some distant torrent or
the crash of an avalanche. And then, for the first time I heard the cry
of the marmot—a piercing note which intensifies the desolation. We saw
them too, sitting by their burrows; and then they shrieked and dived and
were gone.

We made a little stir of life for a while—the men pitching our tents
and running here and there to gather stunted juniper bushes for fuel,
and get water from an icy stream that rippled by. But I knew we were
only interlopers. We would be gone next day, and chilly silence would
settle down on our blackened camp-fires.

In the piercing cold that cut like a knife I went out at night, to see
the lake, a solemn stillness under the moon. I cannot express the awe of
the solitudes. As long as I could bear the cold, I intruded my small
humanity; and then one could but huddle into the camp-bed and try to
shut out the immensities, and sleep our little human sleep, with the
camp-fires flickering through the curtains, and the freezing stars
above.

Next day we had to climb a very great story higher. Up and up the track
went steadily, with a sheer fall at one side and a towering wall on the
other. We forded a river where my feet swung into it as the pony, held
by two men, plunged through. It is giddy, dazzling work to ford these
swift rivers. You seem to be stationary; only the glitter of the river
sweeps by, and the great stones trip the pony. You think you are done,
and then somehow and suddenly you are at the other side.

And here a strange thing happened. When the morning came, we found that
a _sadhu_—a wandering pilgrim—had reached the same height on his way
to the Cave. He was resting by the way, very wearied, and shuddering
with the cold. So I ventured to speak to him and welcome him to our fire
and to such food (rice) as he could accept from some of our men; and
there, when we stopped for the mid-day meal, he sat among us like a
strange bird dropped from alien skies. Sometimes these men are repulsive
enough, but this one—I could have thought it was Kabir himself!
Scrupulously clean, though poor as human being could be, he would have
come up from the burning plains with his poor breast bare to the
scarring wind, but that some charitable native had given him a little
cotton coat. A turban, a loin-cloth looped between the legs, leaving
them naked, grass sandals on feet coarse with travelling, and a string
of roughly carved wooden beads such as the Great Ascetic himself wears
in his images were all his possessions, except the little wallet that
carried his food—rice and a kind of lentil. I thought of Epictetus, the
saint of ancient Rome, and his one tattered cloak.

               A wandering sadhu; far he came,
             His thin feet worn by endless roads;
             Yet in his eyes there burnt the flame
             That light the altars of the Gods.

             The keen wind scarred his naked breast.
             I questioned him, and all the while
             The quiet of a heart at rest
             Shone in his secret patient smile.

             Yes, he had come from hot Bengal,
             From scorching plains to peaks of ice;
             Took what was given as chance might fall,
             And begged his little dole of rice.

             “And have you friends, or any child?
             Or any home?” He shook his head,
             And threw his hands out as he smiled,
             And “Empty,” was the word he said.

             And so he sat beside our fire,
             As strange birds drop from alien skies,
             Gentle but distant, never nigher,
             With that remoteness in his eyes.

This was a man of about fifty-five, tall, thin, with a sensitive face,
yet with something soldierly about him; dignified and quiet, with fine
hawk-like features and strained bright eyes in hollow caves behind the
gaunt cheek-bones. A beautiful face in both line and expression; a true
mystic, if ever I saw one!

He told me he had walked from Bengal (look at the map and see what that
means!) and that the poor people were very kind and gave him a little
rice sometimes, when they had it, and sometimes a tiny coin, asking only
his prayers in return. That he needed very little, never touching meat
or fish or eggs, which he did not think could be pleasing to God. For
sixteen years he had been thus passing from one sacred place to the
other—from the holy Benares to Hardwar where the Ganges leaves the
hills, and farther still, praying—praying to the One. “There is One
God,” he said; and again I thought of Kabir, the supreme mystic, the
incarnate Joy, who also wandered through India,—striving, like this
man:

         He has looked upon God, and his eyeballs are clear;
       There was One, there is One, and but One, saith Kabir,—

         To learn and discern of his brother the clod,
         And his brother the beast, and his brother the God.

But does it not fill one with thoughts? That man had a soul at rest and
a clear purpose. And the Christ and the Buddha were sadhus; and if it
seem waste to spend the sunset of a life in prayer, that may be the
grossest of errors. We do not know the rules of the Great Game. How
should we judge? So he came with us, striding behind the ponies with his
long steadfast stride, and his company was pleasing to me.

That was a wondrous climb. Had any God ever such an approach to his
sanctuary as this Great God of the heights? We climbed through a huge
amphitheatre of snows, above us the ribbed and crocketed crags of a
mighty mountain. It was wild architecture—fearful buttresses, springing
arches, and terrible foundations rooted in the earth’s heart; and,
above, a high clerestory, where the Dawn might walk and look down
through the hollow eyeholes of the windows into the deeps of the
precipice below.

I suppose the architect was the soft persistence of water, for I could
see deep beach-marks on the giant walls. But there it stood, crowned
with snow, and we toiled up it, and landed on the next story, the very
water-shed of these high places—a point much higher than the goal of
our journey. And that was very marvellous, for we were now in the bare
upper world, with only the sky above us, blue and burning on the snow,
the very backbone of the range; and, like the Great Divide, the rivers
were flowing both ways, according to the inclination of the source.

Before us lay snow which must be crossed, and endless streams and rivers
half or wholly buried in snow. That was a difficult time. The ponies
were slipping, sliding, stumbling, yet brave, capable, wary as could be.
I shall for ever respect these mountain ponies. They are sure-footed as
goats and brave as lions and nothing else would serve in these high
places. In Tibet they have been known to climb to the height of 20,000
feet.

Sometimes the snow was rotten, and we sank in; sometimes it was firm,
and then we slipped along; sometimes riding was impossible, and then we
picked our way with alpenstocks. But everywhere in the Pass summer had
its brief victory, and the rivers were set free to feed the sultry
Indian plains.

At last we won through to another high marg, a pocket of grass and
blossom in the crags; and there, at Panjitarni, we camped. Of course, we
had long been above all trees, but nothing seemed to daunt the flowers.
This marg lay basking in the sun, without one fragment of shade except
when the sun fell behind the peaks in the evening. But the flowers
quivered, glowed, expanded. My feet were set on edelweiss, and the
buttercups were pure gold. The stream ran before me pure as at the
day-dawn of the world, and from all this innocent beauty I looked up to
the untrodden snow, so near, yet where only the eagle’s wings could take
her.

Next day was an enforced rest, for everyone, man and beast, was weary;
so we basked in the sun, reading and writing, and but for the July snow
and the awful peaks, it was hard to believe that one was in the upper
chambers of the King’s Palace. Yet the air was strange, the water was
strange, and it was like a wild fairy-tale to look down from my camp-bed
and see the grey edelweiss growing thick beside it, and hear the shriek
of the marmot.

Next day we should reach the Cave, and when it came the morning looked
down upon us sweet and still—a perfect dawn.

First we crossed the marg, shining with buttercups, and climbed a little
way up a hill under the snows, and then dropped down to the river-bed
under caves of snow for the path above was blocked. It was strange to
wade along through the swift, icy waters, with the snow-caves arching
above us in the glowing sunlight. The light in these caves is a
wonderful lambent green, for the reflected water is malachite green
itself; but I was glad when the passage was over, for it looked as if
some impending mass must fall and crush us.

We climbed painfully out of the water, and in front was a track winding
straight up the mountain. It was clear that we could not ride up; but we
could not delay, so we started as steadily as the ponies. I hardly know
how they did it—the men dragged and encouraged them somehow. And still
less do I know how we did it. The strain was great. At one point I felt
as if my muscles would crack and my heart burst. We did the worst in
tiny stages, resting every few minutes, and always before us was the
sadhu winning steadily up the height. It was a weary, long climb, new
elevations revealing themselves at every turn of the track. Finally, I
fell on the top and lay for a bit to get my wind, speechless but
triumphant.

We rode then along the face of the hill—an awful depth below, and
beside us flowers even exceeding those we had seen. Purple asters, great
pearl-white Christmas roses weighting their stems, orange-red
ranunculus. It was a broken rainbow scattered on the grass. And above
this heaven of colour was the Amarnath mountain at last—the goal.

Then came a descent when I hardly dared to look below me. That too could
not be ridden. In parts the track had slipped away, and it was only
about six inches wide. In others we had to climb over the gaps where it
had slipped. At the foot we reached a mighty mountain ravine—a great
cleft hewn in the mountain, filled like a bowl to a fourth of its huge
depth with snow, and with streams and river rushing beneath. We could
hear them roaring hollowly, and see them now and then in bare places.
And at the end of the ravine, perhaps two miles off, a great cliff
blocked the way, and in it was a black hole—and this was the Shrine.

The snow was so hard that we could ride much of the way, but with
infinite difficulty, climbing and slipping where the water beneath had
rotted the snow. In fact, this glen is one vast snow-bridge, so
undermined is it by torrents. The narrowness of it and the towering
mountains on each side make it a tremendous approach to the Shrine.

A snow-bridge broke suddenly under my pony and I thought I was gone; but
a man caught me by the arm, and the pony made a wild effort and
struggled to the rocks. And so we went on.

The Cave is high up the cliff, and I could see the sadhu’s figure
striding swiftly on as if nothing could hold him back.

We dismounted before the Cave, and began the last climb to the mouth. I
got there first, almost done, and lo! a great arch like that of the
choir of a cathedral; and inside, a cave eaten by water into the rock,
lighted by the vast arch, and shallow in comparison with its height of
150 feet. At the back, frozen springs issuing from the mountain. One of
the springs, the culminating point of adoration, is the Lingam as it is
seen in the temples of India—a very singular natural frost sculpture.
Degraded in the associations of modern ignorance the mystic and educated
behold in this small phallic pillar of purest ice the symbol of the
Pillar of Cosmic Ascent, rooted in rapture of creation, rising to the
rapture of the Immeasurable. It represents That within the circumference
of which the universe swings to its eternal rhythm—That which, in the
words of Dante, moves the sun and other stars. It is the stranger here
because before it the clear ice has frozen into a flat, shallow altar.

The sadhu knelt before it, tranced in prayer. He had laid some flowers
on the altar, and, head thrown back and eyes closed, was far away—in
what strange heaven, who shall say? Unconscious of place or person, of
himself, of everything but the Deity, he knelt, the perfect symbol of
the perfect place. I could see his lips move— Was it the song of Kabir
to the Eternal Dancer?—

He is pure and eternal,
His form is infinite and fathomless.
He dances in rapture and waves of form arise from his dance.
The body and mind cannot contain themselves when touched by his divine
  joy.
He holds all within his bliss.

What better praise for such a worshipper before him in whose ecstasy the
worlds dance for delight—here where, in the great silence, the Great
God broods on things divine? But I could not know——

                I could not know, for chill and far
                His alien heaven closed him in.
                His peace shone distant as a star
                Remote in skies we cannot win.

I laid my flowers on the altar of ice beside his. Who could fail to be
moved where such adoration is given after such a pilgrimage? And if some
call the Many-Named “God,” and some “Siva,” what matter? To all it is
the Immanent God. And when I thought of the long winter and the snow
falling, falling, in the secret places of the mountains, and shrouding
this temple in white, the majesty of the solitudes and of the Divine
filled me with awe.

                Outside the marmot’s cry was shrill,
                The mountain torrents plunged in smoke;
                Inside our hearts were breathless still
                To hear the secret word He spoke.
                We heard Him, but the eyelids close,
                The seal of silence dumbs the lips
                Of such as in the awful snows
                Receive the dread Apocalypse.

Later we climbed down into the snowy glen beneath the Cave, and ate our
meal under a rock, with the marmots shrilling about us, and I found at
my feet—what? A tuft of bright golden violets—all the delicate
penciling in the heart, but shining gold. I remembered Ulysses in the
Garden of Circe, where the _moly_ is enshrined in the long thundering
roll of Homer’s verse:—

 “For in another land it beareth a golden flower, but not in this.”

It is a shock of joy and surprise to find so lovely a marvel in the
awful heights.

We were too weary to talk. We watched the marmots, red-brown like
chestnuts, on the rocks outside their holes, till everything became
indistinct and we fell asleep from utter fatigue.

The way back was as toilsome, only with ascents and descents reversed;
and so we returned to Panjitarni.

Next day we rested; for not only was it necessary from fatigue, but some
of our men were mountain-sick because of the height. This most trying
ailment affects sleep and appetite, and makes the least exertion a
painful effort. Some felt it less, some more, and it was startling to
see our strong young men panting as their hearts laboured almost to
bursting. The native cure is to chew a clove of garlic; whether it is a
faith cure or no I cannot tell, but it succeeded. I myself was never
affected.

Of the journey down I will say little. Our sadhu journeyed with us and
was as kind and helpful on the way as man could be. He stayed at our
camp for two days when we reached Pahlgam; for he was all but worn out,
and we begged him to rest. It touched me to see the weary body and
indomitable soul.

At last the time came for parting. He stood under a pine, with his small
bundle under his arm, his stick in his hand, and his thin feet shod for
the road in grass sandals. His face was serenely calm and beautiful. I
said I hoped God would be good to him in all his wanderings; and he
replied that he hoped this too, and he would never forget to speak to
Him of us and to ask that we might find the Straight Way home. For
himself, he would wander until he died—probably in some village where
his name would be unknown but where they would be good to him for the
sake of the God.

So he salaamed and went, and we saw him no more. Was it not the mighty
Akbar who said, “I never saw any man lost in a straight road”?

                 He came with us; we journeyed down
                 To lowlier levels where the fields
                 Are golden with the wheat new-mown,
                 And all the earth her increase yields.

                 He told us that his way lay on.
                 He might not rest; the High God’s cry
                 Rang “Onward!” and the beacon shone,
                 “And I must wander till I die.

                 “But when I speak unto my God
                 I still will tell him you were kind,
                 That you may tread where He has trod
                 Until the Straight Way home you find.”

                 He joined his hands in deep salute,
                 And, smiling, went his lonely way,
                 Sole, yet companioned, glad, yet mute,
                 And steadfast toward the perfect day.

                 And still I see him lessening
                 Adown the endless Indian plain.
                 Yet certain am I of this thing—
                 Our souls have met—shall meet again.

Thus I have tried to give some dim picture of the wonders of that
wonderful pilgrimage. But who can express the faith, the devotion that
send the poorer pilgrims to those heights? They do it as the sadhu did
it. Silence and deep thought are surely the only fitting comments on
such a sight.



                        THE MAN WITHOUT A SWORD



                        THE MAN WITHOUT A SWORD


(What is told in this story of jujutsu or judo, the Japanese national
science of self-defence and attack, is from the point of view of an
expert, strange as it may appear.)

This is the true story of an experience which befell me in Japan. For
six years I have kept silence and I tell it now only because my own
knowledge assures me of the growing interest in matters relating to what
Oriental scholars call “the formless world”—that is to say the sphere
surrounding us which we now know to be independent of solidity and time
as we conceive them, a world not to be grasped by our fallible senses
yet apprehended by some of us in certain conditions not tracked and
charted definitely. Modern science, feeling after the mysterious, has
named this world which permeates ours and yet is invisible, the Fourth
Dimension because it is not subject to the three illusions of length,
breadth and height which imprison most of us from the cradle to the
grave. But why philosophize? Let me tell my story.

My name is Hay, and I am a middle-class Scotchman, a public school and
University man who, like others, took part in the War. I came through
whole and sound but it left its mark. For one thing, it knocked to
smithereens the average ideals of success and attainment, which, again
like others, had shaped my life, and from being a strictly average man
in that I followed the herd in all its decencies of convention the war
left me naked and unsheltered in the open without a rag of conviction to
hide me from the truth if it should happen to pass my way. But I had
ceased to believe in its existence outside the things we use in daily
intercourse.

Another effect also. My war experience was naval and chiefly in the
Mediterranean where men of all nationalities were coming and going, and
that constant contact wore thin the shell an Englishman inhabits—such
crustaceans as we are!—until I began to see in what different terms the
universe may be stated from the differing angles of race and
nationality. What helped me to this understanding was a friendship I
struck up with a Japanese naval officer—a remarkable fellow as I
thought then and know now. He spoke English perfectly and had not only
read but inwardly digested what he read, which is more than can be said
for most of us. I owed him two services besides. He taught me to speak
Japanese—I am quick at languages,—and being a great expert in the
national art of defence and attack which is known as jujutsu, he began
to give me lessons which were the beginning of much. His name was Arima,
his age the same as mine—thirty-four,—and for very different reasons
we both left our services when the war shut down.

Yet I knew our friendship would not end there, nor did it. One day while
I was dining alone in my club in London, wondering whether I should ever
again find anything which I honestly felt worth doing, a letter reached
me. I knew the almost mercantile precision of the hand before I opened
it and it sent a pleasurable thrill through nerves which had been
stagnant with exhaustion since I had been ashore.

    “Hay sama,

    “I think much of you and wonder if you ever free a thought to
    cross the sea to my little house in Kyushu. That is our southern
    island and since illness drove me from our navy I live there. I
    need the sunshine of a friend’s company and if you feel the same
    need come, I beg you, and make me a long visit. I live in a
    beautiful valley run through by a river which will please you.
    It flows by rocks and mountains, pine woods and prosperous
    villages; a happy land. Not far from my house is a temple to
    Hachiman, God of War. I do not pay my devotions there for
    reasons which you will understand. But come, my friend. I have
    learned many things since we met and no doubt it is the same
    with you.”

That letter flung up a window in a stifling room. It meant escape from
the dull indifference besetting me and contact with those people who of
all in the world preserve the Stoic virtues which seemed to be the only
ones likely to extricate me from my Slough of Despond. I wrote my answer
within ten minutes and in two months I was in Japan.

I did not go at once to Arima, nor will I tell my first adventures on
landing and making myself at home in Tokyo. They are neither good
reading nor thinking. I had more than one reason to regret that Arima
had made me free of the country by giving me its tongue. Pretty well
worn out, with a stale taste of sour regrets in my mouth, I went down at
last to Kyushu, and in the garden of Arima’s delightful little house I
take up the story.

It was a true Japanese garden, a wide landscape seen through the
diminishing end of a telescope. There was a forest, a mountain which had
spilt its mighty boulders by the side of a running river with a Chinese
bridge thrown over it. True, one could have bestridden the mountain and
hopped the river, but what did that matter? The real river, the
Kogagawa, rippled beside the grass which ran down to where a great
willow dipped cool fingers in liquid crystal from the mountain heights,
and under that green veil of drooping boughs with eyes half closed it
was possible to dream that the little garden passed into the idea which
had filled its maker’s mind, and became grand and terrible, a place of
wild beauty and awe.

“It must be so,” said Arima smiling, “because he saw it so, and what a
man has once clearly seen is registered immortal and can be seen by
others when necessary.”

He sat under the willow, his fine bronzed face and throat bare to the
flitting shadows of trembling leaves.

“Who made it?” I asked. “He cannot have been a common man.”

“He was my great-great-grandfather and very far from a common man. I
have a paper in his own hand which tells why and how he made it and it
is a very strange story.”

He threw away his cigarette and sat looking at the wandering paths paved
with flat stones here and there, the little flowering herbs springing in
the crevices; at the mountain where, altering the scale, you might
wander and be lost for dreadful days in mighty gorges and ravines. The
river swept round it in a rapid current possibly two feet wide and
joined the Kogagawa in a lovely bay quite four feet across where a fairy
fleet might have anchored after a prosperous voyage from Stratford on
Avon in the dream of a midsummer night.

“Some day I will read you his paper, but not yet. I have reasons for
delay. The spirit of our country is hovering over you but has not yet
entered in and possessed you. People come to Japan in ship-loads and see
the surface bright with colour and gaiety which we spread out before
them. But they do not know. We do not mean they should. To be
truthful—I do not think any foreigner can understand Japan unless he is
a Buddhist at heart— As you are.”

“I?” I echoed in uttermost astonishment. “My good fellow, I am nothing.
I haven’t the devil of a ghost of a notion what it all means.”

He looked at me with a quaint smile hiding in the deeps of his narrow
eyes. It peered out like a wise gnome, as old as the hills and older.

“Your downstairs self knows very well. It has not passed it on yet to
your honourable upstairs self. But the wireless begins to talk and the
air is full of voices beating at your ears. What stories they will tell
you! I should like to hear them.”

For the moment I could not be sure that he was in earnest. But I could
ask, for it was an intimate hour.

The full moon was rounding up from behind the mountain of Naniwa where
the monastery of the Thousand-Armed Kwannon, Spirit of Pity, looks out
over a wide and wonderful landscape of woods and valleys. That day we
had visited the house of the Abbot,—The House Built upon Clouds, they
call it, and there, for a moment I had had an experience new and very
difficult to describe.

Yet I must try. It began with a physical sensation like a strange intake
of breath which I could not expel, and made my heart beat violently.
That passed, but I thought it had affected my head for it seemed that my
memory was disturbed. I could not remember my name, and my past life, as
I recalled it from childhood, was gone, shrunk to an invisible point so
small that I could look over it to something beyond. That something
moved in cloudy shapes impossible to focus into clear vision. I saw as
one sees when a telescope needs adjusting and another turn will clear
all into intelligibility. But for a moment I had dropped my historic,
racial sense like a garment, and the monk with his calm face like lined
and weathered ivory seemed nearer to me than anyone I had ever known
though it was not half an hour since we had met. I could remember his
sonorous Japanese name. My own was gone. I must place the scene clearly.
Arima was examining some ancient vessels of fine three-metal work from
Tibet, and the Abbot and I stood by the window looking out over the vast
drop of the valley from such a height that it was like a swallow’s nest
in the eaves of the spiritual city. Suddenly I was aware that our eyes
were fixed on each other, on my side with passionate, on his with
searching intensity.

Again, what shall I say? I was conscious that something arresting had
happened and could not tell myself what it was. But it was his eyes
through which I looked, as through a window, with an overwhelming
question.

Also, he was speaking in a clear low monotone like running water. It was
as though he continued a conversation of which I had lost the beginning.

“But how can you expect to see without concord of mind? Yours is in the
confusion of a tossing sea. It has no direction. The way you must follow
is to repeat these words until you understand them perfectly.”

He paused and enunciated these strange words clearly:

“I have no parents. I make the heavens and the earth my parents. I have
no magic. I make personality my magic. I have no strength. I make
submission my strength. I have neither life nor death. I make the
Self-Existent my life and death. I have no friends. I make my mind my
friend. I have no armour. I make right-thinking and right-doing my
armour. Can you remember this? It is the beginning.” Looking in his eyes
I remembered and repeated it perfectly.

“Good!” he said with calm approval.—“And there is one clause more. An
important one. ‘I have no sword. I make the sleep of the mind my sword.’
That signifies that the outer reasoning self, which is really nothing,
must be lulled asleep and put off its guard before the inner self, which
is All, can function.”

Suddenly as it had come the experience ended. I was released. I stood in
the window, watching the softly floating clouds, the waving woods far,
far beneath, the wheeling of a drove of swallows in blue air. The Abbot
was speaking with Arima; they were handling the vessels, barbarically
rich, and discussing them with interest. Had my experience been some
wild momentary distortion of the brain? I shuddered as if with cold. My
hands were shaking. Then all was normal.

But, clambering down the hundreds of beautiful broken steps overgrown
with flowers and moss where so many generations have come and gone in
pilgrimage, I said nothing to Arima. It had become impossible. Something
called the war to my mind and I said something careless, but he waved
that aside.

“We must speak of it no more. Why steep one’s soul in illusion? Much
that we thought real and allowed to affect us was nothing, and the
emotions it caused less than nothing. I have awaked. You are near the
dawn.”

I thought this remark cruel, and said something heated about the dead
who had paid with their lives for the illusion—the ignorant things one
does say! He received it with his invulnerable Japanese courtesy.

“I went too fast. Pardon me. The Buddha alone can impart knowledge to
the Buddha, and who am I that I should speak? The time and the master
come together. Here, my friend,—you should drink of this running water.
It comes from a beautiful spring in the mountain above. They call it
‘Light Eternal’ and say that to taste of it is to drink perfect health.
If only it were as easy as that!”

By the mossy rock lay two little dippers of pure white wood. I was
extremely English at that instant and nothing would have induced me to
soil my lips with a cup used by strangers. I hooped my hands and
drank,—he, from the dipper.

“You miss the sacrament,” he said, “but the water in any case is good.”

And so we went home, talking of the treasures of the monastery, wonders
of art, famous throughout Japan.

But now, in the gathering night concentrating its radiance in a moon so
glorious as to obscure the nearer stars, in the breathless silence made
vocal by the ripple of the river on its eternal way, beneath the dropped
veil of the willow influences were loosed which opened my heart, and I
told Arima my experience of the afternoon. I asked whether he had been
conscious of what had passed.

His face was a shadow beneath the boughs. I saw only the moonlight in
his eyes as he replied.

“No. I knew nothing. The Abbot Gyōsen was speaking with me all the time.
I thought you were absorbed in the view. It is most wonderful.”

That could not satisfy me.

“Impossible,” I said. “For how could that strange formula come into my
mind? I never heard it before. I have not the faintest notion what it
means.”

There was a brief silence, then he answered slowly.

“I scarcely think it my part to clear up the matter. Will you not ask
the Abbot himself? Yet there are one or two things I could say if you
wish.”

Seeing I was in earnest he continued.

“The Abbot Gyōsen is a remarkable man. In the first place seclusion in a
mountain temple in devout contemplation purifies the heart, and then he
is a deep student of Zen. Zen is the science of mental or spiritual
concentration. In India they call it Yoga. A man who possesses this
knowledge can do things which to the ignorant of its powers appear
miracles. They are perfectly natural however. In his youth he had
magnificent skill in jujutsu. No man could stand up against him. There
was a reason for that.”

He was silent for a moment, and then added:

“His influence is enormous. You would scarcely credit the true stories I
could tell of him.”

I listened in deep reflection, staring at the broken ripples of
moonlight in the river. Again the weird intake of breath seized me, my
heart beat rapidly with the consciousness that I was face to face with
the Unknown; that it had eyes but I was blind, groping in the dark.
Light, light: That was the cry within me.

“The formula?” I asked, when my breath steadied again.

I could not see even his eyes now. Arima was an invisible presence.

“In Japan,” he said, “in connection with jujutsu and otherwise we
recognize a strange force which we call _kiai_, a very powerful dynamic.
We consider it a manifestation of the primal energy. It lies all round
us for the taking by anyone who will use the necessary means and in
itself is neither good nor evil. The result depends on the person who
uses it. What the Abbot Gyōsen passed into your mind was certain of the
first rules of this knowledge. We call them the Rules of Detachment. He
must have been conscious that you have reached the fit stage for
instruction.”

“Then all I can say is that he was entirely mistaken. He could hardly
choose a worse subject for any spiritual experiments than myself.”

Arima laughed slightly but kindly as one laughs at a child’s ignorant
certitude.

“That is not possible. Men of his sort are not mistaken. But _you_
mistake. Certainly this force may be employed for a very high kind of
spiritual adventure, but in itself it is neutral. It is only a force,
and what he foresees for you I cannot tell. It is a sword. Now a sword
may be employed by a god or a devil or any of the grades between.”

This idea was so new to me that I said nothing for a moment, revolving
the thing inwardly.

“Can you mean that a force of tremendous possibility lies about us for
anyone to use who will? That a man can handle the powers of miracle——”

He shook his head:

“There is no miracle. There is only Law and some of us understand it
better than others. Knowledge is always power and the unscrupulous may
know as well as the saints. But they will know from a different and
disastrous angle. Does one always see power in worthy hands? You and I
who have lived through the war know better than that. No, this force is
applicable to small things as to great. It can mean success in
money-grubbing or the open door to an apostleship. As I said—it is a
sword. But it cannot be trifled with. It carries you to a stage where
you perceive the danger too late and are seized with an indescribable
horror. The wings melt in the sun’s flame, and then——”

He made an eloquent gesture with his hand which suggested a fall from
some unimagined height.

“I won’t believe it,” I said resolutely. “That whatever rules the
universe should trust it anywhere to clumsy or wicked interference— No,
impossible!”

“Yet we see it daily,” Arima replied calmly. “But things always come
right in the long run. This power of which I speak is only one gesture
of the Supreme and there is much behind it. Illusions pass like clouds
but the sun remains.”

“But—but,” I hesitated.

“It is this which explains the mystery of good and evil, as we call
them. Think it out and you will see. Shall we go in now? I have a fancy
that the processes of the night—even the river—like to be free of us
intruders. If we are not in harmony with them——”

“Arima!” I said on an impulse, “have you this secret? I think—I know
that in your hands it would be safe. What you have said makes me long
for more. If the Abbot judged me fit for so much—and you say he must
have known——”

He stretched his hand in the moonlight and grasped mine in a strong
clasp. I had a sensation of something throbbing and beating from his
wrist to mine. It flowed tingling along my veins until it was warm about
my heart.

“It is day!” he said.

I heard no more. It was day. A fierce sun blazed upon me and I was alone
in an unknown country. A mountain, in contour like the famous Fuji,
loomed up majestic, snow spilt down its sides like the sticks of a half
opened fan. I stood in a mighty gorge beside a fiercely running mountain
river, the swift torrent forced back by its own speed among the rocks in
curling white waves. Where two rocks craned forward to each other from
opposing shores a noble Chinese bridge, huge stones gigantically moulded
almost to a semi-circular spring, spanned and bridled the wild creature
beneath, and on either shore was a willow tree.

Why was it familiar though so strange? But I stood bewildered. A moment
ago I had been beside my friend in moonlight and quiet, now a great sun
beat on tossing mountains and river, and I was alone.

Terribly alone. I stood ignorant which way to turn, helpless, baffled,
in a place which might have been empty from the world’s beginning, but
for the bridge. Would anyone ever come? Should I roam there imprisoned
in vastness until I died? It was a nightmare of terror. I ran to the
great willow as if for refuge in its tent of delicate shifting shade,
and pushing aside the boughs I entered and sat down throwing my arm
about the trunk, smooth, warm, as the flesh of a woman, that I might
steady myself against something living and tangible.

There are Dryads in Japan, tree spirits, and especially do they haunt
the willow. Beautiful, alarming, some of the stories, but always
instinct with the life which lies just below our horizon. Now I was
conscious of some presence beside me, not to be accosted until its own
moment of choice. I put out my hand instinctively; it met nothing. I
said a word aloud. No answer. And again most disabling fear submerged
me. Then, clear and small, as if written, the Rules of Detachment rose
in my mind, and hurrying, I repeated them under my breath, not knowing
how they could help, but catching at anything.

“I have no parents. I make the heavens and the earth my parents. I have
no strength. I make submission my strength.” And so to the end.

“I have no sword. I make the sleep of the mind my sword.”

Now, as I said these words the meaning flashed upon me in light. Here
was I—alone in a frightful solitude—so desolate that it might have
been the Mountains of the Moon. What means of escape could I make for
myself? What friends had I—what sword? The Rules assured me. The
enemies—the mountains, the wild ways, were my slaves if I could believe
it. In submission strength awaited me. In the surrender of the plotting
reason, which can only break tangible material obstacles, my latent
powers would function. And what were they?

Once more and confidently I repeated the words, knowing that they
unloosed some hard-bound knot in my being. I willed to be in the garden
of Arima. My one instinct was flight.

I was sitting beneath the willow tree— Yes, but in Arima’s garden, and
he was beside me looking steadfastly at the river where moonlight flowed
away with it to the ocean.

Impossible to describe the shock of relief. It never occurred to me to
ask if I had been asleep—to think I had been hypnotized or anything of
the kind. I knew the experience was real.

“Where have I been?” That was the only possible question. He replied:

“In the garden. Did you not recognize it? See—the mountain, the tumbled
rocks, the river and bridge. _But_ in the garden as my ancestor first
saw it. Some day you shall hear why.”

“But first—first— Was I long there? Time—I forgot time.”

“You are there now, only the blinkers are over your eyes again. And as
to time—there is no such thing as time. There is only eternity. If I
count in the way we measure when we wear our blinkers you had the sight
for twenty-four hours. It was last night when it began. Now it is
to-night. I have slept, have eaten, have walked to the village and
written many letters and all the time you sat here. Time is really
nothing but a dream—a necessity in the world of the Three Dimensions.
As soon as you break the shell—it is nothing.”

Again I cannot describe the tumult of feeling in me, mingled with a
passionate longing for something of my own lost and ravished from me. I
had a sense of unutterable weakness and shame. He read my thought like
speech and answered:

“But you threw it from yourself. You were frightened, forlorn, and you
caught at the Rules and concentrated, and being power they acted as you
wished, and transported you back into the blindness of the daily life
that walls us in from the Lovely, the Utterly Desirable.”

“You mean,” I said slowly, “that one can ruin oneself as easily as save.
And that I should not have come back at my own will?”

“Exactly. One must always go on. To come back is highly dangerous. If
you had had patience and had concentrated upon what is called
‘extension’ you would have climbed the mountain and on the other
side——”

“What? What?” I cried, for he paused.

“We call it the Shining Country. You would have—liked it! Also you
would have met the One who Waits.”

I repeated in bewilderment;

“The One who Waits? But who?”

“I cannot tell. Different people probably for everyone. It might have
been my great-great-grandfather for all I know. He is often in his
garden. But it is the right one always. Don’t think I blame you though
for using your scrap of power in a fright. That often happens at first.
What man has mastered jujutsu at the first throw? Still, he may be badly
hurt, and you are hurt and will pay for it. Later on, beware that you
never use power to bring you back to the place you have left it. A man
pays for that to the last farthing.”

“You mean—snatching at the wrong things?”

“Yes, in a way. The wrong things for you. There is no fixed way or rigid
moral standard. There cannot be. All depends upon the man himself and
the occasion, and—many a man has been saved by his sins. One learns the
rules as one goes. Of course the rudiments of them govern every sort of
society of men civilized or uncivilized. But you must be hungry. Come
in.”

I shall never forget that meal. Nothing could be simpler. There were
rice cakes, honey, eggs, and pale fragrant tea. But—I despair of
words—the food had new meanings. I could feel the good of it, the life
of nature, of living things, passing into my blood, so restorative that
when it was eaten I felt like a tuned violin on the shoulder of a mighty
master; not a sound or sight but drew harmonious answer from my spirit.
The river flowed from the footstool of the Eternal. Each flower shouted
its evangel and their chorus was that of the morning stars singing
together. The dart of the swallows was the flight of arrows from the bow
of Love. They dazzled in blue air. I daresay no more.

Arima came out in his cotton kimono and bare head. I saw new meanings in
his face each moment, and the bronzed beauty of the man struck on a
naked nerve, as though each sight of beauty awakened a longing for the
next step beyond. He read my thought, and pausing in his work of
training a fruit bough answered meditatively;

“Yes, even the first breath of air in that country is inspiration. It is
full of dangers—a fighting country, sometimes a No Man’s Land. Some of
its ways seem to lead horribly downward. And there is always hell.”

“Hell? A state of mind?”

“Yes, and of body too—they sometimes involve each other. But it braces
one. There is much more to it than you can know yet. Only remember—one
has got to break into that country somehow unless one is content to be
the prisoner of the senses for a whole wasted lifetime.”

I shuddered slightly.

“At the present moment I don’t feel that I ever want to see it again.”

“Natural enough. Let us have a bout of jujutsu now.”

We stripped, and he threw me as he always did, but all the same I was
learning. I got a new lock that day and, more important, made an advance
in pliability. I stooped and yielded and released myself when I thought
he had got me for good. He shouted with pleasure.

“Right! You will be a shodan one day. That is our lowest teaching grade.
Now rest.”

He came up to me an hour later:

“You are wishing to go to the Kwannon monastery to see the Abbot. He
will receive you. Before you start would you like to hear the story of
my ancestor and the garden? It is very short.”

Strange. I had not thought of the Abbot, but I knew now that to see him
was my inmost wish. That had been the meaning of my joy. I nodded, and
Arima led the way to the willow. I did not then know why but the magic
of the garden centred in that willow, thrilled in every leaf of it.

We sat down in its shade; I, on the grass with my arms clasped about my
knees.

“My ancestor was a handsome young man, and the only son of a rich and
noble family who owned much land about here. Nearly all ran through his
fingers in his extravagance and flowed away from the family like
river-water, until only a few acres just here were left. I need not tell
you all his life—you can imagine the story of a rich, reckless,
sensuous fellow without bit or bridle. But he was a fine soldier, a fine
poet—we think much of that in Japan—and he wrote the story of his life
later with such fire and drama and such strange hidden things, that if
it could be printed—but it never could. People would not believe it.
Some day you shall read.”

A strange change came over the garden while he spoke. It extended itself
before my eyes—flowing outward softly. The flowering bushes which had
been within a few feet were now vague in the distance. The mountain
flung a cone of shadow over leagues. Even as I saw this, we were in the
land of True Sight—yes, that was its name—and Arima was telling his
story under the willow of my terror.

“He had broken his own wife’s heart. He coveted the love of the wife of
a man of good birth—a samurai named Satoro, and taking her by force
made her his own. The husband, unarmed, met him here in what is now this
garden, and when he drew his sword to attack him, by the power of the
most skilful jujutsu dashed the sword from his hand and himself to the
ground, breaking his jaw and blinding him with blood. He had to endure
the disgrace. Terrible humiliation for a nobleman! No help— Look about
you and see how lonely!”

“Awful and vast the mountains stretched away into snowy silences with
the muted roar of a distant avalanche. Cold, shudderingly cold the
river, frozen in the pools with a bitter glaze of ice. No life, no
death, but arrested petrifaction, with the moon stranded on a peak in a
dead world.

“And the sword! A sword worn by his ancestors in knightly fashion, pure
steel and gold—the very spirit of the house. Satoro picked it up and
stood leaning on it over the prostrate man as he lay on the rocks
writhing like a crushed snake to hide his ruined face.

“‘This place is your own heart,’ he said; ‘cold, empty and dead. You
will come back to it times out of mind. Kimi san, my wife, is on the
other side of the mountain. You never possessed her; she is mine. But
what I have to say is this. Your sword also is mine. I have a lien on
you. You are my slave. I tell you now to begin at the beginning. You
shall learn jujutsu. What it will teach you is to defend yourself from
yourself. And when you have learnt that— Then I shall give you fresh
orders.’

“The man raved and swore and spat blood, all unintelligibly as a beast.
He was humiliated in all that a Japanese noble most values, and his only
thought at the moment was revenge and suicide. The other stood, looking
down upon him with calm. ‘I will return the sword to my lord when he
knows its use. A good sword scorns an ignorant wearer. Now I leave you,
but we shall meet in this place.’

“He went off, walking lightly and strongly. The fallen man dragged
himself together. To lose his sword— Do Westerners understand that
bitterness? I cannot tell.

“A retainer came by and finding him, summoned help. When they got him to
the house, they told him the woman was dead. She had severed an artery
in her throat as a Japanese lady must do in the face of dishonour. Blind
with rage he sent to the house of her husband to slaughter him. He had
disappeared.

“Henceforth my ancestor was known as The Man without a Sword—a terrible
name. He could not appear among the nobles. His life was a ruined
thing.”

Arima paused again and then added:

“It would be better that the Abbot should tell you the rest. You will
think it remarkable.”

I stood up, so possessed with the story, for he had told it like one
inspired, that it was only as I moved that my position flashed on me.

“How can I go? I am lost in the mountains. Come with me!”

He stood beside me, looking onward:

“That is impossible. There are never any guides. There is only power.
Besides, there are different ways for different people and I know
nothing of yours.”

I looked about me, considering. The bridge was the obvious way and
certainly the easiest. I did not know the hour, and there was a hint of
dusk in the air, but I had already learnt that in this strange land time
and its phenomena have quite other meanings than with us. Night might
break on me in a wave of sunlight or dawn open its rose in the heart of
midnight. Who could tell? But the bridge way would be safer.

I turned to say a last word to Arima. There was no human being in sight;
it was a vast solitude dominated by the black cone of the mountain’s
shadow.

I made for the bridge walking as quickly as the rough stones allowed,
and climbing its semi-circular hump I looked before me and rejoiced to
see the track much clearer than it had seemed from the other side.
Evidently a well-used way, and this encouraged me in my hope of meeting
someone who could direct me to the monastery of Naniwa. Therefore I went
with more confidence, relieved from the crawling fear of the
supernatural which the other side of the bridge inspired.

The track took me up a slight rise and round a jutting rock which
obscured the river, and having done about two miles of quick walking I
heard steps coming round a bend of the trail and rejoiced to think I
could ascertain the way.

Nearer they came and disclosed a Japanese, his kimono pulled up through
the obi for the ease of walking. He made the usual polite bow and would
have passed but for my raised hand. I asked my way with the honorifics I
had learnt from Arima. He stopped at once and replied with the utmost
courtesy:

“The monastery? Yes— You could go this way. One reaches it by several.
But it is not the right way. Far from it.”

“Then will you tell me how to go?”

“Sir, I cannot tell you. I wish I could. I really do not know your way.”
It was infuriating. I said scoffingly:

“If you know this is wrong surely you know which is right?” He replied
as if he were saying the most ordinary thing in the world:

“Sir, it is not so easy as you think. Places are states of mind in this
country, therefore you will honourably see that no one can tell anyone
else their way and how best to get there.”

Bowing, he made to pass me. It was then that for the first time I
noticed two things. One that his hair was dressed in the old-fashioned
queue headdress which one sees in Japanese prints, shaved, but for a
knot drawn up on the head, the other that he had a most remarkable face.
The features were good, even excellent, and the dark bright colouring
fine. But the eyes were arresting under the black level brows, and
filled with tranquillity as a pool with shadows. On the impulse they
gave me I spoke.

“I wish I could go with you.”

“Sir, that could hardly be. I come from Yedo and I go to my garden in
the valley you have left.”

Yedo!—the ancient and long-disused name of Tokyo,—and Tokyo on the
central island and days’ journey away! Train and boat might have brought
him, and yet—shivering doubt assailed me like the thin creeping of
drops of water through a dyke which presages the later roar of the
flood. The garden! I could not withhold myself nor hesitate.

“May I ask your name?”

“If you want to know my name you must watch what road I take and know to
what I return. How can you know? I did not even think you would have
seen me. Since it is so however, I will repeat that in this road you
will have great need of self-defence. Now I bid you goodbye and wish you
safely at Naniwa.”

He was gone round the corner so quickly that I had a sensation of
vanishing. I ran after him and looked. Nothing. So I took my way onward.
He had told me nothing to change it. A word really would have sent me
backward to try my luck in another direction but he had not spoken it.

Soon after it was dark and raining, with a moon very young and
bewildered in drifting clouds. She gave a weary light scarcely enough to
hint the track and indicate a group of trees, the first I had seen, on
the right. Coming up, among them was a small flickering light, and the
barking of a dog sounded homely and even inviting, for by this time I
was dragging tired feet. If I could sleep there how welcome the rest and
shelter!

The place looked poor and dilapidated enough to be open to any offer of
payment though in any case I might have trusted to the hospitality of
the country Japanese.

I knocked at the rough door wondering that anyone could exist in such a
tumble-down place and a young girl came to the door, faintly seen in dim
lamplight. She stared at me in astonishment and bowing low, called
softly:

“Madam, mistress,—what shall I do? A gentleman.”

A young voice answered:

“Tell him to come in if he will do us such an honour,” and a graceful
little figure appeared in the opening of a lattice door, her face unseen
because the light fell behind her. I obeyed. Poor as the house was that
room was enchanting. Very simple, but the draperies were good, the
cushions beautiful in colour, the _hibachi_ was full of charcoal and
above and round all bathing it in charm was the delicate perfume of a
woman’s presence. She rose from her profound Japanese salutation and
looked me in the face.

“Hay sama!” she faltered, paling to the lips. And I knew—I knew!

Six months before in the crowded city of Tokyo I had gone to a dinner at
a restaurant near Shimbashi. I remembered the garden outside with clumps
of gorgeous chrysanthemums, lamps of splendid colour before the dusk
drowned them and the moon washed them with silver. Geisha attended us,
girls with every nerve braced and strung for their profession of
charming the wary and unwary alike. And I was charmed by the sad mirth
that looked out from one pair of dark and lovely eyes. I drew her aside
before the evening ended and asked her to follow me to the _machiai_—a
house of meeting, and escaping from the noisy party I waited in the cold
handsomely furnished room that never spoke of love, until she came.

That meeting led to many things—some merry, some sad, but when I left
Tokyo to see her no more I knew that the part I had played was to set my
heel on her little head and drive her deeper into the mire. Still, it
was ended and need trouble me no more. One could forget.

And now I sat by her side in this land of bitter memories.

She drew a cushion beside mine and leaning her little black head against
my shoulder looked up in my face, welcoming me with the sweet courtesy
mingled with fear that I remembered so well.

“And why are you here in this wild place, Hana san? Have you given up
your work?”

Her bewildered look! I can see it now.

“How can I tell? I—I came. I was told it must be.”

“You are resting here? You go back?”

“Let us talk of other things, Hay sama. How I am glad to see you!” I
could get nothing more from her than that.

Silence and the little noises of dropping charcoal, and the softness of
her in my arms. It was a renewal of that passionate intimacy which had
left a wound in the very heart of my soul.

We talked into the small hours,—so much to say, so much to hear, and
time passed—hours, days— How could I tell? And then as fatigue and
quiet and warmth overpowered all my resolution she put her arms about me
and gathered me to her bosom and the night melted into passion and
passion into dream and the dark stole past us on noiseless feet.

I waked in a chill dawn alone, disillusioned and abashed, dragged back
violently to a thing I had forgotten and abhorred. The room was empty, a
cold wind blowing through the tattered paper of the window, and when I
called, no answer. The two women had gone with the night. No food, no
fire, dead ash in the _hibachi_, emptiness and the squalid decay of a
wooden house long forgotten. What had a beauty of Tokyo been doing in
such a place?

Fear of the loneliness seized me. I went out quickly without looking
after me, then at the twist of the path turned and saw—desolation and
waving weeds and a bough of some bush thrust through the window that had
taken root within. I pushed on toward Naniwa, sick at heart.

It was at that moment a thought shot through me and chilled my blood.
When Arima and I had visited Naniwa it had taken us exactly two hours
from his house to the monastery hill. But yesterday I had walked for
many hours, and to-day seemed no nearer my goal. Grey interminable
moorland stretched before me with a mountain blocking the way at a
distance and other tossing peaks beyond. Where was I? Where was Naniwa?
Might I not walk for ever and ever in widening circles to a lost goal?
The ground whispered with evil in every blade of grass. It hissed in the
rustle of dry squat bushes. And last night—last night! There were
reasons why that memory brought horror and shame to be my companions on
the right and left. But I went on from sheer inability to consider what
else I must do.

The clump of bushes on the right parted and a tall strong fellow burst
out of them and planted himself across my way. A Japanese, broad,
brawny, violent-faced. As I halted he sprang at my throat like a wolf.

“And you tracked her here? You could not let her be? Then take your
payment from her husband Kondo!”

What happened next came in a blinding flash. He struck at me with a
loaded stick. It missed the first blow and I had him by the throat with
the new lock I had learnt from Arima, shaking him violently to and fro,
driving my fingers deeper and deeper into his flesh in a frenzy of rage
and hate. I would have the innermost heart’s blood of the brute.

I had it. He reeled in my grasp with horrible choking noises, and
suddenly I was shaking the life out of a dead thing. As I thrust him
from me with sickening triumph he fell heavily as a full sack prone on
the track before me.

It must have been long before the rage died in me and I stood face to
face with my position. I—a foreigner—had killed a Japanese, and after
an intrigue with his wife. It felled me beside him—I crouched and hid
my face and tried to think.

Presently I rose and with the murderer’s instinct dragged the corpse
into the bushes to hide it. Thought was impossible. I suffered as a dumb
beast must suffer the extremity of torture without the power to reason.
Only I must hide it and flee. The neighbourhood of the horrible thing
was hell.

I went on.

Later— “Is it just—is it just?” I said to myself, “that one instant’s
madness should doom a man for ever?”—forgetting the long temptation I
had played with, the slow delicious yielding, the triumph and delight
with which I had slowly built up my torture chamber. Not only from the
time I landed in Japan, but before,—I had been busy at the building all
my life. How could I complain when the trap snapped on me?

At last I broke from the numbness into memory. The man who had passed me
on his way to his garden. His words returned like black birds flying
heavily round my head.

“You are not in the right way. Places are states of mind. In this way
you will have much need of self-defence.”

And Arima’s words also. “There is no guide. There is only power.”

Power. That brought the Abbot to my mind—the Rules. Could it be that
they could rescue me from this horrible country where evil hid like a
snake behind every stone. O, to be out of it—free—forgetting! I
remember I fell on my knees as if in prayer and with dreadful
earnestness began to repeat the Rules, passionately desiring the garden
of peace.

“I have no parents. I make the heaven and the earth my parents. I have
no weapons—I make submission my strength.” Light broke in my brain.
Submission? Then should I dictate—should I trust myself to my own
choice of where I would be? Arima had warned me against return.

“If you had used what we call ‘extension’ and had gone on you would have
been on the other side of the mountain.” If there were to be refuge for
such as I it could only lie along the way of courage. I knew it—I knew
it.

I changed my thought instantly. “Set me where I should be if it is in
the gateway of hell.” And again. “Only free me of myself. Let me go
forward. There is no sin like cowardice. Better lust and murder and the
fight to the death with them than cowardice.”

Then, with an intensity that shook me like a leaf in storm I uttered the
words of power, hiding my face in a very passion of belief.

Quiet. I lifted my face and looked about me for the terrible way I had
accepted. I was lying on the broken steps ascending to the monastery and
the House Built upon Clouds at Naniwa. And it was dawn.

The wonder of peace! The sun had not yet out-soared the eastern trees
and every bough dropped dew to the glittering grass. A bird, its little
clenching feet on a blossomed twig beside me, sang like all the bliss of
heaven. In a pool at my feet the lotus, child of the clear cold stream,
raised rosy chalices to the sky and from it ran a stream divinely clear
and bright. The sun might have been the first that ever shone upon a
perfected world untroubled by man, so clear and clean the water-gold of
the morning.

I stood up and looked about me drawing deep breaths of purity. Above me
beneath a great tree, lost in contemplation, sat the Abbot Gyōsen.

I stumbled towards him. I remember I said: “I have come,” and that he
motioned with his hand to a place beside him. Together we watched the
slow crescendo of the mighty music of the dawn.

The sun was above the trees when he spoke, turning the serenity of his
face upon me.

“You have learnt your lesson. Has it brought content?” I summoned my
thoughts to reply clearly.

“I have learnt much but the truth I do not know. Does the corpse still
lie on the moor and the woman weep in the deserted house. Am I guilty?”

“In your soul, yes. Therefore in truth, yes. When you yielded to lust in
your heart and willed murder both were accomplished. Your own Scriptures
teach this and that thought is the only true reality. This have all the
Buddhas known. In what men ignorantly call fact you are not guilty. But,
being guilty, learn this. Every instant terminates a life and the next
is a new birth. While each minute exists the past is dead and the future
unmade. I speak here according to the knowledge of this world, but the
truth is that there is _no_ time, and that you are now what the Divine
sees you—a ray of his splendour. This truth being as yet too high for
you to remember that even on this world’s showing you are free to be
what you will. The choice lies before you. With a thought you may be in
the horror of the Desolate Country, with another in the Shining Land.
For every man makes his own universe until he can see it as it is in the
Thought of the Divine.”

Blinded with truth I asked a question simply as a child.

“Then what must I do?”

“Resolve and go forward,—what else? knowing that in yourself is all
power.”

“But the training? Free me from myself! If we can realize these powers
the means of using so terrible a weapon rightly should be open to all.”

“It is open. But men will not believe. They will not will. They do not
think, and events take them like sea-weed on a wave. You know your own
weakness but it is strength compared with that of the majority. You, at
least, have seen and heard. Study the teachings of the perfect One, the
Buddha, if you would be a man. Realize your union with Power, knowing
that it is a harp of many strings of which you are one, and tune
yourself in harmony with the music of the spheres. At present you are a
man without a sword.”

That phrase! It kindled a world of recollection. I looked into his face
with another entreaty.

“Arima sama told me that I might hear the end of the story of the Man
without a Sword from your honourable self. Tell it to me, I beseech
you.”

He rose and invited me to follow him into the House Built upon Clouds
promising that he would rejoin me when he had transacted some necessary
business. I sat in the window looking out and down into the glorious
depth of waving woods bathing in sunshine like water, experiencing
myself such tranquil joy as the trees themselves must know, fulfilling
their perfect Law in the smile of the Divine.

It was long before the Abbot returned, but to me it seemed a moment. We
have no true means of measuring time for the truth is that it has no
existence, and when the soul is liberated this truth is evident. At once
he began the story of the Man without a Sword.

“In Japan very terrible was the position of the man who had lost his
sword. Better a thousand deaths of lingering torture. There was no man
so low as to give him companionship—and he a noble! Therefore he
changed his name to that of Kazuma, and casting aside what money was
left he abandoned his wife who was dying of grief and shame, and coming
to Yedo took up the study of jujutsu hoping some day to become a teacher
of this in the great city. More lonely a man could not be than Kazuma.
His wife died. His son was taken by his brother and he saw him no more.
His own name was blotted out and forgotten. His brother believed and
hoped him dead, and but for the command of his foe he would have killed
himself.

“Jujutsu, my son, is, as you know from Arima sama, an art that every
noble person should learn. It is said to have come from China, and it
was taught that the very Gods had used it in chastising the barbarians.
The name roughly signifies ‘the strength of weakness,’ and thus it
arose. It was noted that the boughs of a willow were not broken by a
heavy fall of snow when strong trees cracked beneath the weight. And
why? Being pliant they bowed their weakness and the snow slipped off. My
son, recall the Rule. ‘I have no strength. I make submission my
strength.’ As with the soul so it is with the body. How shall I sum up
this art of attack and self-defence? It is the perfect control of the
mind resisting defeat. It is to use weakness in such a way that it
masters brute strength. I have seen a slight woman who possessed this
knowledge fling a heavy man over her shoulder and stun him. There are
locks and blows which may easily kill the opponent and for this reason
the higher secrets are withheld from all but those who are fit for
initiation. The pupils are trained to endure heat and cold and all
hardships. It is a high and noble discipline, for no greatness can be
attained without abstinence from the three vices of lust, drink, and the
love of money with their attendant diseases of the spirit.

“This art Kazuma studied, and as he did so much became clear to him and
he approached the secret of life. And when he had reached a certain
skill his master taught him that there is in jujutsu a higher branch of
mysterious power. And he, beginning dimly to apprehend the meaning of
the command laid on him by the husband of the woman he had slain, for so
indeed he had, desired with eagerness to advance.

“Now, my son, at the gate of this higher initiation stands a ceremony to
be endured. The initiate must submit to strangulation and to be revived
by _kwappo_—the art which recalls men to life. And should this fail,
revival is made by means of a power named _kiai_. To Kazuma, knowing
nothing of _kiai_, but very weary of life, this command came like the
friendly voice of death, and with joy he presented himself to the master
of the art who was chosen to be his executioner.

“He lay down, offering his throat, and in a few seconds was what is
called dead.

“Now, being thus enfranchised, instantly he found himself in the place
of his humiliation by the rushing river, with cold desolation about him.
And by the river knelt his conqueror washing the blood from his hands as
though their fight was but just ended. He rose and faced Kazuma.

“‘You have obeyed my command.’

“‘I have obeyed.’

“‘What have you learnt?’

“‘That there is no death. It is more life, but life as we have made it.
As a man has sown he reaps in life after life.’

“‘Until what time?’

“‘Until the time when he sows good grain.’

“‘Do you repent your past?’

“‘I do not look back. I go forward. It is forgotten. The man who did the
deed died with it. Now I would be a teacher of jujutsu.’

“‘Well said! You have learnt to defend yourself from yourself and you
would teach others. I will give you fresh orders.’ Kazuma stood like a
soldier before his general.

“‘Teach what you have learnt. Then come back, and in this place of
desolation where you fought and conquered more than you knew make a
garden and build a bridge. Go now,—in power!’

“He bowed low, Kazuma also. ‘My friend!’— As the words met his ear they
melted in a confused murmur of human voices and he struggled back to
consciousness in the school of jujutsu in Yedo. Men knelt and stooped
about him fearful lest he had gone so far on the way of death that even
the powerful shout of _kiai_ could not reach him. But he rose and
gravely thanking his executioner went and stood before his master.

“My son, Kazuma became the greatest teacher of jujutsu in Japan. He
could disarm and bring to his feet a two-sworded man shrieking for
mercy. With his shout he could do to death any evil-doer within hearing
and restore the fool when he had mastered his lesson. Power was mighty
in his step, his gesture, his glance. What money he made, and it was
much, was for those who had need, he himself living in an untouchable
content.

“Thus time went by.

“One day, having saved the life of the only son of a noble house, the
father coming to him said:

“‘My lord, what shall I give you? In mercy accept a gift lest I and my
house break under the weight of gratitude. Have pity and take!’

“So, after much musing, Kazuma replied.

“‘You have bought great lands by the river Koga. I grow old. Give me, my
lord, if you will, a corner by the river, very small, where I may make a
garden and build a wooden bridge for those who must cross the rapids.
Very dangerous is the current.’

“So it was done and he made his garden and built with his own hands a
bridge of wood, and there was no day but the people blessed his name and
learnt from him that power lies about them for the taking and that its
best use at the present time is to make gardens and be a builder of
bridges. Other uses later. My son, Kazuma still walks in his garden and
he sits beneath his willow and his sword hangs at his side. The bridge
leads where you know, for you have crossed it.”

There was a moment’s silence and it spoke as never yet words. He
resumed.

“My son, make your own garden. And there is room for many bridges.”

When my mind dwells on beauty the face of the Abbot full of unworded
meanings floats on clear air before me. It ended and completed the story
so that all he left unsaid was written in fire between the spoken words.
And I understood and like himself cannot express more than the alphabet.

I returned from Naniwa by the hidden way. Flowers blossomed along the
moors. I never saw more lovely, and where the corpse had lain children
were dancing in a ring. Where the broken house had crouched among trees,
was a shrine to the Thousand-Handed Spirit of Mercy beloved in Japan. A
child lay in her bosom and her hidden eyes were bent upon it in a
moonlight rapture. May I live in that country for the eternities!

I crossed the bridge and walked beside the river to the garden of Arima.
He sat by the water plaiting a basket of willow, and rose, bowing, to
meet me.

“I have come,” I said, “to learn jujutsu.”

He smiled.

I have learnt it and with it the secret of power. I go in and out of
Kazuma’s garden. And beyond.

And the Abbot, who was once Kazuma, and will be more, sits there, girded
with his sword.

                                THE END



                           TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple
spellings occur, majority use has been employed.

Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors
occur.

A cover was created for this eBook and is placed in the public domain.





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