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.