Atmâ directed his steps on the morning following his interview with
Junda Kowr northward towards the confines of Kashmir. It was a lovely
morning. A humid mist veiled the distant mountains, towards which his
steps tended. Seen through its tender swaying folds, how vague and
beautiful their savage slopes appeared. Light and shade, ominous gloom
and shining crag were hid from view. How often thus the morn of life,
"In dim eclipse disastrous twilight sheds."
A twilight not dispelled until the light dawns on a retrospect whose
bitterness could not be borne unless seen side by side with the other
picture of Paradise.
But he had no thoughts other than of glad anticipation. Past pain and
recent unrest were forgotten in the renewed joy of freedom. He cast care
to the breeze for he had not lived long enough to know that the
discontent which is the birthright of the children of Adam is not
dependent on circumstances, but often attains most baleful activity when
events seem least likely to harass the spirit. It was the morning of
life and of love, and the obscurity in which youth walks is no dull haze
but a golden glamour.
In one old form of the creation story is told the first utterance of
Nature, the cry of chaos, "Let love be!" Through what inspiration of
wisdom it comes to us out of the silence we do not know, but feel that
the earlier tale of a divine mandate, "Light be!" is not at variance
with it. The cry of chaos lingers in the heart of the race, and each new
man in the morning of his being utters it in no doubt of its fulfilment
in his own destiny. He loves mankind, and would be beloved; he loves
nature, and perceives no relentless purpose in her variable moods; and
perhaps most of all he loves his own soul with a love whose
disenchantment is to be the sorest agony that an eternity can afford.
The cry of chaos lingers, and the story of creation is repeated in each
life history. The cry meets with no response, but instead, relentlessly,
surely, aye, and most mercifully, the facts and events group themselves
about the cowering spirit, that before Love celestial Light may arise.
It is a terrible destiny, devised by a God, and only possible in its
severity for creatures to whom it has been declared, "Behold, ye are
gods!"
At noon Atmâ rested beside a pool. It was a sequestered spot surrounded
by thickets. The rushes grew rank and tall on the margin and in the
water. The soft cooing of the doves hidden in the wood broke the
stillness. He ate of the slender fare which he carried, and reclined on
a flower couch until sleep closed his eyes. The doves cooed on, and
bright lizards watched him.
Presently he awoke with a start. A rush of wind, a sudden plash of water
were followed by the whizzing of an arrow through the air. He was close
to the water. Softly peering through the reeds he saw, palpitating and
stricken with fear, a snowy swan. The arrow had missed the stainless
breast and it was unhurt. The wild creatures of his mountain home were
dear to Atmâ, and he would fain shield the beautiful bird.
Two youths emerged from the thicket at some distance from where he
stood. He went to meet them, smiling at the folly of his half-formed
intention of guiding them from their prey. After courteous salutation
they inquired whether he had seen the swan.
"It is a bird reared by ourselves," they said, "which strayed from us
two days ago. We thought to wound it in the wing and recover it, but the
creature is so wild that doubtless it is as well that it be killed
out-right."
Atmâ had slept, he told them, had been aroused by their approach, had
hardly realized the cause of his awakening. "The swan is difficult to
rear," he said, "if indeed such effort be not fruitless."
"It is fruitless," they assented, "but we need not search hereabout if
you have not seen it. You must have heard the flap of his wing had it
alighted near you," and they turned their steps in a contrary direction.
Atmâ watched their vain search until on the opposite side of the pool
they disappeared into the wood.
He stole a glance into the hiding place of the swan. The soft plumage
had not the dazzling purity which he had known, and the beautiful neck
that should be proudly curved, drooped.
"Poor imprisoned creature," he thought, "grown in bondage, alien to its
own nature of strength and beauty."
He watched it unperceived, timidly washing its plumage in the still
deep water. Soon it floated further from the bank. Now and then it
waited and listened. The story of its captivity was told again in its
stealthy, trembling happiness.
But high overhead, between it and a disc of blue sky, intervened a
stream of lordly birds flying south. From their ranks wafted a cry, and
as it fell there rose a wild echo, an unfamiliar note from the captive
swan.[1] It rose skyward, wearied wing and broken spirit forgotten. It
might be danger, but it was Home, and like a disembodied spirit it
ascended to a life that, altogether new, was to be for the first time
altogether familiar.
A thought of kindred saddened the heart of Atmâ. In the loss of parents
and brethren lay, he thought, the sole cause of the heaviness that
oppressed him. Their restoration would have made existence complete. He
had lost them before he had awakened to the knowledge that those we love
are even, when nearest, very far away. Humanity does not hear the voice
of kindred on earth.
I find
In all the earth
Like things with like combined,
How happy, happy from their birth
Are silly things, in guileless mirth
Who seek them out and greatly love their kind.
How e'en
The crafty snake,
Like dove of gentle mien,
Doth with his fellows converse take
The love-notes well from wood and brake
That tell betwixt some lives some barriers intervene.
Ah me,
Shall only one
Of golden things that be,
One only underneath the sun
In dolour here life's journey run,
Speeding the way alone to great Eternity?
The Soul
It sits apart,
Craving a prison dole
Of ruth and healing for its hurt,
As piteous captive should cajole,
Vainly, unheeding ear afar in stranger mart.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] That this incident is suggested by Hans Andersen's beautiful story
is so evident as scarcely to need acknowledgment. The thoughts embodied
here occurred to me in such early childhood that I do not experience a
sense of guilt in thus appropriating the lesson which I have no doubt
the writer intended.