I
And Maheshwara said: So then, on a day appointed, in the light half of
the month of Chaitra,[1] King Chand and his retinue arrived at the
capital of King Mitra, just as his ancestor the sun was rising over the
hills on which it stood. And at the gates, Yogeshwara was waiting,
barefooted, with an escort, to do him honour, and food and drink of
every description, to refresh him. And he introduced himself by name
and family, and said: O King, thy coming here is altogether fortunate.
For see, the Lord of Day rises auspiciously on one side, as if to greet
and welcome his descendant and rival on the other. And now my old eyes
are as it were dazzled, by two rising suns. And Chand said: I marvel,
that my very great grandfather has not long ago died, of sheer fatigue,
being obliged to climb up here every day to reach thee, as I have now.
For thy capital is one that deserves to be inhabited by birds, rather
than by men, and now the world lies, as it seems, beneath us in the
clouds.
And when they were sufficiently refreshed, Yogeshwara handed over King
Chand's attendants to his own, and said: Maháráj, as for thee, I will
myself be thy guide, for I have matters to say to thee in private,
which, but for his age, our King would have been here to say to thee
himself. And as he led the King away, Chand said to him: O Yogeshwara,
though to-day I see thee for the very first time, fame has told me of
thee much; and they say, that thou art a very mine of craft, with a
soul as full of snares as is a hunter's net of holes. And now I am
afraid of thee and of thy net.
And Yogeshwara laughed, and he said: King, those who transact the
business of states, even for a very little while, make enemies: how
much more one who like me has borne the burden of this kingdom on his
shoulders all his life! And it is these enemies of mine, who
calumniate me, saying that I am crafty: for all my friends know that I
am a very simple old man, who desires nothing more than to shift his
burden on to other shoulders, and spend his life's evening in the
practice of austerities: which, if only the Lord of Obstacles be
favourable for just a very little longer, I shall presently do. But as
for difficult affairs, the King my master leaves them in abler hands
than mine, as in the present case, with which I have no more to do than
just to be thy guide, as now I am, to the minister entrusted with its
management. For our King's family and thine are hereditary enemies,
and there are some matters to be settled of extreme delicacy, such as
can only be adjusted by one, in whose especial care the honour of the
family is placed. And there is but one, qualified to deal with this
affair, and it is, as thou hast doubtless anticipated, no other than
the Guru[2] of the King: to whom, therefore, I am commissioned now to
lead thee. And Yogeshwara paused, for a moment, and he said: Maháráj,
it is known to thee, who art versed in affairs, how important, in
matters of this kind, is absolute secrecy. Now, eavesdroppers and
busybodies abound, in this city. And therefore, it is given out, that
thy reception will take place in the palace hall, where everything has
been accordingly prepared, to throw everybody off the scent. But in
the meantime, while all faces are turned in that direction, I am
instructed to conduct thee, at the very instant of thy arrival, to a
place least of all to be suspected as the scene of a diplomatic
interview, and chosen with that object by the Guru himself, where he
will personally settle everything beforehand, with thee alone. And in
this way, no one will have had any time to penetrate the design, and
the object is attained.
And all the while he spoke, Yogeshwara led the King away, by winding
paths that climbed about the hill, through a wood, till at last they
reached a garden, whose air was loaded with the fragrance springing
from the jostling spirits of innumerable flowers wandering about at
random like _wyabhicháris_[3] looking for their lover, the mountain
breeze, out of jealousy lest he should be sporting with their rivals.
And they came in time to a terrace that was hanging as it were
suspended on the very edge of a precipice, about which the early
morning mists still floated, drifting here and there, rising up out of
the valley, that stretched like a cloudy ocean, far away below. And on
the very brink of that terrace there stood a little arbour, almost
buried in a bushy clump of trees. And there came from that half-hidden
arbour the sound of the humming of innumerable bees, that were hanging
like clouds of another kind about the branches that concealed it, and
clustering around them like troops of black lovers struggling for the
favour of the snowy blossoms which kept tumbling from their places to
lie strewn about the ground like pallid corpses slain in the madness of
excitement by those boisterous wooers, the bees. And the delicious
scent of those blossom-laden mountain bushes was wafted towards them in
yet other clouds that were invisible to the eye, seeming to say by
their irresistible aroma: What though you cannot see us, we are not
inferior to our visible rivals, the mists and the bees, in making this
arbour a place without a peer. And Yogeshwara stood still, and looked
towards it, and he said: Maháráj, it is well chosen by the Guru. Who
would ever dream of a diplomatic interview, in such a place as that?[4]
And he looked at the King, and laughed softly, rubbing his hands
together. And he said: O King, the Guru, though he is very old, would
have been here before us, had not thy activity in climbing taken us by
surprise, and even anticipated the sun. But now I will go very
quickly, and bring him; and in the meantime, the arbour is empty, and
thou canst go in without fear of any intrusion, before his arrival.
For I have taken special care to secure it this morning from all
interruption, even of its owner.
And the King went forward, pushing his way among the trees. And as
soon as he was lost among them, Yogeshwara went quickly round those
trees, and entered them on tiptoe on the opposite side, and hid himself
in an ambush carefully prepared beforehand for that very purpose by
himself, from which he could see and hear everything that passed
within, being himself unseen. And he said to himself: Now will I
myself play the eavesdropper, unknown to them both. For in matters of
policy, nobody should be trusted, but one's own eyes and ears. And the
best way to hear, is to overhear, and to see, is to peep. And so will
I make a third party to their interview. And though my own diplomatic
interviews could be numbered by the score, certain it is, that I cannot
recollect one, to which I looked forward with even half such anxiety as
this.