Part 12
“It was a night like this, and I was going with my mother, my wife, and child to a neighbouring island to visit some relatives. We were travelling by a small steamer, and in the early hours of the morning were coasting along the shore of the island. The moon was then setting, but it was extraordinarily brilliant, and I tried to find a spot in the shadow where I could sleep. As I settled myself comfortably, I noticed that my mother was standing, looking over the bulwark. It might have been an hour later when I awoke, and, as we were near the port, I went to rouse my people and collect my luggage. I could not find my mother anywhere. The rest of my party and all the other passengers were asleep till I roused them, and no one had seen or heard anything unusual. We all of us searched the ship in every direction, but without success, and the only conclusion was that the poor old lady had somehow fallen overboard. By this time the vessel had reached the anchorage, and there was nothing to be done but to go ashore. I took my family to the house of our friends, some miles from the landing-place, and then wondered what to do next. The village we had come to was on the shore, and not very far from the place where I had last seen my mother on board the ship. I determined, therefore, to drive to a spot as nearly opposite that place as I could get, and then to walk along the beach, and ask at the huts of the Chinese fishermen whether they had seen a body in the water. The first two or three cottages I came to were empty, but I made my way to a solitary hut which I saw standing in the centre of a tiny bay. In that hut, to my surprise and great joy, I found my mother and two Chinese fishermen. The men told me that they had gone out before daylight to set their nets, and in the light of the moon, then almost on the horizon, they saw a woman, as they described it, “standing in the water,” so that, though her head only was visible, she seemed to be upright, and they imagined she must be supported somehow, or resting her feet on an old fishing stake, for the water was fifteen or twenty feet deep there. She did not cry out or seem frightened, only rather dazed. They rowed to the spot and pulled her into the boat, and just then the moon sank out of sight. The old lady had lost her skirt, but otherwise seemed little the worse, and, as far as the fishermen could see, she was not resting on any support. When I asked her how she got into the sea, she said she could not tell, but she was looking at the moon, and she saw such lovely flowers in it that she felt she must try to get to them. Then she found herself in the water, but all the time she kept looking at the flowers till the fishermen pulled her into their boat and brought her on shore. I took her to the house where we were staying, and I have left her in the island ever since, because I dare not let her travel by sea again.”
XXVIII
THE “DEVI”
I am in Agra. The Japanese say that if you have not been to Nikko you cannot say _kekko_. That is an insular conceit, meant, no doubt, originally for Japan and the Japanese only; but national pride--speaking as the frog spoke who lived under half a coconut-shell, and thought the limits of his vision comprised the universe--now declares that the Nikko temples are incomparable. I cannot claim to have seen all the great buildings in the world, but I have visited some of the most famous, and I say with confidence that the Tâj at Agra is the most perfect triumph of the architect’s and builder’s skill in existence. I visited this tomb first by daylight, and it is difficult to give you any idea of the extraordinary effect the first sight of it produced on me. I drove in a wretched two-horse gharry, along a dusty and uninteresting road, until the rickety vehicle was pulled up with a jerk in front of a great red stone portal, and I got out. Through that lofty Gothic arch, and framed by it, appeared a vision of white loveliness, an amazing structure of dazzling marble, shooting towers and minarets into a clear, blue, cloudless sky.
The Tâj--the Crown of Kings--stands on a raised terrace; it is a considerable distance from the gate, and the eye is led to it by a wide, straight path, bisecting a garden, which, at the first glance, seems a mass of dark green foliage. The garden is extensive, and shut in by a high wall. Just outside this wall, to right and left of the Tâj, are a palace and a mosque of deep red sandstone. More than that you cannot see, but the river Jumna flows under the rear wall of the raised terrace on which the Tâj stands.
The marble monument, which contains the tombs of Shah Jahan and Mumtaz Mahal, is an enormous building, and represents seventeen years’ work of a force of twenty thousand men. But the design is so faultless, the proportions so perfect, the whole effect so exquisitely graceful, that, until you are close to the wide steps leading up to the terrace, and realise that men standing by the walls look almost like flies, you are not struck by any sense of extraordinary size.
The building itself is superb. The conception is absolutely unique, and the harmony of every part a crowning triumph; the splendour of material, the purity of that dazzling, unbroken whiteness--these are a joy and a delight.
But the surroundings, the setting in which this jewel stands, are so marvellously well calculated to exactly frame the picture, that the whole scene seems a vision, unearthly in its beauty. When once that sensation passes, when one has gazed, and blinked, and rubbed one’s eyes, and compassed the reality of it all, one is profoundly impressed by the genius that could raise such a heavenly edifice, and one is proudly thankful to have lived that hour of life, to have felt the soul stir, and to carry away an imperishable memory of one of the noblest of human achievements.
The main entrance is by a great arched door, bordered by Arabic characters in black marble let into the white wall. Pierced marble windows admit a dim and softened light to a lofty chamber. In the comparative gloom one slowly discerns a marble wall surrounding the centre space. The wall is inlaid with precious stones--jasper and onyx, sardius and topaz, amethyst, chrysobel, and sapphire, set in floral designs. Within this enclosure are the white marble tombs of Shah Jahan and his wife.
Last night the moon was full, and, an hour before midnight, I went and sat in that dark stone palace, and revelled in the beauty of a spectacle that cannot be equalled on earth. It is said that the palace was built for Royal ladies, and was specially designed to give them the most perfect view of the Tâj. There is an open stone verandah, over which I leaned and gazed in ecstasy at the scene. The dark trees of the garden spread from under the walls of the palace over a wide space of ground, and from them rose the incomparable Tâj; minarets, walls, and windows, blazing with silver sheen under the direct rays of the moon, softened in the half shadows, darkening to deep tones of grey on the river face. Slightly to the left of the Tâj, and as far beyond it as the Tâj was from me, stood the mosque, a splendid foil to the glittering radiance of the tomb. In the shadow, cast by the great mass of marble, rippled the shallow waters of the wide river. The rear walls of the building are on the edge of the bank, and beyond the Tâj the river stretches away in a silver ribbon towards the city. In a line to the right of the Tâj, and distant about three miles, rises a dark hill, crowned by the Palace and Citadel of Agra. The enclosing walls and battlements, built of the same red sandstone, were scarcely distinguishable from the hill; but the moonlight caught the white marble buildings within, and innumerable lights twinkled from walls and windows.
I must have been a long time in my solitude, intoxicated by the wonder of the night and the splendour of the scene, when I heard the strains of a violin, played with extraordinary skill. The music seemed familiar (for I had heard the songs of many Eastern lands), and, moreover, I became certain that the instrument was being played somewhere in the great building wherein I chanced to be. The sounds ceased, but presently the musician began a Persian dance which I recognised; and as the wild air leaped from the strings in quickening waves of sound, the devilry of the mad nautch seemed to possess me, and it became impossible not to beat time to the rhythm of the music. Again there was silence, and I wondered greatly who could make a violin throb with such feeling, and where the minstrel could be. Whilst still absorbed by these thoughts, and anxiously listening for the faintest sound, my ear caught the strains of an Arab love-song that I knew well enough, but had never heard played like this before, nor yet under such circumstances. The air was in the minor key, and was, I knew, played only on three strings, but it seemed to wail and shiver from the instrument out into the night, through the trees, across the bright lights and deep shadows, to mingle with the crooning of the river, to fill the atmosphere and soar towards the empyrean. It was like the song of a lark at the dawn of a day in spring. The power of the musician was such that Tâj and city, mosque and river and garden faded away, and I distinctly saw a narrow street in an Arab town. Flat-roofed buildings, pierced by a few small iron-barred windows, lined either side of a street, which rose in a gentle ascent till it twisted out of sight round a distant corner. A brilliant moon, shining in a cloudless sky, threw into white light the roofs on one side the street. But the houses on the other side cast a deep shadow, and in that shadow a man, with his back to me, was standing playing the three-stringed Arab _gambus_, and singing--singing as though for his life, in a low, sweet voice--up to a barred window whence issued a ray of yellow light. I thought I could even understand the words of the passionate _serenata_, though I know almost as little of the Arabic as of the Patagonian tongue. It was the music, the angelic skill of the violinist, which had bewitched me, and I stood enthralled by that soul-entrancing melody.
Before you write me down an emotional ass, remember where I was, and try to imagine what I saw, what I heard. I cannot expect to impress you with any true idea of either scene or song.
While those yearning, thrilling, imploring waves of sound cried to the exquisite beauty of the night, I was spell-bound. But, in the silence that followed, I reasoned that the music came from above me, probably from the roof, and that I might well seek the author of it. I passed through a maze of passages, where light and shadow alternated, and, as I groped about to find a staircase, I was guided to my object by the strains of the violin, and a gleam of light which, striking through a narrow window, disclosed a winding stair.
As I expected, the stairs led up to the roof, and I was not a little surprised by what I saw there. The head of the staircase was in a corner of the great flat space forming the roof, and a parapet, about thirty inches high, completely enclosed it, except for a flight of outside steps leading down to another and lower roof. The cement floor and surrounding parapet were so brilliantly lighted by the moon, that every inch unshadowed was as bright as day. Four people occupied the space, and my eye was first caught by a white-robed, dark-complexioned boy, who, leaning against the parapet, played a violin with closed eyes, his face set in an expression of dreamy rapture. At a little distance from him, but nearer to me, were a woman and two girls. The woman sat upon a quantity of silks spread over the parapet, while she leaned against a pile of cushions placed against a round stone column. I should say she was hardly twenty. Her skin was very fair, her complexion wonderfully clear, her hair black and abundant, her eyes large, dark, and liquid, while long curling lashes threw a shadow far down her cheeks. The eyebrows were strongly marked and slightly arched, like the artificial spur of a game-cock. Her nose was straight and rather small; her scarlet lips made a perfect Cupid’s bow, and the upper lip was so short that it disclosed teeth of extreme regularity with a whiteness and sheen as of pearls. The chin was round, the face oval; the ears, hands, and feet very small, but beautifully formed. This woman, or girl, was clothed in silk skirts of a dull red, heavy with gold thread; she wore a jacket of white satin, embroidered with small red and gold flowers, and fastened by three diamond brooches. On her head, falling in graceful folds over her shoulders, was a dark gossamer veil, studded with tiny gold stars, and bordered by a wide hem of shining gold lace. In one hand she listlessly held a long spray of stephanotis. She seemed absorbed by the music, and the wonder of that soft white light, which so enhanced her loveliness that I stared in wide-eyed admiration, forgetful of Eastern customs, of politeness, and all else, save only that fascinating figure. At her feet, on the roof, sat two girls, attendants, both clad in bright-coloured silk garments, and both wearing gold-embroidered gossamer veils.
Not one of the group seemed to notice my presence, and I heard no words exchanged.
* * * * *
It was long past midnight; the violinist had excelled himself in pulse-stirring dances, in passionate love-songs and laments that sounded like the sobbing of despairing hearts. I had gradually moved forward, and was leaning over the parapet looking towards Agra, and feeling that no moment of a night like this could be missed or forgotten, when suddenly I heard a sharp cry, half of surprise, half of dread. I turned and saw my four companions all gazing with startled eyes at something beyond me, out past the parapet, towards the glistening river. I turned again, and I now saw a white marble bridge stretching in a single graceful arch--an arch like a strung bow--springing from the centre of the back wall of the Tâj across the river, till it rested on the farther bank. There rose another Tâj! the exact duplicate of the one standing on the hither side of the stream, as white, as graceful, as perfect in all respects as its fellow.
The roadway of the bridge was enclosed in a sort of long gallery, the sides of marble fretwork, with windows at intervals opening on to the river. The roof was formed of marble slabs. One could see the shining water through the perforated walls of the gallery; occasionally, where two opposite windows were open, there were glimpses of the distant lights, the palace, and the hill. The beautiful flat arch of that bridge, its graceful lines, and the airy lightness of the structure are unforgetable. Think of that bridge, that pure white bow of glistening stone, spanning the river’s width, and tying Tâj to Tâj!
As I feasted my eyes, in wonder and admiration, on this alluring vision, a mist rose from the river, gathered volume and density, shut out the distance, enveloped bridge and river, bank and building, and hung in a thick white cloud, the ends creeping rapidly to right and left across the level plain. I looked upward; the moon was slowly sinking towards the west; it had a faint bluish tinge, a common effect at very late hours of the night, when it seems to shine with even greater brilliance.
I turned to look for my companions, but found I was alone. There was not a sign of lady, or maid, or minstrel. They had disappeared, vanished without a sound; and, of their late presence, there was no sign--except the spray of stephanotis. It was strange, I thought, as I walked to the spot where the flower lay and picked it up, but one cannot be astonished at anything in the East.
* * * * *
I felt a chill puff of wind, and I glanced back towards Agra. The mist was moving, rising rapidly in wisps; it was thin and transparent, and I could indistinctly see the background through it. The marble bridge, the other Tâj--that second tomb Shah Jahan _meant_ to build--were gone. Clearly my imagination, a mirage, or the mist had played me a trick. And then the girl, the violinist: were they also the phantoms of my brain? Surely that was impossible. Why, I can see the girl now; I could tell you every detail of her face, her figure, _pose_, and dress. The violinist could have been no spirit; though he played like an angel, his music was earthly, and perfectly familiar to me.
I gave it up and went away, wondering; but I took the stephanotis, and it stands in front of me now in a tiny vase of water.
* * * * *
To-day, in daylight, when the sun was high, and I had eaten and bandied commonplaces, and knew that I was sane, I went to find the old creature who keeps the gate of the garden of the Tâj. I asked him who was in the Red Palace late last night, and he said that not having been there himself he could not tell; moreover, that he did not turn night into day, but slept, like other respectable people. I felt snubbed but still curious, so I said--
“The boy who plays the violin, who is he?”
“What boy? Where? How should I know?” he said, but he began to look rather startled.
“On the roof of the Red Palace, over there,” I replied, pointing to the corner of the building visible from where we stood. “And the lady, the young lady in the beautiful clothes, who is she?”
But the old man had started, and at mention of the girl he dropped the stick on which he leaned; and as he slowly and painfully recovered himself from the effort of picking it up, I heard him say, in an awe-struck whisper, “The _Devi_!”
My attempts to extract anything further from this old fossil were futile. He hobbled off to his den, muttering to himself, and evidently anxious to be rid of my society.
After this rebuff I hesitate to make further inquiries from others, because I know no one here; because the white people never concern themselves with native matters, and are mainly interested in gossip; and because I am conscious that my story invites doubt, and must rest on my word alone. It is not the personal ridicule I am afraid of, but I don’t like the idea of jest at the expense of the girl whom I saw on that parapet, the _Devi_ whose stephanotis perfumes my room.
XXIX
THE DEATH-CHAIN
When last I wrote and told you about the _Devi_, I had a vague hope that my stephanotis would, indirectly, prove that the lovely girl, from whose hand it had fallen, gathered it in some heavenly garden, beyond mortal ken, where Death and Time are unknown.
I did not like to say so, but I meant to keep the flower, and, if I had seen it fade and die, I should have been disappointed, perhaps even rather surprised. You will say such fantastic ideas can only come to people whose minds have been warped by contact with Oriental mysticism; and, while you are probably right, I reply that when you have a Tâj, when you have an atmosphere of sunshine unsoiled by coal-smoke, when, in fine, any really big miracle is wrought in your Western world, then _you_ may see a _Devi_ sitting in the moonlight, _you_ may hear angelic music played by a boy unknown to the critics, and _you_ may even weave romances round a spray of stephanotis.
I guarded my flower carefully, and, for five days, I could not see that it showed any sign of fading. True I kept it in water, even when I was travelling; and, if it came from a heavenly garden, I dare say that care was altogether needless; but we are creatures of habit, and my Faith was not very robust, and leaned somewhat heavily on Hope. I had to leave Agra and journey through Rajputana. On the fifth day from that night, which I had almost said “was worth, of other nights, a hundred thousand million years,” I was in Jaipur, and from there I visited the glorious Palace of Amber. I restrain myself with difficulty from going into raptures over that ancient castle, which, for so many centuries, has stood on that distant hillside and watched its many masters come and go, while the ladies loved, and gossiped, and hated, in the Hall of a Thousand Delights, and the horsemen and spearmen went down from the gates to the dusty road, the seething plains, whence many of them never returned.
I will spare you. You are long-suffering, but there must be a limit even to your patience. I know that _qui s’excuse s’accuse_, and I offer no excuse for trying to draw for you the pictures that are only seen beyond beaten tracks. Ruskin has said, “The greatest thing the human soul ever does in this world is to _see_ something, and tell what it _saw_ in a plain way. Hundreds of people can talk for one who can think, but thousands can think for one who can see. To see clearly is poetry, prophecy, and religion all in one.” If thousands can think for one who can see, surely there must be still thousands who see and cannot tell “in a plain way” what they saw. There are millions whose eyes are to them only what animals’ eyes are--aids to the gratification of appetite. There are thousands more who do see and appreciate, yet cannot put what they have seen into words; cannot communicate their own feelings, cannot help another to share, even a little, in the joy that has come to them through greater opportunities. I have often wondered why people who have seen the most interesting places on earth, have been present perhaps on memorable occasions, and have met the most famous people of their time, showed, in their conversation, no sign of these advantages, and, if questioned, could only give the most disappointing, uninteresting description of any personal experiences. Then there are the very few who have seen, and can help others to see again, through their eyes; but they seldom do it, because they have found that, with rare exceptions, the relation of their experiences is but little appreciated. Ruskin himself is one of the few who can see and can describe, but others may hesitate to string the plain words, knowing how little worthy they will be of what the eyes have seen.
Some of this I may have been thinking, as I slowly made my way back to Jaipur; but, when I reached the house of my sojourn, almost the first thing I noticed was that the tiny vase which had carried my spray of stephanotis was empty of all but water. Of course I sent for everybody, and made minute inquiries, and, of course, every one had seen the flower, and no one had touched it, and I was left to draw any conclusion I pleased.
I drew none. There are no data on which to come to a conclusion; but the facts remind me of a story I will tell you.
I have an Italian friend. He is a very uncommon type, and worthy of far more attention than I will give him now, because, for the moment, I am concerned rather with his story than with him. He was in Egypt, and whilst there he discovered a buried city. Carefully and wisely he kept his knowledge to himself, till, owing to an absence of some months, he lost all trace of the place, and never found it again. A sand-storm had buried it once more.