He would espy2 some shadow moving behind the veil. A tinkling3 sound would come to his car from afar, and would set him dreaming of the ankles whose tiny golden bells sang at each step. Ah, the rosy4 red tender feet that walked the dust of the earth like God's mercy on the fallen! The poet had placed them on the altar of his heart, where he wove his songs to the tune5 of those golden bells. Doubt never arose in his mind as to whose shadow it was that moved behind the screen, and whose anklets they were that sang to the time of his beating heart.
Manjari, the maid of the princess, passed by the poet's house on her way to the river, and she never missed a day to have a few words with him on the sly. When she found the road deserted6, and the shadow of dusk on the land, she would boldly enter his room, and sit at the corner of his carpet. There was a suspicion of an added care in the choice of the colour of her veil, in the setting of the flower in her hair.
People smiled and whispered at this, and they were not to blame. For Shekhar the poet never took the trouble to hide the fact that these meetings were a pure joy to him.
The meaning of her name was the spray of flowers. One must confess that for an ordinary mortal it was sufficient in its sweetness. But Shekhar made his own addition to this name, and called her the Spray of Spring Flowers. And ordinary mortals shook their heads and said, Ah, me!
In the spring songs that the poet sang the praise of the spray of spring flowers was conspicuously7 reiterated8; and the king winked9 and smiled at him when he heard it, and the poet smiled in answer.
The king would put him the question; "Is it the business of the bee merely to hum in the court of the spring?"
The poet would answer; "No, but also to sip11 the honey of the spray of spring flowers."
And they all laughed in the king's hall. And it was rumoured12 that the Princess Akita also laughed at her maid's accepting the poet's name for her, and Manjari felt glad in her heart.
Thus truth and falsehood mingle13 in life—and to what God builds man adds his own decoration.
Only those were pure truths which were sung by the poet. The theme was Krishna, the lover god, and Radha, the beloved, the Eternal Man and the Eternal Woman, the sorrow that comes from the beginning of time, and the joy without end. The truth of these songs was tested in his inmost heart by everybody from the beggar to the king himself. The poet's songs were on the lips of all. At the merest glimmer14 of the moon and the faintest whisper of the summer breeze his songs would break forth15 in the land from windows and courtyards, from sailing-boats, from shadows of the wayside trees, in numberless voices.
Thus passed the days happily. The poet recited, the king listened, the hearers applauded, Manjari passed and repassed by the poet's room on her way to the river—the shadow flitted behind the screened balcony, and the tiny golden bells tinkled16 from afar.
Just then set forth from his home in the south a poet on his path of conquest. He came to King Narayan, in the kingdom of Amarapur. He stood before the throne, and uttered a verse in praise of the king. He had challenged all the court poets on his way, and his career of victory had been unbroken.
The king received him with honour, and said: "Poet, I offer you welcome."
Pundarik, the poet, proudly replied: "Sire, I ask for war."
Shekhar, the court poet of the king did not know how the battle of the muse17 was to be waged. He had no sleep at night. The mighty18 figure of the famous Pundarik, his sharp nose curved like a scimitar, and his proud head tilted19 on one side, haunted the poet's vision in the dark.
With a trembling heart Shekhar entered the arena20 in the morning. The theatre was filled with the crowd.
The poet greeted his rival with a smile and a bow. Pundarik returned it with a slight toss of his head, and turned his face towards his circle of adoring followers21 with a meaning smile. Shekhar cast his glance towards the screened balcony high above, and saluted22 his lady in his mind, saying! "If I am the winner at the combat to-day, my lady, thy victorious23 name shall be glorified24."
The trumpet25 sounded. The great crowd stood up, shouting victory to the king. The king, dressed in an ample robe of white, slowly came into the hall like a floating cloud of autumn, and sat on his throne.
Pundarik stood up, and the vast hall became still. With his head raised high and chest expanded, he began in his thundering voice to recite the praise of King Narayan. His words burst upon the walls of the hall like breakers of the sea, and seemed to rattle26 against the ribs27 of the listening crowd. The skill with which he gave varied28 meanings to the name Narayan, and wove each letter of it through the web of his verses in all mariner29 of combinations, took away the breath of his amazed hearers.
For some minutes after he took his seat his voice continued to vibrate among the numberless pillars of the king's court and in thousands of speechless hearts. The learned professors who had come from distant lands raised their right hands, and cried, Bravo!
The king threw a glance on Shekhar's face, and Shekhar in answer raised for a moment his eyes full of pain towards his master, and then stood up like a stricken deer at bay. His face was pale, his bashfulness was almost that of a woman, his slight youthful figure, delicate in its outline, seemed like a tensely strung vina ready to break out in music at the least touch.
His head was bent30, his voice was low, when he began. The first few verses were almost inaudible. Then he slowly raised his head, and his clear sweet voice rose into the sky like a quivering flame of fire. He began with the ancient legend of the kingly line lost in the haze31 of the past, and brought it down through its long course of heroism32 and matchless generosity33 to the present age. He fixed34 his gaze on the king's face, and all the vast and unexpressed love of the people for the royal house rose like incense35 in his song, and enwreathed the throne on all sides. These were his last words when, trembling, he took his seat: "My master, I may be beaten in play of words, but not in my love for thee."
Tears filled the eyes of the hearers, and the stone walls shook with cries of victory.
Mocking this popular outburst of feeling, with an august shake of his head and a contemptuous sneer36, Pundarik stood up, and flung this question to the assembly; "What is there superior to words?" In a moment the hall lapsed37 into silence again.
Then with a marvellous display of learning, he proved that the Word was in the beginning, that the Word was God. He piled up quotations38 from scriptures39, and built a high altar for the Word to be seated above all that there is in heaven and in earth. He repeated that question in his mighty voice: "What is there superior to words?"
Proudly he looked around him. None dared to accept his challenge, and he slowly took his seat like a lion who had just made a full meal of its victim. The pandits shouted, Bravo! The king remained silent with wonder, and the poet Shekhar felt himself of no account by the side of this stupendous learning. The assembly broke up for that day.
Next day Shekhar began his song. It was of that day when the pipings of love's flute40 startled for the first time the hushed air of the Vrinda forest. The shepherd women did not know who was the player or whence came the music. Sometimes it seemed to come from the heart of the south wind, and sometimes from the straying clouds of the hilltops. It came with a message of tryst41 from the land of the sunrise, and it floated from the verge42 of sunset with its sigh of sorrow. The stars seemed to be the stops of the instrument that flooded the dreams of the night with melody. The music seemed to burst all at once from all sides, from fields and groves43, from the shady lanes and lonely roads, from the melting blue of the sky, from the shimmering44 green of the grass. They neither knew its meaning nor could they find words to give utterance45 to the desire of their hearts. Tears filled their eyes, and their life seemed to long for a death that would be its consummation.
Shekhar forgot his audience, forgot the trial of his strength with a rival. He stood alone amid his thoughts that rustled46 and quivered round him like leaves in a summer breeze, and sang the Song of the Flute. He had in his mind the vision of an image that had taken its shape from a shadow, and the echo of a faint tinkling sound of a distant footstep.
He took his seat. His hearers trembled with the sadness of an indefinable delight, immense and vague, and they forgot to applaud him. As this feeling died away Pundarik stood up before the throne and challenged his rival to define who was this Lover and who was the Beloved. He arrogantly47 looked around him, he smiled at his followers and then put the question again: "Who is Krishna, the lover, and who is Radha, the beloved?"
Then he began to analyse the roots of those names,—and various interpretations48 of their meanings. He brought before the bewildered audience all the intricacies of the different schools of metaphysics with consummate49 skill. Each letter of those names he divided from its fellow, and then pursued them with a relentless50 logic51 till they fell to the dust in confusion, to be caught up again and restored to a meaning never before imagined by the subtlest of word-mongers.
The pandits were in ecstasy52; they applauded vociferously53; and the crowd followed them, deluded54 into the certainty that they had witnessed, that day, the last shred55 of the curtains of Truth torn to pieces before their eyes by a prodigy56 of intellect. The performance of his tremendous feat57 so delighted them that they forgot to ask themselves if there was any truth behind it after all.
The king's mind was overwhelmed with wonder. The atmosphere was completely cleared of all illusion of music, and the vision of the world around seemed to be changed from its freshness of tender green to the solidity of a high road levelled and made hard with crushed stones.
To the people assembled their own poet appeared a mere10 boy in comparison with this giant, who walked with such case, knocking down difficulties at each step in the world of words and thoughts. It became evident to them for the first time that the poems Shekhar wrote were absurdly simple, and it must be a mere accident that they did not write them themselves. They were neither new, nor difficult, nor instructive, nor necessary.
The king tried to goad58 his poet with keen glances, silently inciting59 him to make a final effort. But Shekhar took no notice, and remained fixed to his seat.
The king in anger came down from his throne—took off his pearl chain and put it on Pundarik's head. Everybody in the hall cheered. From the upper balcony came a slight sound of the movements of rustling60 robes and waist-chains hung with golden bells. Shekhar rose from his seat and left the hall.
It was a dark night of waning61 moon. The poet Shekhar took down his MSS. from his shelves and heaped them on the floor. Some of them contained his earliest writings, which he had almost forgotten. He turned over the pages, reading passages here and there. They all seemed to him poor and trivial—mere words and childish rhymes!
One by one he tore his books to fragments, and threw them into a vessel62 containing fire, and said: "To thee, to thee, O my beauty, my fire! Thou hast been burning in my heart all these futile63 years. If my life were a piece of gold it would come out of its trial brighter, but it is a trodden turf of grass, and nothing remains64 of it but this handful of ashes."
The night wore on. Shekhar opened wide his windows. He spread upon his bed the white flowers that he loved, the jasmines, tuberoses and chrysanthemums65, and brought into his bedroom all the lamps he had in his house and lighted them. Then mixing with honey the juice of some poisonous root he drank it and lay down on his bed.
Golden anklets tinkled in the passage outside the door, and a subtle perfume came into the room with the breeze.
The poet, with his eyes shut, said; "My lady, have you taken pity upon your servant at last and come to see him?"
The answer came in a sweet voice "My poet, I have come."
Shekhar opened his eyes—and saw before his bed the figure of a woman.
His sight was dim and blurred66. And it seemed to him that the image made of a shadow that he had ever kept throned in the secret shrine67 of his heart had come into the outer world in his last moment to gaze upon his face.
The woman said; "I am the Princess Ajita."
The poet with a great effort sat up on his bed.
The princess whispered into his car: "The king has not done you justice. It was you who won at the combat, my poet, and I have come to crown you with the crown of victory."
She took the garland of flowers from her own neck, and put it on his hair, and the poet fell down upon his bed stricken by death.
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1
ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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2
espy
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| v.（从远处等）突然看到 | |
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tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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6
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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7
conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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8
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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9
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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10
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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12
rumoured
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| adj.谣传的；传说的；风 | |
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mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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14
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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15
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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16
tinkled
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| （使）发出丁当声，（使）发铃铃声( tinkle的过去式和过去分词 )； 叮当响着发出，铃铃响着报出 | |
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17
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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18
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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19
tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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21
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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22
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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23
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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24
glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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26
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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30
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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31
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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32
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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35
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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37
lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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38
quotations
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| n.引用( quotation的名词复数 )；[商业]行情（报告）；（货物或股票的）市价；时价 | |
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scriptures
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| 经文，圣典( scripture的名词复数 )； 经典 | |
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40
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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41
tryst
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| n.约会；v.与…幽会 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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43
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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44
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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45
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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46
rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
arrogantly
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| adv.傲慢地 | |
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48
interpretations
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| n.解释( interpretation的名词复数 )；表演；演绎；理解 | |
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49
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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50
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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51
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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52
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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53
vociferously
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| adv.喊叫地，吵闹地 | |
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54
deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shred
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| v.撕成碎片，变成碎片；n.碎布条，细片，些少 | |
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prodigy
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| n.惊人的事物，奇迹，神童，天才，预兆 | |
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57
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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58
goad
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| n.刺棒，刺痛物；激励；vt.激励，刺激 | |
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59
inciting
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| 刺激的，煽动的 | |
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60
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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61
waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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62
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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64
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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chrysanthemums
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| n.菊花( chrysanthemum的名词复数 ) | |
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blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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67
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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