CHAPTER VII

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 child[Pg 47]ren 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 celes[Pg 48]tial 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 [Pg 49]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."

[Pg 50]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 [Pg 51]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.

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.

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