So people glorified sleep, and repeated:
“Be blessed, for thou art far better than life in our waking hours.”
And they had one regret only, that it did not continue forever. After sleep came awakening, and after awakening came labor with fresh toil and weariness.
This thought began soon to torture all men so sorely, that for the third time they stood before Vishnu.
“O Lord,” said they, “thou hast given us a boon which, though great and unspeakably precious, is incomplete as it now appears. Wilt thou grant us that sleep be eternal?”
Vishnu wrinkled his brows then in anger at this their insistence, and answered:
“I cannot give what ye ask of me, but go to the neighboring ford, and beyond ye will find that for which ye are seeking.”
The people heard the god’s voice and went on in legions immediately. They went to the ford, and, halting there, gazed at the shore lying opposite.
Beyond the clear, calm, and flower-bedecked surface stretched the Plain of Death, or the Kingdom of Siva.
The sun never rose and never set in that region; there was no day and no night there, but the whole plain was of a lily-colored, absolute clearness. No shadow fell in that region, for clearness inhered there so thoroughly that it seemed the real essence of Siva’s dominions.
The region was not empty. As far as the eye could reach were seen heights and valleys where beautiful trees stood in groups; on those trees rose climbing plants, while ivy and grapevines were hanging from the cliff sides.
But the cliffs and the tree trunks and the slender plant stems were almost transparent, as if formed out of light grown material. The leaves of the ivy had in them a delicate roseate light as of dawn. And all was in marvellous rest, such as none on the Plain of Life had experienced; all was as if sunk in serene meditation, as if dreaming and resting in continuous slumber, unthreatened by waking.
In the clear air not the slightest breeze was discovered, not a flower was seen moving, not a leaf showed a quiver.
The people who had come to the shore with loud conversation and clamor grew silent at sight of those lily-colored, motionless spaces, and whispered:
“What quiet! How everything rests there in clearness!”
“Oh, yes, there is rest and unbroken repose in that region.”
So some, namely, those who were weariest, said after a silence:
“Let us find the sleep which is surely unbroken.”
And they entered the water. The rainbow-hued surface opened straightway before them, as if wishing to lighten the passage. Those who remained on the shore began now to call after them, but no man turned his head, and all hurried forward with willingness and lightly, attracted more and more by the charm of that wonderful region.
The throng which gazed from the shore of Life at them noted this also: that as they moved forward their bodies grew gradually less heavy, becoming transparent and purer, more radiant, and as it were blending with that absolute clearness which filled the whole Plain of Death, Siva’s kingdom.
And when they had passed and disposed themselves amid flowers and at trees or the bases of cliffs, to repose there, their eyes were closed, but their faces had on them not only an expression of ineffable peace, but also of happiness such as Love itself on the Plain of Life had never given.
Seeing this, those who had halted behind said one to another:
“The region belonging to Siva is sweeter and better.”
And they began to pass to that shore in increasing numbers. There went in solemn procession old men, and men in ripe years, and husbands and wives, and mothers who led little children, and maidens, and youths, and then thousands and millions of people pushed on toward that Calm Passage, till at last the Plain of Life was depopulated almost entirely.
Then Vishnu, whose task it was to keep life from extinction, was frightened because of the advice which he had given in his anger, and not knowing what to do else hastened quickly to Brahma.
“Save Life, O Creator!” said he. “Behold, thou hast made the inheritance of Death now so beautiful, so serene, and so blissful that all men are leaving my kingdom.”
“Have none remained with thee there?” inquired Brahma.
“Only one youth and one maiden, who are in love beyond measure; they renounce endless bliss rather than close their eyes and gaze on each other no longer.”
“What dost thou wish, then?”
“Make the region of Death less delightful, less happy; if not, even those two when their springtime of love shall be ended will leave me and follow the others.”
Brahma thought for a moment and answered:
“No! Oh no! I will not decrease beauty and happiness in the region of Death, but I will do something for Life in its own realm. Henceforward people will not pass to the other shore willingly, they must be forced to it.”
When he had said this he made a thick veil out of darkness which no one could see through, and next he created two terrible beings, one of these he named Fear and the other one Pain. He commanded them then to hang that black veil at the Passage.
Thereafter Vishnu’s kingdom was as crowded with life as it had been, for though the region of Death was as calm, as serene, and as blissful as ever, people dreaded the Passage.
IS HE THE DEAREST ONE?
In the distance a dark strip of pine wood was visible. In front of the wood was a meadow, and amid fields of grain stood a cottage covered with a straw roof and with moss. Birch trees hung their tresses above it. On a fir tree stood a stork on its nest, and in a cherry garden were dark beehives.
Through an open gate a wanderer walked into the yard and said to the mistress of the cottage, who was standing on its threshold:
“Peace to this quiet house, to those trees, to the grain, to the whole place, and to thee, mother!”
The woman greeted him kindly, and added:
“I will bring bread and milk to thee, wayfarer; but sit down the while and rest, for it is clear that thou art coming back from a long journey.”
“I have wandered like that stork, and like a swallow; I come from afar, I bring news from thy children.”
Her whole soul rushed to the eyes of that mother, and she asked the wayfarer straightway:
“Dost thou know of my Yasko?”
“Dost thou love that son most that thou askest first about him? Well, one son of thine is in forests, he works with his axe, he spreads his net in lakes; another herds horses in the steppe, he sings plaintive songs and looks at the stars; the third son climbs mountains, passes over naked rocks and high pastures, spends the night with sheep and shouts at the eagles. All bend down before thy knees and send thee greeting.”
“But Yasko?” asked the mother with an anxious face.
“I keep sad news for the last. Life is going ill with Yasko: the field does not give its fruit to him, poverty and hunger torment the man, his days and months pass in suffering. Amid strangers and misery he has even forgotten thy language; forget him, since he has no thought for thee.”
When he had finished, the woman took the man’s hand, led him to her pantry in the cottage, and, seizing a loaf from the shelf, she said:
“Give this bread, O wayfarer, to Yasko!”
Then she untied a small kerchief, took a bright silver coin from it, and with trembling voice added:
“I am not rich, but this too is for Yasko.”
“Woman!” said the wayfarer now with astonishment, “thou hast many sons, but thou sendest gifts to only one of them. Dost thou love him more than the others? Is he the dearest one?”
She raised her great sad eyes, filled with tears, and answered:
“My blessing is for them all, but my gifts are to Yasko, for I am a mother, and he is my poorest son.”
A LEGEND OF THE SEA
There was a ship named “The Purple,” so strong and so great that she feared neither winds nor waves, even when they were raging most terribly.
“The Purple” swept on, with every sail set, s
he rose upon each swelling wave and crushed with her conquering prow hidden rocks on which other ships foundered. She moved ever forward with sails which were gleaming in sunlight, and moved with such swiftness that foam roared at her sides and stretched out behind in a broad, endless road-streak.
“That is a glorious craft,” cried out crews on all other ships; “a man might think that she sails just to punish the ocean.”
From time to time they called out to the crew of “The Purple”:
“Hei, men, to what port are ye sailing?”
“To that port to which wind blows,” said the men on “The Purple.”
“Have a care, there are rocks ahead! There are whirlpools!”
In reply to this warning came back a song as loud as the wind was:
“Let us sail on, let us sail ever joyously.”
Men on “The Purple” were gladsome. The crew, confiding in the strength of their ship and the size of it, jeered at all perils. On other ships stern discipline ruled, but on “The Purple” each man did what seemed good to him.
Life on that ship was one ceaseless holiday. The storms which she had passed, the rocks which she had crushed, increased the crew’s confidence. “There are no reefs, there are no winds to wreck this ship,” roared the sailors. “Let a hurricane shiver the ocean, ‘The Purple’ will always sail forward.”
And “The Purple” sailed; she was proud, she was splendid.
Whole years passed — she was to all seeming invincible, she helped other ships and took in on her deck drowning passengers.
Blind faith increased every day in the breasts of the crew on “The Purple.” They grew slothful in good fortune and forgot their own art, they forgot how to navigate. “Our ‘Purple’ will sail herself,” said they. “Why toil, why watch the ship, why pull at rudder, masts, sails, and ropes? Why live by hard work and the sweat of our brows, when our ship is divine, indestructible? Let us sail on, let us sail joyously.”
And they sailed for a very long period. At last, after years, the crew became utterly effeminate, they forgot every duty, and no man of them knew that that ship was decaying. Bitter water had weakened the spars, the strong rigging had loosened, waves without number had shattered the gunwales, dry rot was at work in the mainmast, the sails had grown weak through exposure.
The voice of sound sense was heard now despite every madness:
“Be careful!” cried some of the sailors.
“Never mind! We will sail with the current,” cried out the majority. But once such a storm came that to that hour its like had not been on the water. The wind whirled ocean and clouds into one hellish chaos. Pillars of water rose up and flew then with roars at “The Purple”; they were raging and bellowing dreadfully. They fell on the ship, they drove her down to the bottom, they hurled her up to the clouds, then cast her down again. The weak rigging snapped, and now a quick cry of despair was heard on the deck of that vessel.
“‘The Purple’ is sinking!”
“The Purple” was really sinking, while the crew, unaccustomed to work and to navigate, knew not how to save her.
But when the first moment of terror had passed, rage boiled up in their hearts, for those mariners still loved that ship of theirs.
All sprang up speedily, some rushed to fire cannon-balls at the winds and foaming water, others seized what each man could find near him and flogged that sea which was drowning “The Purple.”
Great was that fight of despair against the elements. But the waves had more strength than the mariners. The guns filled with water and then they were silent. Gigantic whirls seized struggling sailors and swept them out into watery chaos.
The crew decreased every minute, but they struggled on yet. Covered with water, half-blinded, concealed by a mountain of foam, they fought till they dropped in the battle.
Strength left them, but after brief rest they sprang again to the struggle.
At last their hands fell. They felt that death was approaching. Dull despair seized them. Those sailors looked at one another as if demented.
Now those same voices which had warned previously of danger were raised again, and more powerfully, so powerfully this time that the roar of the waves could not drown them.
Those voices said:
“O blind men! How can ye cannonade wind, or flog waves? Mend your vessel! Go to the hold. Work there. The ship ‘Purple’ is afloat yet.”
At these words those mariners, half-dead already, recovered, all rushed to the hold and began then to work in it. And they worked from morning till night in the sweat of their brows and with effort, seeking thus to retrieve their past sloth and their blindness.
THE CRANES
Homesickness (nostalgia) tortures mainly people who for various reasons are utterly unable to return to their own country, but even those for whom return is merely a question of will power feel its attacks sometimes. The cause may be anything: a sunrise or a sunset which calls to mind a dawn or an evening at home, some note of a foreign song in which the rhythm of one’s own country is heard, some group of trees which call to mind remotely the native village — anything suffices!
At such moments an immense, irresistible sadness seizes hold on the heart, and immediately a feeling comes to a man that he is, as it were, a leaf torn away from a distant but beloved tree. And in such moments the man is forced to return, or, if he has imagination, he is driven to create.
Once — a good many years back — I was sojourning on the shore of the Pacific Ocean in a place called Anaheim Landing. My society was made up of some sailor fishermen, Norwegians for the greater part, and a German, who gave food to those fishermen and lodged them. Their days were passed on the water; every evening they amused themselves with poker, a game at cards which years ago was common in all the dramshops of America, long before fashionable ladies in Europe began to play it. I was quite alone, and my time passed in wandering with a gun over the open plain or along the shore of the Pacific. I visited the sandbanks which a small river made as with a broad mouth it entered the ocean; I waded in the shallow waters of this river, noted its unknown fishes, its shells, and looked at the great sea-lions which sunned themselves on a number of rocks at the river mouth. Opposite was a small sandy island swarming with mews, pelicans, and albatrosses; a real and populous bird commonwealth, filled with cries and uproar.
At times, when the day was calm, and when amid silence the surface of the water took on a tinge almost violet, changing into gold, I sat in a boat and rowed toward the little island, on which pelicans, unused to the sight of man, looked at me less with fear than astonishment, as if wishing to ask, “What sort of seal is this that we have not seen till to-day?” Frequently I looked from that bank at sunsets which were simply marvellous; they changed the whole horizon into one sea, gleaming with gold, fire, and opal, which, passing into a brilliant purple, faded gradually until the moon shone on the amethyst background of the heavens, and the wonderful semi-tropical night had embraced the earth and the sky. The empty land, the endlessness of the ocean, and the excess of light disposed me somewhat toward mysticism. I became pantheistic, and had the feeling that everything surrounding me formed a certain single great soul which appears as the ocean, the sky, the plain, or diminishes into such small living existences as birds, fish, shells, or broom on the ocean shore. At times I thought also that those sand-hills and empty banks might be inhabited by invisible beings like the ancient Greek fauns, nymphs, or naiads. A man does not believe in such things when he turns to his own reason; but involuntarily he admits that they are possible when he lives only with Nature and in perfect seclusion. Life changes then, as it were, into a drowsiness in which visions are more powerful than thought. As for me, I was conscious only of that boundless calm which surrounded me, and I felt that it was pleasant to be in it. At times I thought of future “letters about my journey”; at times, too, I, as a young man, thought also of “her,” the unknown whom I should meet and love some time. In that relaxation of thought, and on that empty, clear oce
an shore, amid those uncompleted ideas, undescribed desires, in that half dream, in semi-consciousness, I was happier than ever in life before. But on a certain evening I sat long on the little island and returned to the shore after nightfall. The flowing tide brought me in — I scarcely had need to lift an oar then. In other regions the flow of the tide is tempestuous, but in that land of eternal good weather waves touch the sand shore with gentleness; the ocean does not strike land with an outburst. Such silence surrounded me that a quarter of a mile from the shore line I could have heard the conversation of men. But that shore was unoccupied. I heard only the squeak of the oars on my boat and the low plash of water moved by them.
Just then, from above, certain piercing cries reached me. I raised my head, but on the dark background of the sky I could discern nothing. When the cries were heard a second time, directly above, I recognized in them the voices of cranes.
Evidently a whole flock of cranes was flying somewhere above my head toward the island of Santa Catalina. But I remembered that I had heard cries like those more than once, when as a boy I journeyed from school for vacation — and straightway a mighty homesickness seized hold of me. I returned to the little room which I had hired in the cabin of the German, but could not sleep. Pictures of my country passed then before my mind: now a pine forest, now broad fields with pear trees on the boundaries, now pleasant cottages, now village churches, now white mansions surrounded by dense orchards. I yearned for such scenes all that night.
A VIEW OF THE HOUSE FROM THE POND ON THE SIENKIEWICZ ESTATE
I went out next morning, as usual, to the sand-banks. I felt that the ocean and the sky, and the sand mounds on the shore, and the plains, and the cliffs on which seals were basking in the sunlight, were things to me absolutely foreign, things with which I had nothing in common, as they had nothing in common with me.
Only yesterday I had wandered about in that neighborhood and had judged that my pulse was beating in answer to the pulse of that immense universe; to-day I put to myself this question: What have I to do here; why do I not go back to my birthplace? The feeling of harmony and sweetness in life had vanished, leaving nothing behind it. Time, which before had seemed so quiet and soothing, which was measured by the ebb and flow of the ocean, now seemed unendurably tedious. I began to think of my own land, of that which had remained in it, and that which had changed with time’s passage.
Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz Page 771