CHAPTER XI.
On the next day the student rose early and went forth alone. He did not, as was his wont, go amongst the people, but he passed through the streets towards the open country. On his way he was stopped by an old woman, bent with age and many infirmities. She had no place amongst the people, and had so many pains and such a barrenness of existence that any one who had thought of her would have wondered that she remained alive.
She stopped him and said, “Master, I have heard that you can take my pain. Help me.”
But he answered, looking at her, “No, I cannot, but I have a message for you.”
And she said, “A message for me? I do not know any one who would send me a message.”
But he answered, “Nevertheless, I have a message to you from my lord, and he bids me thank you.”
She answered, “It cannot be. You must have made a mistake.”
But he said, “I have made no mistake; he thanks you.”
He could not explain to her how by her bearing pain, according to the law of the valley, she took it from that which the king bore. Instead of saying that, he gave her the message, and somehow the old woman believed it.
The rest of the day he spent in the open country. When he returned it was getting towards dusk. There was an unusual movement in the streets. On passing into the public market-place he saw a crowd collected; and when he had penetrated to their midst, he saw lying on the ground the child he had kept so long. It had been lying uncared for and exposed for many hours; and the want of food, the fright, and its gasping breathing made it the most pitiable object. He at once stepped towards it and took it up in his arms.
“Is that your child?” said one of the crowd.
“It is not my own,” he answered, “but I take care of it.”
“Then it is you that are bringing pain upon us all,” shouted several voices from the back of the crowd. And some one shouted out:
“I know you. You pretend to take pain away and you really bring much more in secret.”
And moved with a feeling of indignation against the one who had caused such a painful object to exist as the child was, the crowd closed on him, and barred his way to his own place. But they did not lay hands on him. As he stood with the child it gradually began to regain its composure. But with a sudden movement the crowd swept towards the council chamber. And when they had come there they demanded that this cruel and wicked act of keeping pain in existence should be punished.
There happened to be several of the chief magistrates on the spot, and in obedience to the voices of the crowd they proceeded to sit in judgment at once. It was not known how the child had come into the streets; but it was admitted by the prisoner to be his doing that it had been kept alive. The doctors unanimously said that it ought to have been put out of existence directly it was born. There was practically no defence. The charge of subverting the laws was established. The people clamoured for the extreme penalty. The judges passed sentence on the student.
Before morning he was put to death.
He met his fate without sorrow, even with gladness. The pain in his life had for long been as much as he could bear. He did not, like the prince of long ago, look upon nothingness as the desired end of existence. He felt the presence of the one whom he had discerned through thought, and this seemed more real to him than life or death.
On the following day, whether in reaction from the excitement of the previous evening, or from some other cause, an unusual quiet pervaded the streets of the city. There was not much discussion as to the event which had happened. The prevailing feeling was one of wonder that there should have been so much commotion about an unimportant affair. For the most part before the next evening the whole circumstances were on the way to be forgotten. And yet every here and there were persons in whose lives the loss of their friend was deeply felt. The joy and spring of life seemed gone. The poor child lay pale and motionless, save when every now and then it gasped convulsively for breath. None felt the despondency more than the clerk. The interest and value of life seemed to have gone. He did not care for his new honours.
That day some most unexpected news went through the town. The chief of the council of sensation had sunk into apathy. He was in the prime of his life. It was most unexpected. Every one was astonished at the news, but were still more astonished at how little they felt concerned.
Following on these tidings came others. Many of the inhabitants of the metropolis whose lives were most strenuous suddenly succumbed. The clerk had made up his mind to go into the country. But tidings came from there also that the poorer labourers, and those who were exposed to the fatigue of long journeys or exposure were in many cases sinking. The wave of torpor seemed passing over the whole valley and not to be confined to the metropolis. The rich and unoccupied classes only were comparatively unaffected. They betook themselves to the store of enjoyable things at their service, and so replaced the natural spring of life which seemed tending to fail in every one.
On the confines of the valley, where the ravine struck its vast depth between this land and that, vast and endless as the sea stretched the plain whence the king had come. It was struck silvery grey by the light of the moon, dark shadows marked the nearer strands, and gradually the rocks which cast them showed their sharp outlines, hardly distinguishable from the ground out of which they rose.
Over the great gulf floated the sounds of a pipe, the strains were low, winning the soul with the sweetness of an unearthly melody, throbbing as with a call to a distant land away and beyond.
And when the eye found the source of the sounds, there stood, once more, solitary in the untenanted vast, the king’s devoted friend, the same old man who before had hailed him. Gradually the music sank lower and lower, till at length silence spread in folds unruffled. Then on the edge of the valley a form appeared. It came and seemed to gaze across the gulf, standing motionless and intent. At length a voice came.
“Art thou there?”
“Yea, O king, what wouldst thou? Art weary?”
No answer came.
Then the old man spoke. “Behold the roads where they stretch gleaming white in the moonlight; behold the fields, the villages; see in the distance the great walls of the palace. Have not these risen up for thee, O king?”
Then the king made answer: “I am weary.”
Suddenly the old man raised his pipe with both his hands to his lips. Wave after wave of triumphant sound pealed forth. Great harmonies such as marching nations might hear and rejoice, noble notes of unbounded gladness.
Then, crossing by an unknown way, he came and stood by the king’s side. After a while the two moved on together, and by a secret path passed away from the valley—whither I know not.
As soon as the king had departed from the valley the beings in it began to sink into the same state of apathy as those were whom he had first found there. Those who sank first were the ones in whose lives the stress of labour or thought was the most intense, for they first felt the loss of that bearing of pain by one beyond themselves which gave them a difference of pleasure. And slowly as the accumulated enjoyment was exhausted, a chill death in life crept over the land. ’Tis useless to ask after the fate of any one of those that were there, for each was involved in the same calamity that overwhelmed all. Every hand forgot its cunning. The busy hum of life in the streets was hushed. In the country the slowly moving forms gradually sank to rest. At every spot was such unbroken quiet as might have been had all the inhabitants gone to some great festival. But there was no return of life. No watchful eye, no ready hand was there to stay the slight but constant inroads of ruin and decay. The roads became choked with grass, the earth encroached on the buildings, till in the slow consuming course of time all was buried—houses, fields, and cities vanished, till at length no trace was left of aught that had been there.
PART II.