“AND after that, that wicked ruler of men (Kassapa) sent his groom and his cook to his brother (Moggallana) to kill him. And finding that he could not fulfil his purpose, he feared danger, and took himself to Sihagiri rock, that was hard for men to climb. He cleared it round about and surrounded it by a rampart, and built galleries in it ornamented with figures of lions; wherefore it took its name of Sihagiri (‘The Lions’ Rock’). Having gathered together all his wealth, he buried it there carefully, and set guards over the treasures he had buried in divers places. He built there a lovely palace, splendid to behold....
“He planted gardens at the gates of the city.... He observed the sacred days ... and caused books to be written. He made many images, alms-houses, and the like; but he lived on in fear of the world to come and of Moggallana.”[21]
That is what history has to say about the founding of Sigiriya (or “Sihagiri,” as it is called in “The Mihavansa,”) and all that it has to say; just enough to arouse our interest, and not enough to satisfy it. At Anuradhpura we had come across numerous traces of Kassapa’s father, Dhatusena, who was counted a great king when he ruled Ceylon fifteen hundred years ago. And we were curious to see the place where Kassapa had sought safety after he had killed Dhatusena and usurped the throne, and had been forced to flee into the jungle for fear of his brother Moggallana; so we decided to follow this bold, wild patricide to his hiding-place not by the exact trail that he took, for no one knows by what roundabout wandering he finally reached the rock, but by the more modern and convenient, if somewhat dustier, way that leads along the iron rails of the Ceylon Government railroad.
Sigiriya is southeast of Anuradhpura, and only about fifty miles away from it in a direct line; but around by way of Kandy, as we purposed to go, it is fully three times that far. It lies just north of the mountainous center of Ceylon at the edge of the great plain that stretches on the one hand to the Indian Ocean and on the other to the small waters that separate the island from the Indian peninsula.
A long, hot ride through the western lowlands brought us to Polgahawela, where the road we were to follow diverges at a right angle from the main line, and we began to climb the magnificent mountains; past rice-fields, so substantially terraced up the sides of the hills that they looked like monstrous and never-ending fortifications; past forests of palms and masses of brilliant flowers; past the world-famed botanical gardens of Peradeniya, until just at dusk we came into the lovely town of Kandy, which seemed delightfully fresh and cool after the heaviness and heat of the plains. Beyond Kandy the road began to descend again, until at Matale it suddenly came to an end, and we were obliged to look out for some less-modern conveyance for the continuance of our journey.
SIGIRIYA ROCK
On the northeast coast of the island is a little place called Trincomali. For the convenience of this village and the scattered native settlements that lie between, a daily coaching service is maintained, and this we found we might take as far as Dambolo. The vehicle that was called a coach had a seat in front for the Cingalese driver and the mail-bags, and behind this, two lengthwise seats facing each other, which on a pinch could hold six persons, three on a side. Into this conveyance we climbed; in climbed also a shiny, round-headed Tamil, two wild-looking, magnificently dressed gentlemen from Afghanistan, and a mild and smiling Mohammedan. All the morning we rode, and at noon we changed horses and took lunch at a wayside rest-house. The Afghans left us here, and I felt more comfortable, for their mustaches curled in such a terribly fierce way, and their remarkable costumes offered such unlimited opportunity for the carrying of concealed weapons, as to warrant a certain uneasiness. We alighted at Dambolo, and the stage went on and left us. And yet Dambolo is a long way from Sigiriya—a long, long way in point of time.
The little rest-house that the Government places wherever one wishes to spend the night took us in and gave us a room, and its Mohammedan keeper advised us to use the rest of the afternoon seeing the rock temples that have made Dambolo famous. Obediently we went to visit these gorgeously decorated caverns, but, I am sorry to confess, they gave me no pleasure. They are wonderful, or would be if one were given an opportunity to look at them in peace and quiet; but one cannot wonder or admire or enjoy, or do anything but fume, with dozens of sleek yellow priests hanging about and holding out hands for Money! money!” at the opening of every door and at the entrance and exit of every cavern. This is a nuisance that the Government most certainly should correct, for it spoils the enjoyment of many of the island’s remarkable ruins.
